Poisonous Kiss (13 page)

     Arany is suddenly overcome by anger. He puts down the cup to make sure he doesn't accidentally spill the coffee.

     "Why? Because he killed my partner! Because I'm a cop and he's a goddamned criminal. Catching him is my job."

     His hands shake and a few drops of sweat appear on his forehead. Gladys Ferrow suddenly stands up and leaves the room. Arany breathes hard and tries to fight against the nausea. He feels weak, lost. He wants to cry out for help. He, himself, doesn't understand why he was chasing Frost with such a single-minded, manic determination.

     Gladys returns and puts a cool glass of water in his hand. She studies him with sad eyes, that seem to have a lot of experience with pain, and drops to one knee so she can meet his gaze. She lets one a hand rest on his thigh and looks at him with compassion. Arany understands her gesture: She's trying to communicate with him, to help. But he looks down at the woman on the floor in front of him and feels a twinge of rage. He pictures himself grabbing her by the hair, violently forcing her to perform oral sex.

     "What'll you do when you catch him?"

     Arany gently places a hand on her head. Her hair is thick, soft. If he pushes his hand down harder he would feel her scalp, the shape of her skull.

     "I don't know," he answers hoarsely. "Maybe I'll kill him. I only know one thing for sure." He bends so far forward that his face almost touches hers. He can see her dark eyes grow enormous. "I have to catch him."

     He leans back. He can almost feel Gladys's breath warming his crotch. He anticipates her hands, before they get a chance to touch him, to reach for his zipper. Before her mouth comes near him, he knows how it will feel. And he anticipates the relief and shame he will feel afterwards.

     But instead of reaching for anything, Gladys stands up and walks over to one of her armchairs, with the flowery patterns. She sits down there and sips at her coffee.

     "What do you want from me?"

     Arany feels disappointment and relief at the same time. He isn't planning to ask her more about "them"—the omniscient forces that seem to frighten Gladys. He isn't going to make her inform against a group that she probably knows very little about. Besides, he's aware that there are legitimate reasons for Gladys's fear. There is only one thing he wants from her.

     He takes out the photos, a bundle of them. All of blonde women. Young, pretty, smiling, models.

     She takes the stack from him without a word. She begins flipping through it, holding each photo in front of her face for a few seconds before slapping it down on the table. In a few moments the glass top of the coffee table is covered with pictures of beautiful, smiling women.

     Arany watches the heap grow.

     "She isn't natural blond, you bird-brain." Gladys frowns. "And this one, her tits are too small. She's just sticking her chest out to make them look bigger." Another picture falls on the table. Only two weeks ago Arany would have given anything to meet the girl posing on it. "A lousy lot," says Gladys, shaking her head with an air of superior disdain. "You'll have to do better than that."

     Arany isn't surprised that the woman he needs to find wasn't in the first stack of photos. There are still plenty of agencies with portfolios of models and dancers. But he isn't sure he can get Gladys's cooperation again.

     "She's too flat," he hears her say. "She has a good body, but she's got to take that head back to the grocers and get another potato, because the one she's got is too ugly."

     More pictures fall as Gladys clicks her teeth and shakes her head.

     "The girl you're looking for has a good body and a nice face. Like I had twenty years ago. You don't believe me, do you? I could show you a picture of how I used to look. It's not a fancy photo like these here—just an old black-and-white my father took, when we spent a weekend at the shore. One Thursday, my old man just rounded up the whole family in his beat-up old pickup and drove us out to the shore. I wore my new bathing suit, a one-piece affair, of course. I was standing up to my knees in water in this photo. I bet you wouldn't even recognize me." She looks over at the bookshelf for a moment, as if she was going to go there to get something. Then she glances at Arany and decides to stay seated. "Hell, you don't care what I used to look like," Gladys is speaking quietly, as if to herself. "You could give a shit if I drop dead tomorrow. The only thing you care about is Frost: You want to find him and you want to kill him. Don't try telling me you're not sure what you'll do when you catch him. I know what you'll do." She sighs, flips through a few more pictures, then snaps one down on the table. "Now this one is decent. The woman you're looking for looks like this."

I like my family. I like them even more when there's a little distance between us. From one thousand miles away, my father is a strong, hard-working man with an iron will. The kind of man a young boy would be lucky to have as a role model. He's a selfmade man, an immigrant with uneducated parents who became a well-known, and well-paid, engineer. His literary knowledge is astonishing, and he could probably write a book on classical music. I almost miss him when I don't see him for six months.

     Up close, the picture is different: My father seems more like a tyrant, a man who won't accept any opinions other than his own. He notices when you do anything wrong and enjoys reminding you over and over again about your mistakes. His intelligent humor becomes cruel sarcasm. He's convinced that everyone in the world is an uncultured bumpkin compared to him, and yet he's intelligent enough to hide this conviction. But the family knows how he feels. He doesn't shield us from his condescending attitude. When we gather for any sad occasion, be it a funeral, Christmas or a wedding, I begin to get fed up in a few hours. By the second day I feel like I have to run away.

     Then there is Mother. A good woman, with a golden heart. She would give anything to those she loves. When I think of her, I see a sad, loving smile. One thousand miles apart, that's it. But when we're together, I get fed up with her spinelessness. She never has an opinion of her own. My father can say anything and she'll agree. She never tried to defend herself, or us kids. As soon as he begins to speak, she turns into a frightened little mouse.

     From a distance. That's definitely the best way to appreciate my family. It's the same way you might look at a painting, in a museum: step back a bit and get a more …overall impression.

     It's difficult to maintain this kind of perspective with my older brother, Lewis. He's harder to love than my parents, because he lives only a hundred miles from me. He's a pompous fool, and the only thing that keeps his ego in check is my father, who towers over everyone.

     Maybe he has a right to be cocky. He's a doctor, with an impressive career. If I got as many promotions in the department as my brother gets at the hospital, Capt. Ericsson would be saluting me. I don't begrudge him his success, I just don't need to hear about it. And I get the feeling he doesn't miss me terribly, either.

     So naturally he was a little surprised when I told him I wanted to visit. He didn't sound very happy, but he tried to be polite. He lied and said his wife Lucy will be glad to see me. He said she'll make me a special dinner. He also said the kids will be happy to see me if I don't arrive too late and they're still awake. That much I'm willing to believe. But the poor kids have to go to bed at nine o'clock at the latest. They can hear in the morning that their uncle sends his greetings, and maybe they'll get the chocolate I brought. Maybe—if Lewis doesn't consider the chocolate too unhealthy.

     My shift ended at 10 p.m., and it was a madhouse all day. It was impossible to ask Ericsson for more time off that afternoon. It was late night at when, after an hour and a half of driving faster than I like, I pulled into Lewis's driveway.

     Everything was silent. When I killed the engine I experienced a peace and quiet that I had forgotten. The only sound was the crickets chirping and a dog barking somewhere. A soft light over Lewis's front door attracted a mad swarm of gnats.

     As sat in the quiet country night, wondering whether it would be less of an annoyance to Lewis for me to honk the horn or ring the bell, the door opened. My brother stood under the crazy gnats, wearing pajamas, a pair of real leather slippers, with a polished shine, and a long silk bathrobe. He is six years my senior, but just then he reminded me painfully of my father.

     He showed the way into his study. We moved stealthily through the house. No doubt Lucy had prepared a marvelous dinner. No doubt she set the table for me, too, some time around eight, eight-thirty or so—right around the time they brought that kid into the station tonight. He was soaking in blood but we found no wound on him.

     "I hope you grabbed something to eat on the way," he mumbled, embarrassed. "You know Lucy, it makes her nervous when I mess around in her kitchen. She says I never put anything back in its place."

     "I'm fine." I lied.

     He offered me a scotch and we chatted about the family for a few minutes. Then we ran out of things to say and the silence began to grow uncomfortable.

     "Lewis," I said, "What can you tell me about split personality disorders?"

     He gave me a suspicious look. His sparse, graying hair fell on his forehead, but he didn't care.

     "My specialty is internal medicine, John."

     I didn't answer, just took a sip from my drink. My stomach was burning. It had been a mistake to pass over the sandwiches they sold at the gas station.

     "Look, if you need an expert opinion, I know a—"

     I raised my hand to stop him.

     "Cut the shit, Lewis. You're tired and sleepy, and you want to go to bed. And my bed is about a two hours' drive away. I'm not here for an official opinion. I just want to know what you can tell me about split personality disorders."

     He stood up and started to pace, with his hands behind his back. His study was made to look like something out of Olde England. It was a bit overdone, with all the leather and blonde wood furniture and the specially bound books. I just get regular books at the corner shop. Today, before my shift, it was "Common Mental Maladies"— titles like that.

     Lewis looked at me with a humorless face.

     "I know you've studied some psychology."

     I shrugged.

     "When we were kids, we saw that movie, 'Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.' That's a split personality. You have two selves living in you. In Dr. Jekyll's case one of them is meek, the other destructive. I guess you're interested in this for one of your cases. Well, if a man is really schizophrenic, it can be hard to spot. His one personality doesn't even suspect the existence of his other ego, the criminal. This man doesn't just act like a nice, honest citizen, who wouldn't kill a fly. He is one. Or, at least half of him is." He waved his hand. "You probably know as much about it as I do. Maybe more. What the hell do you want to hear?"

     I thought quietly for a moment.

     "Is it possible that a traumatic shock could produce split personality in a healthy man?"

     He shrugged his shoulders.

     "I don't think so. But I'm not—"

     "I know, you're not a psychiatrist." I took an other sip.

     "Of course, anything's possible. A real big shock …to a very sensitive personality …maybe. I can ask somebody if you want, but I don't think anyone will give you a decisive answer unless they have a chance to become a little more familiar with the case."

     I nodded. Lewis may be a pompous ass, he may be afraid to give me any food because his wife is a bitch, but he can keep a secret. And I think he loves me in his own way. When I was laid up after being stabbed by Frost, Lewis called the hospital at least three times and consulted with my doctors. He didn't even tell me about the calls, I found out from my doctor.

     "Can you tell it from some kind of lab test?"

     "If you have a split personality?" He looked at me with mild disbelief. "Are you being funny?"

     "No. I just wanted to check. To be sure."

     "Life would be so easy if we could measure mental disorders with a simple lab test. You couldn't apply to certain jobs without your lab test." He went on with a dreamy face. "The next step would be a urine screening that could find out if you're slow-witted. Imagine, John! They could give you a lab test and tell you you aren't fit to …to run a hospital."

     "But the young and talented Dr. Lewis Arany …" I grinned.

     For a moment we were almost like brothers. I glanced at my watch. It was time to leave.

     I sat quietly for a moment, wondering how to put the last question. Lewis's smile faded while he watched my face.

     "Is it possible that someone could have a split personality, and in his clear moments he remembers perfectly what his other self has done?"

     He shrugged then nodded.

     "And that he feels no regret? He remembers clearly that he broke someone's nose but he doesn't care? Is that a split personality?"

     He didn't answer, just looked at me, thoughtfully.

     "Is it possible that you feel sick and weak, have nausea and vertigo, because your two selves are fighting each other?"

     I involuntarily raised my voice, but Lewis didn't try to shush me. He came to my side and put his hand on my shoulder. It was a strange gesture that reminded me of our father. He behaved like this in his rare, but wonderful, moments.