The Decoy (17 page)

'Right. As if she cares. She's a pro, Frank, and the profession we're talking about here ain't acting.' He reaches out and turns the picture back on. 'How do you tell if a woman's faking an orgasm?'

'I don't know,' Positano says, 'how do you tell if a woman's faking an orgasm?'

'Who cares?' Weeks says and laughs. 'Neat, hey? Australian joke. Who cares.'

But Frank Durban, watching the bodies on the screen, does care. Frank cares very much indeed.

===OO=OOO=OO===

Later, they lie on the floor, too exhausted even to crawl to a bed, sharing wine amongst the debris of their clothes.

'There's something I want to say to you,' he says softly.

'What?'

'You know the other day, you were asking about my wife?'

===OO=OOO=OO===

Down in the observation room, they fall silent and gather round the screen.

===OO=OOO=OO===

He rolls over onto his front, touching her nipple curiously, turning it this way and that between his fingers, as if she were a radio that had to be tuned to the precise, elusive wavelength he required.

'If Stella's death taught me anything — left me with anything — it's a horror of secrets.'

She speaks to the ceiling. 'Do you have a secret, Christian?'

'Yes,' he says. 'Just one.'

She waits, as she's been taught.
Silence is the best interrogator.

'I have a confession to make, Claire,' he begins. 'Ever since we met—'

Is it her imagination, or can she hear feet creeping towards the door, safety catches being cocked, a burst of two-way radio hastily muffled in a coat?

'Wait,' she says.
Got to give them time to get into position.
'I need some water.'

She gets up, naked, and goes into the bathroom. The face that stares back from the mirror is a mask. She runs the tap and splashes her face with water.

'OK,' she says, coming back beside him. 'What is it you want to say?'

'I need — I think you should know…' He looks at her arms. 'You've got goose bumps.'

'I'm fine,' she whispers. 'Go on.'

'What I'm trying to tell you is that I'm falling in love with you.'

And the air leaves Claire's lungs in one long gasp, an involuntary sigh of gratitude and relief.

The second time is, mercifully, gentler. He makes love to her with infinite slowness, one hand cupped behind her head so that he can stare into her eyes.

His own eyes remind her of photographs of gas clouds in space, a glowing green phosphorescence that, up close, dissolves into shadows and streaks of light.

She realizes that he isn't fucking her to come himself, but to make her come, to make her lose control for him. The thought of being observed so minutely in orgasm frightens her, and she tries to hide from him, to blank him, to force the crisis away. But it only has the effect of making it stronger. When it comes, it crashes over her like a wave, churning and tumbling her in its rip, so that, for what seems like an eternity, she is lost, a mewling, wailing castaway, her face flecked with spittle and phlegm.

He nods, slowly, as if she has at last told him the truth.

===OO=OOO=OO===

Afterwards he carries her to the tub and washes her methodically, soaping every crevice, his fingers probing the folds of her skin. He shampoos her hair, working the suds in with his hands. She watches in the mirror. Her head is thick with foam, like a meringue.

He reaches down a lather-mittened hand to her bush, soaps it as he soaped her hair, spreads her with soapy fingers and finds her clitoris yet again. It stings, and she moans, sore, for him to stop. He shushes her, forcing her to climb the hill of her pleasure with him one more time.

===OO=OOO=OO===

The debrief is a quiet affair. For different reasons, she guesses, neither Connie nor Frank want to meet her eye.

Outside, car horns shoulder their way through the morning rush. A hydraulic compactor truck snorts and hisses below her window, then moves on. She sits, her fingers playing with her hair, only half listening as they talk about someone called Claire Rodenburg.

'What we've got to be absolutely clear about,' Connie is saying, 'is what we want to happen and how we intend to control events to achieve that outcome. We'd hoped for a pillow-talk confession, but it seems that moment has passed. I think you have to question whether subsequent pillow talk is going to produce material that's any more revealing.'

'What's on your mind, Connie?' Frank asks.

Claire watches sunlight diffracting through the glass of Evian on the table. A disc of light on the ceiling becomes an ellipse, an oval, then fattens once again into a disc. She looks down. Although Connie is still talking, the policeman's eyes are looking at her, Claire. She stares at him until he turns his gaze away.

'As you know, I had my doubts about the path we're going down. Now that we're here, though, we should consider how to use this clearly intense relationship that's developing to best effect.'

'What do you suggest?'

'I think we should change the script. Christian's someone who demands complete loyalty, complete submission. If he is a killer, it's because he feels he's been betrayed by women. I suggest that we let him believe Claire feels the same way about him as he feels about her, and then have her betray him.'

There's a short, stunned silence.

'You mean, with somebody else?' Claire says incredulously. 'You want to make Christian think I'm being unfaithful?'

'Why not? If he's as hooked on you as he appears to be, he'll want revenge. For an ordinary man, that might take the form of a slap or a torrent of filthy language. If he's a killer, he'll try to take your life.'

'It's a high-risk strategy,' Frank says.

Connie shrugs. 'You're the poker player, Frank. Stakes too high for you?'

'Of course not,' he says.

'Not for him either. So we'll just have to keep raising them until someone folds, right?'

'Not yet,' Claire murmurs.

'What was that?' Connie asks.

'Not yet. Don't do it yet. It's too soon. He's not … he's not really in love with me yet. Not as much as he will be.'

'Claire's right,' Frank agrees, getting to his feet. 'We should give him a little more time, get him really hooked. And if, in the meantime, he eliminates or incriminates himself, we'll avoid a potentially dangerous confrontation for Claire. Let's do it her way, Connie, at least for a few more days.'

===OO=OOO=OO===

That evening she phones Brian the barman, and tells him she's going to be away for a little while. An acting job, she tells him. A last-minute place on a tour, replacing someone who got sick.

Harold J. Hopkins, proprietor and director of the Crossways Funeral Parlor, looks at the young man in front of him and says, 'Where else have you worked, Glenn?'

Glenn Furnish says politely, 'Well, sir, you'll see from my resume that, since I qualified as a licensed mortuary technician, I've worked in Houston, San Antonio and New York City. I've also worked in several establishments in Europe. I didn't put them on the resume because I figured that wasn't relevant professional experience.'

'They do things different over there, I guess.'

'In the mainly Protestant countries, yes they do, sir. They don't have a tradition of embalming, let alone cosmetology. As you'll see from my resume, cosmetology is my major area of professional interest.'

'Right,' Harold says. He likes this young man. He likes the way he speaks seriously, in a low voice. He likes the way he's worn his funeral suit to this interview. He likes the way he calls Harold 'sir'. In Harold's view, a young man who shows the proper respect for an employer will probably show the proper respect for the deceased.

Harold thinks briefly of his own son, not much older than the young man in front of him. Showing respect had not been Mervyn's forte. In retrospect, it might have been a good thing that Mervyn had refused to follow his father into the family business. It might only have been storing up trouble for the future.

'Sir?'

He drags his attention back to the young man.

'Sir? I'd be happy to work a trial period, if that would help you decide between myself and the other applicants.'

'Oh, well. Matter of fact, there aren't any other applicants. I just posted that job notice last Friday, and you're the first person to reply. So I guess the early bird catches the worm. How soon could you begin?'

The young man allows a brief smile to touch his lips. 'I just need a couple of days to find somewhere to live. And thank you, Mr Hopkins, sir. You won't regret this decision. I believe I'll be useful to you, and I hope to learn a great deal from watching an experienced professional like yourself at work, sir.'

Harold Hopkins waves away the compliments, faintly embarrassed. 'Nonsense. It's you who'll be teaching an old practitioner like me what the latest ways of doing things are. And there's no need to call me sir. Harold will do just fine.'

===OO=OOO=OO===

Two days after his interview, Glenn Furnish reports to the Crossways Funeral Parlor. Harold gives him a tour of the facilities and introduces him to his wife, Ellen, and their daughter, Alicia, who also works for the business, and to Joel, Harold's business partner. He makes a good impression on all of them. But it's in the prep room that he and Harold linger the longest.

'Adjustable cot, aspirator pump, embalming machine,' Harold says, indicating the room's various features. 'Ventilation in the table. The hearse can back right up to those doors.'

Glenn compliments him on the efficient set-up and Harold makes a self-deprecating gesture. 'We may look like a hokey operation, Glenn, but that's an impression we work hard to foster. Folks prefer it that way. We actually have over a dozen clients a week pass through here.'

Glenn nods, clearly impressed. 'Which embalming solution do you use?'

'Formalin. Low index, usually, to keep down the odour. Why?'

'A lot of people are switching to Sorbent. We used it in Houston. It's less toxic than Formalin.'

'Sorbent. I think I read something about that.'

'I could order some in, if you liked,' the young man suggests.

'That's a good idea. Why don't you do that?'

'Not that I meant to imply there's anything wrong with formaldehyde-based solutions, you understand. The last thing you want is some young hothead coming in here and telling you to change everything.'

'No, Glenn, don't apologize.' Harold Hopkins looks kindly on his new employee. 'There's going to be a lot of stuff I need to catch up on. You see anything around here that could do with updating, I'd like to know what you think.'

===OO=OOO=OO===

That afternoon, Harold and his new assistant ride out to a local retirement home to pick up the body of one of the residents. Retirement home calls are one of the hardest duties a mortician has to perform, and Harold intends to keep a close eye on his
prot�g� to see how he handles this one.

He's glad to note that Glenn doesn't say much on the ride out. Harold knows that many morticians like to laugh and joke on the drive over, then suddenly switch on their serious faces when they get to work. He's even heard it said that a mortician needs to be light-hearted sometimes around cadavers as a way of letting off steam. But he doesn't agree with that, and he's glad Glenn Furnish doesn't seem to operate that way, either. That was why Harold had gotten so mad at Mervyn, for taking the hearse into the McDonald's drive-thru that time. It didn't matter that the vehicle was empty. What mattered was that people expect the highest standards from those who handle them after they've departed.

He's glad to note, too, that Glenn doesn't immediately turn the hearse around and back it into the retirement home gates when they arrive. As Harold used to say to Mervyn, morticians aren't refuse collectors. Drive in frontways, and we'll see about loading the client when the time comes.

===OO=OOO=OO===

The director, a capable lady called Margot Wingate, is waiting for them by the front door. Harold has worked for her many times in the past. He introduces Glenn, then the two men follow her to the room of the deceased resident. This was the main reason retirement home calls were hard. You basically had a lot of elderly people who all knew why you were there — those that still had their faculties —
and who were probably wondering if they'd be the next to go. Harold always likes to find time to talk to any of the elderly folks who want to come and chat as he makes his way to the deceased's room. Sometimes they'll just want to make a joke about it not being their turn yet, but sometimes they want to be serious and talk about the deceased, particularly if it was a friend. You had to strike a balance between getting to the room quickly, without making a big fuss about your presence, and being polite. Once again he's pleased to notice that Glenn Furnish has been well trained, and talks to the residents in the same polite but solemn manner as Harold does.

The body is that of an old lady, still lying peacefully in the bed where she passed away. 'I've taken off her catheter,' Margot says. 'She's ready to go.'

Harold looks first at the space between the bed and then at the door. 'I think there should be ample room for our cot in here, Glenn.'

While Glenn goes back to the hearse for the trolley, Margot says, 'He's new, isn't he?'

'Today is his first day. But he's had a great deal of experience. And he seems to me to have the correct attitude.'

'How'd you find him?'

'On the Internet, as a matter of fact. There's an industry bulletin board just started for vacant jobs. I thought I'd give it a try.'

'He'll do well,' Margot says. 'The old folks like him, anyway.'

'Yes.' Harold smiles at her. 'So many outsiders don't realize. Being a mortician is a people business.'

Glenn returns with the cot, and together the two men lift the body of the old lady into the zippered sleeve. Glenn starts to do it up, but Harold stops him.

'Now this is perhaps an instance where I might give you some advice, Glenn. Although we'd normally remove a body with the zipper up, in a retirement home we sometimes do it a little differently. You see, some of these old folks may be too infirm to come to the funeral, so we like to give those that want to the opportunity to come and say their goodbyes as we proceed to the hearse.'