The Decoy (19 page)

'So you couldn't speculate whether Blanche was really a man or a woman?'

'No, only that she was definitely interested in her submissive side. And she made some references to a husband, though that might just have been a smokescreen.'

'No,' Claire says slowly. 'No, I don't think it was. That wasn't Christian you were talking to. Whatever else he might pretend to be, I don't believe he'd ever pretend to be a submissive. That was Stella, using Christian's computer. The name gives it away: Blanche. Baudelaire's biographers called one of the women he was in love with —
the woman he worshipped — his
Venus blanche.
I think Stella got fed up with being worshipped. Necropolis offered her the chance to get away from all of that, even if it was only as a fantasy.'

'There's something else you ought to know,' Patricia says. 'When you logged on to Necropolis, you probably didn't realize, but those public areas aren't all there is to it. There's a part that even members can't find unless they've been told about it. A kind of inner sanctum.'

'How do you mean?'

'On one of the chat pages, there's a link that doesn't have any text or pictures. But if you know where to put your mouse cursor, and you click on it, it'll take you to a MUSE.'

Claire frowns. 'A Muse? What's that?'

'A Multi-User Simulated Environment. Geek-speak for a virtual world, somewhere that exists only on a network. To give you an example, if you type the command to walk into a room, the computer will tell you what the room looks like, what objects there are in it and who's in there. So you can talk to people, but you can also move around and even create your own rooms and objects. The MUSE in Necropolis is called Tartarus.'

'Should I know what that means?'

'In classical mythology, Tartarus was the region of the dead.'

'I get it,' Claire says, nodding. 'The underworld. The next level down.'

'I guess. Anyway, the reason for the long explanation is that Tartarus is where the heavy stuff happens.'

Claire looks at Patricia. 'What do you mean, heavy stuff?'

'Trading.'

'In what?'

'Pictures, mostly.'

'We're talking illegal pictures here, right?'

'Try not to judge us too harshly, Claire. For some of us, Necropolis is all we have.'

She touches Patricia's arm. 'Sorry. Go on.'

'Everyone in Tartarus uses a code name, different even from the false name they use in the main Necropolis area. It's sort of like an extra protection. Anyway, there's one particular character who always has really, really freaky pictures to sell. I'm not into that stuff, believe me. But there are people who are.'

'What's this person's name?'

'He calls himself Charon. It's from Greek mythology, too, I think. Charon was the ferryman who took the dead across the river separating them from the underworld. You had to pay him; that was why they used to put pennies on the eyes of the corpses.'

'And you don't know who he really is?'

Patricia shakes her head. 'But when I had that chat with Blanche, Charon was there, too.'

'So he might have approached Stella afterwards.'

'It's possible.'

'And if they made contact — if this guy Charon is the killer — that might be how he fixed on her as his next victim.'

'Well, it's possible, isn't it? It's pretty obvious that you don't give out your name and address on the net, of course. But it's also surprisingly easy to find out those sorts of details. There are sites which let you search public records and voting registers. Then maybe there's some other site somewhere with a photograph of her. It happens. I found my old high school yearbook on the net the other day.'

Claire nods thoughtfully.

'Will you tell the police?'

'Sure, I'll tell them. But I don't think it'll change anything as far as they're concerned. There's no proof, is there? Nothing that eliminates or incriminates, as they keep putting it.' She sighs. 'It's not that I'm not grateful, Patricia, but I'm going to need more than this, much more, if I'm going to get them to stay away from Christian.'

===OO=OOO=OO===

Later, on the way out, she brushes past the seedy-looking man in the raincoat and whispers, 'It's more convincing if you turn the computer on, Detective.'

===OO=OOO=OO===

In contrast to the sleek, bright functionalism of the cyber cafe, she meets Henry in a bar on the Upper East Side, a serious drinker's hangout where the barman leaves the Guinness to settle, in the approved manner, before he tops up the glass, drawing a shamrock in the froth with the last few drops.

For once, though, Henry's drinking lime and soda.

'The bottom line,' he tells her, 'is that this woman — Jane Birnes, her name is — wanted to marry Christian pretty bad. If you want my opinion, her biological clock had gone off and he seemed like a good choice to be the father of her children. Then, about a month before the wedding, Christian decides it's not going to work. At which point, not surprisingly, she goes crazy. I talked to the doorman at his old apartment block. They had to get a restraining order to stop her hanging around the lobby, screaming abuse and slandering him to the neighbours. If you ask me, she's been waiting for a chance to get even ever since.'

'Would the police know this?'

'Well, I'm hardly a big fan of New York's finest, but a restraining order? They must have known.' He looks at her shrewdly. 'Unless they chose not to know.'

She sits, lost in thought, her drink untouched.

As Harold has predicted, Glenn Furnish is a big success. If he had been impressive at the retirement home pick-up, he has turned out to be remarkable in the prep room. He treats the cadavers with a dignity and respect that is greatly to Harold's liking, yet he's also a quick and capable technician.

The body is first stripped, sprayed with fungicide and washed with disinfectant soap. Then, unless it's an autopsy case and the internal organs have already been removed, the inner cavities have to be purged of what Harold refers to as 'nasties'. After that, a trocar — a long embalming needle — is inserted into an artery and connected to the aspirator pump, with another needle and a waste pipe going into a vein. The blood is pumped out of the cadaver's circulatory system, usually under pressure, since it will have solidified somewhat after death. Only when aspirating and purging are complete does embalming take place. Antibacterial solution is pumped around the veins in place of aspirating fluid, and finally sprayed, in a weaker, or lower-index, solution, over the corpse's skin.

The purpose of embalming, of course, is not to preserve the body for ever, but to ensure that it remains in a reasonable condition for viewing by the deceased's relatives. Embalming, as Harold likes to say, is only the first step in the wider science of cosmetology, and it's at this that Glenn Furnish particularly excels. He's full of bright ideas, such as adding Downey, a fabric softener, to the spray solution.

'Fabric softener?' Harold had said, puzzled. 'You mean to keep the coffin clothes looking good?'

Glenn Furnish hadn't laughed at his ignorance. 'No, Harold. Modern fabric softeners contain a glycerol-based humectant which will help prevent the dermis from drying out.'

Harold noticed his employee's cosmetic skills at their very first embalming together, when they had been preparing the body of the old lady from the home. Harold had been suturing shut the old lady's lips, and explaining his thoughts to Glenn.

'You know, the lips are really the most important part of the whole process. After the eyes are closed, it's from the expression on the lips that people try to work out whether she died peacefully or not. Now, you and I know that the normal expression of a cadaver is kind of a cranky one, because the skin dries and pulls the lips back from the teeth. But most folks don't know that, and what they'd really like to see on the face of their loved one is just a little hint of a smile. Not a big cheesy grin, or like someone's cracked a joke, but a kind of restful, satisfied expression. So when I sew the lips shut, I like to just make it a little tighter in the corners.'

'Superglue is better,' Glenn said.

'I'm sorry?'

'A lot of younger morticians now use superglue to fix the lips. That way you can be sure there won't be any thread visible. And as for that smile, it'll look even better if you fill out the top lip with a little putty. May I?'

He showed Harold how to use the putty gun to lift the corners of the mouth, and Harold was damned if it didn't look more natural than when he did it with a needle.

Harold has never been particularly strong on cosmetology, leaving that side of things to his wife and, latterly, to Alicia. Soon Glenn is taking charge of all that. He rubs skier's lipsalve on the corpses' lips to keep them soft, and packs cat litter in their chest cavities to fill out the empty lungs. He inserts cotton pads, soaked in insecticide, deep into the nostrils to make it look as if the deceased has just inhaled one last good breath. He fills in sunken parts of the dermis with putty and seals the incisions with invisible sealant. He sprays the corpse with SkinTone, to give it the appearance of being in the pink of health. And only then does he start work with the make-up box, applying layers of foundation to the wax-white skin, lipstick to the bloodless lips, coloured Cutex to the drained fingernails. At this stage, if the deceased is a woman, he will often take advice from Alicia, Harold's daughter, and the two of them will try as many as three or four different combinations, discussing their ideas in low voices, and cleaning off their errors with cleansing cream before finally deciding on the right one.

If Glenn has a fault, Harold decides, it's that he has favourites among the dead. As early as the second week, Harold notices that he has an aversion to the obese, particularly obese men. Entering the prep room when Glenn is working on one such cadaver, Harold sees that he has inserted the aspirator needle into the carotid artery, just below the ear, with the exit trocar coming from the jugular. Normally this would be frowned upon, as the general rule is not to perform any unnecessary interventions on the face. Harold passes a comment to this effect.

'I couldn't find an artery anywhere else,' Glenn says. He's sweating, despite the cool of the heavy air-con. 'Musta turned him over at least a dozen times. He hasn't got a single good artery left. No wonder the fat bastard stiffed it.' He slaps the corpse's wrinkled flesh irritably.

Harold stares. He can't believe the normally mild-mannered young man has used such language. 'Glenn,' he says finally, 'you're doing really well here, and I wouldn't like you to think we're anything other than delighted with your work, but personally I like to consider the prep room a sacred space, almost a consecrated one, where the deceased are treated with the courtesy we would give to God in a church. For those reasons I don't feel comfortable with swearing in here.'

The young man immediately apologizes.

'Well,' Harold says, 'don't mention it. We all get a little stressed from time to time.'

Nothing similar ever happens again, though Harold notices that Glenn seems to avoid the fat ones after that.

If Glenn doesn't like obese cadavers, though, he is the opposite when it comes to making up the bodies of any young females that pass through their hands. There's one in now, a twenty-one-year-old car-crash victim. Her face is a mess, and she's clearly going to need a lot of work before she'll be in an acceptable state for the viewing casket. In fact, Harold has already had a quiet word with the grieving parents and suggested that a closed casket might be necessary. But when he mentions this to Glenn, the young man says, 'Well, let me see what I can do, Harold.'

After the embalming, Glenn gets out his putty gun, his tube of superglue and the invisible incision sealant. He's still working when Harold goes home. Harold looks in on the prep room and finds the young man kneading conditioner into the girl's hair.

Glenn hears him at the door and looks up. 'Petrol in her hair,' he says almost tenderly.

Harold's house is right behind the funeral parlour, so he doesn't feel too bad about leaving Glenn there on his own. But it's nearly eleven before he hears the young man's car driving off.

The next morning, Harold's the first one in, so he goes to the prep room to have a look at what Glenn's done. He's got to admit that the young man has a remarkable aptitude for this work. The girl's face has been totally rebuilt, the work disguised with invisible sealant and SkinTone, so that if you didn't know better you'd think she had barely been damaged. Harold has been around corpses all his life, and it's a long time since a body spooked him, but this girl looks so gentle and restful that he crosses himself and says a short prayer. While he's standing there, he hears a faint noise, like a moan, coming from the girl's throat.

Harold J. Hopkins jumps.

Then he smiles. It's been a while since a cadaver caught him out like that. And it's only because Glenn's work is so darned lifelike that he's been startled now.

Opening the lid of the autoclave, he selects a freshly sterilized pair of curved steel forceps. Then he goes over to the girl and gently inserts the forceps down her throat.

As he expects, they meet no resistance. Glenn has just forgotten to cork the windpipe. Gaseous build-up, exiting through the voice-box, has made it seem as if she's moaning. He goes to the storage unit, finds a wide, thick cork and eases it down the cadaver's throat, tamping it with the end of the forceps until it's jammed good and tight.

Easy mistake to make. Quite reassuring, in a way, to know that Glenn isn't perfect. Sometimes he makes Harold feel, well, not stupid, exactly, but just a little bit
slow
.

All the same… an easy mistake to make, yes, but also an easy mistake to fix. Every time Glenn leaned on her chest she'd have made a little sound, like air being squeezed through an accordion. How could he not have noticed?

But it had been late when the young man had finished, and he would have been dead beat. He'd probably been meaning to do it last thing and then forgotten all about it.