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I didn't care enough about any of this to bring it into loving focus.
I was safe in the flat, and He'd be coming soon, filling all these roomswith the perfume of his blood, and I'd do my damnedest not to breakhis neck before I'd had every drop. Yes, this was the night.
Dora wouldn't find out until she got home tomorrow anyway.
Who would know that I'd left his corpse here?
I went on into the living room. This was tolerably clean; the roomwhere he relaxed and read and studied and fondled his objects. Therewere his comfortable bulky couches, fitted with heaps of pillows, andhalogen lamps of black iron so delicate and light and modern andeasy to maneuver that they looked like insects poised on tables and onthe floor itself, and sometimes on top of cardboard boxes.
The crystal ashtray was full of butts, which confirmed he pre-ferred safety to cleanliness, and I saw scattered glasses in which theliquor had long ago dried to a glaze that was now flaked like lacquer.
Thin, rather frowsy drapes hung over the windows, making thelight soiled and tantalizing.
Even this room was jammed with statues of saints梐 very luridand emotional St. Anthony holding a chubby Child Jesus in the crookof his arm; a very large and remote Virgin, obviously of LatinAmerican origin. And some monstrous angelic being of black granite,which even with my eyes I could not fully examine in the gloom,something resembling more a Mesopotamian demon than an angel.
For one split second this granite monster sent the shivers throughme. It resembled ... no, I should say its wings made me think of thecreature I'd glimpsed, this Thing that I thought was following me.
But I didn't hear any footsteps here. There was no rip in the fabricof the world. It was a statue of granite, that's all, a hideous ornamentperhaps from some gruesome church full of images of Hell andHeaven.
Lots of books lay on the tables. Ah, he did love books. I mean,there were the fine ones, made of vellum and very old and all that, butcurrent books, too, titles in philosophy and religion, current affairs,memoirs of currently popular war correspondents, even a fewvolumes of poetry.
Mircea Eliade, history of religions in various volumes, might havebeen Dora's gift, and there, a brand-new History of God, by a womannamed Karen Armstrong. Something else on the meaning of life?
Understanding the Present, by Bryan Appleyard. Hefty books. But fun,my kind, anyway. And the books had been handled. Yes, it was hisscent on these books, heavily his scent, not Dora's.
He had spent more time here than I ever realized.
I scanned the shadows, the objects, I let the air fill my nostrils.
Yes, he'd come here often and with someone else, and that person ...
that person had died here! I hadn't realized any of this before, ofcourse, and it was just more preparation for the meal. So the murdererdrug dealer had loved a young man in these digs once, and ithadn't been all clutter. I was getting flashes of it in the worst way,more emotion than image, and I found myself fairly fragile under theonslaught. This death hadn't occurred all that long ago.
Had I passed this Victim in those times, when his friend wasdying, I would never have settled on him, just let him go on. But thenhe was so flashy!
He was coming up the back steps now, the inner secret stairway,cautiously taking each step, his hand on the handle of his gun insidehis coat, very Hollywood style, though there wasn't much else abouthim that was predictable. Except, of course, that many who deal incocaine are eccentric.
He reached the back door, saw that I'd opened it. Rage. I slippedover into the corner opposite that overbearing granite statue, and Istood back between two dusty saints. There wasn't enough light forhim to see me right off. He'd have to turn on one of the little halogens,and they were spots.
Right now, he listened, he sensed. He hated it that someone hadbroken open his door; he was murderous and had no intention of notinvestigating, alone; a little court case was held in his mind. No, noone could possibly know about this place, the judge decided. Had tobe a petty thief, goddamn it, and those words were heaped in rageupon the accidental.
He slipped the gun out, and he started going through his rooms,through rooms I'd skipped. I heard the light switch, saw the flash inthe hall. He went on to another and another.
How on earth could he tell this place was empty? I mean, anyonecould be hiding in this place. I knew it was empty. But what madehim so sure? But maybe that's how he'd stayed alive all this time, hehad just the right mixture of creativity and carelessness.
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