Control, Page 28

  “Go on.”

  “Now in the next few years, what happened in this country?— the women’s movement, right? ‘Feminine Mystique,’ all the rest. When the movement was casting around for some symbol, they remembered the Madonnas, and how they got pissed on and passed over by the art establishment. So the Madonnas got fad’ famous. Then people began studying the work, saw how brilliant Edith really was, and the fad part stopped—these are now about the most respected paintings done by any woman in the last quarter century. I can’t tell you how many museum hustlers stroke me so I should only leave them these paintings when I’m no longer with us. These are the same assholes, may I add, I fucking begged to come see the show when it was on. And no one did.”

  Eric watched her, thinking he was wrong before when he thought she was lying. This part all was true. She was just being evasive to the nth power.

  “Just today I got a call from one of the knotheads in Chicago —since I’m a Chicagoan they thought wouldn’t it be nice if I considered leaving the ‘Madonnas’ to my hometown museum— special room, guarantee twenty years showing—the whole series on display, not just one or two, and I said—”

  “—the ‘Blues,’” Eric said quietly.

  “I was getting there, Mister!”

  A rock, Eric smiled, looking at the dynamo. A giant rock rolling down a mountain. Get out of its way if you can. He stared at the paintings, felt Edith in the air.

  “I was going to tell you a really hilarious story about human behavior, but obviously you don’t want that, you don’t give much of a shit about ‘why’ you only want ‘and then.’ Okay. ‘The Blues’ were to be the next series Edith painted. Large portraits of her loved ones. Seven in all. I was to be the last. She did some reading, did some sketches, then she went into the river.”

  “Phillip told me she painted them, he described them, especially you.”

  “Phillip, and I hope you’re enough of a detective to have noted this on your own, is given to senility.”

  “He said the two of you were sitting in the living room when Edith came down from her study and said she’d finished the painting of you and at last ‘The Blues’ were done. You went up with her to her study. The portrait of you, he said, somehow managed to show you as a young girl and you as you were then, and you were so moved you wept.”

  “Phillip’s fantasy, alas. Whoever sees ‘The Blues’ will only see them in fantasy.” Sally shook her head then. “Oh, Jesus, but they would have been great. Edith was on a roll, she was in touch with whatever’s inside us that makes us special, she was—” Sally stopped short. “Enough. I hate talking about them—that’s why I bullshitted you before. But believe me now when I tell you this: I’m sorry I let you in here.”

  “Why?”

  “ ‘Cause you don’t know squat—’cause I thought on the phone you were on to something—after all these fucking years I thought somebody was on to something—’cause I know that when she walked into Bloomingdale’s that afternoon, she was happy.”

  “Maybe that’s just your fantasy.”

  “I knew my Edith,” Sally said. “And I don’t know who or what or how—but something invaded her brain …”

  It was the middle of the night when Eric mashed his thumb against the buzzer of the Lorber Foundation and leaned hard. Karen was a remarkably sound sleeper—she had trained herself to be; if you were going to exist on four hours per night, the minutes spent in thrashing could destroy you.

  A foggy voice said, “Whaaa?”

  Eric spoke into the mouthpiece. “Me.”

  “Little?”

  “Yup.”

  Vocal communication ceased then and Eric waited until he heard her footsteps. Then the standard New York City unlocking, unlatching, and unchaining. Then Karen’s face in the doorway. “If this isn’t of the utmost, you just lost a sister.” Eric stepped inside.

  “I’d like some coffee,” he said.

  “You’d like some coffee?—you’d like some coffee—there’s no chance for my survival if I don’t have some coffee—” and with that she turned and stomped off toward the kitchen.

  Eric traipsed along after her. “Thanks,” he said.

  She whirled on him then—”I can’t handle words now, Little! —you must stop throwing words at me—when I’m on my second cup, you may speak, not until then.” She tied her robe tightly around her and Eric sat at the breakfast table while she got the percolator going. She did it with remarkable speed and precision —even in this unawake state, almost everything Karen did was pretty much without flaw.

  In her mid-thirties now, Karen Lorber was something of a celebrity. She had her Ph.D. She had her M.D. Both, naturally, from Harvard. She had written four books, two of which sold well enough. Now that their folks were gone, she headed the Lorber Foundation, charged a hundred plus per hour, taught at P. and S.

  Her waist, though she had to work at it more than she cared to admit, was the same as when she was a stunning nineteen. Her eyes were the same sea blue, her skin the same Merle Oberon olive. Most men and some women thought she was beautiful; nobody doubted her figure still ought to be declared illegal.

  But because He also taketh away, there was always, in Karen’s life, the constant lurking almost: men. Eric didn’t become aware of Karen’s idiosyncrasy until her first year in grad school when she got into a screaming match with the super of the building she was staying in; the guy lost his temper, slapped her around badly. Eric, when he heard of the incident, took the shuttle up to Boston intent only on killing the son of a bitch, but when he confronted his adored sister with his plan, she broke down, said he couldn’t, he mustn’t, please, please, please.

  But he beat the shit out of you, Eric said.

  But we’re dating, Karen whispered, finally.

  You ‘re dating the super? I don’t believe this—what does he give you, a break on your heating bill?

  It’s my life, don’t mock me.

  How did you meet this asshole? I mean, why did he think you’d go out with him?

  Pause.

  Spiel.

  The … the janitor introduced us—

  —the janitor, shit Karen—

  —he’s not always going to be a janitor, he’s overqualified—

  —and he fixed you up with his buddy, the super?

  You make it sound so sleazy.

  Karen—Karen listen to me—it is sleazy.

  Pause.

  Karen, don’t cry.

  Long pause.

  I hate it when you cry, Karen, I’m sorry if I mocked you, I’m sure he’s a very cute super. And overqualified as hell; he’ll probably be running the garbage union before you can say Jack Robinson.

  Jack Robinson, you bastard, Karen said, drying her tears…

  Eventually the super was replaced by a cab driver, which didn’t sit all that well with Karen’s elders, but there was no doubt they were all thrilled when she got engaged to the young genius instructor at M.I.T.

  He was handsome, for a chemist at least, and the marriage seemed solid enough at the start—except Eric knew it wasn’t; he had noticed something when the chemist met the family: the guy pissed all over Karen. If she tried to say something, he interrupted; if she managed to complete the thought, he corrected her; if she’d gotten it right, he improved on it.

  He’s just like the super, Eric realized. Beating up on her.

  And he was right. The marriage was misery, it lasted as long as Karen could manage. A Cal Tech genius provided her with a second husband; his attitude was more of the same. Karen had not tried for strike three yet; instead she had affairs. With scientists mostly, but that was not a strict rule; Eric figured that as long as they held her in contempt, they qualified. And he wondered, as he watched his sister pour her first cup of coffee now, just who was upstairs at this moment, waiting for her return so he might demean her a bit before dawn.

  Karen, for her part, was never crazy about Eric’s girl friends; she mocked them—they were all bubbleheads. But every
time she fixed him up with someone really worthy, Eric shied away. One night when she was harassing him she realized he realized how young he was going to be when he died, so she found other subjects to razz him about after that.

  When she was done with her second cup, she beckoned and they went into her office. It had been their father’s. Karen gestured toward the couch. “Begin at the beginning,” she said. “How long have you had this compulsion to wake up people?”

  Eric smiled and they sat across from each other. He glanced around, got comfortable. His father had sat where Karen was sitting. And probably Frank Haggerty, Jr. had sat where he was, while Haggerty himself, young then, perhaps Eric’s age now, waited fretting in the hall.

  “Being a feminist, you’ve heard of Edith Mazursky.”

  “Sure.” . “And you know how she died?”

  “Wasn’t it kind of horrible? Drowned herself in freezing water?”

  Eric nodded. “That was her second try—the first time she desperately slashed her wrists.” He paused.

  “Drop the shoe, Little.”

  “I have just spent several hours with a very sane and very tough cookie who was Mazursky’s intimate, who swears that the day the attempts began, minutes before, she was in a glorious frame of mind. And why I am here, dear one, is to ask you this question: How in the name of sweet Jesus is it possible for a happy person to kill herself?”

  “I don’t think you want me to say this, Little, but obviously, it’s impossible.”

  “Right!” Eric exploded out of his chair. “Of course it’s impossible. It’s every which way impossible.” Now he leaned across the desk toward Karen. “Except I believe it.”

  Karen nodded. “Figures, knowing you.”

  “I also think the government was involved somehow. And since you’ve been involved with half the scientific community from M.I.T. to Cal Tech, I turn to you for wisdom.”

  Karen thought awhile. “Would dream research fit?—it’s very big now, lots of grants—”

  “—how do you mean?”

  “Well, there’s a story that’s going to break soon. This is true, Little. You can call the Federal Center for Disease Control in Atlanta and use my name, they’ll tell you. A lot of people from Laos are living in America now. Scattered all across the country. Maybe twenty of them have died lately—all healthy, strong young men—died in their sleep. No violence, no poison, nothing like that There’s a new theory about it that’s just making rounds.”

  Eric sat back down. “What?”

  “They died of nightmare. Terror induced by nightmare. Well, little Karen here, when she hears something like that, she suspects the government’s involved in some experiments. No proof. Just a hunch, we’ll have to wait and see.” She looked at her brother then. “Why do you think it’s the government?”

  “Just a hunch, we’ll have to wait and see. But a crazy monster comes to town. Frank and I go after him, Frank dies, I grab the guy—then a limousine appears and guys in blue suits—really experts—they club me and kidnap the killer. And not only don’t the cops care, they cover it up—they deny Frank the funeral he should have had. Only one group I know has that kind of power, and that’s Washington. Then I get a tip—the killer used to visit a fortune-teller—”

  “—oh-oh,” Karen said. “Sounds like the government.”

  “I go down there, she’s gone, I assume dead, because her Seeing Eye dog is sliced up and dying and you would have to be really expert to handle that, because he was no puppy. I find this killer’s. name on a piece of paper and Mazursky’s name. I visit some people, and this brain invasion idea crops up. Which I am dumb enough to believe. Now why did you say ‘sounds like the government’?”

  “‘Cause a real Moonshot Mentality has taken over down there.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Remember when Kennedy said we were going to go to the moon because it was this glorious challenge? One of my ex-boyfriends was in the room when that decision was made and it was all cosmetic. Kennedy said he was sick and tired of losing and he wanted something he could be guaranteed a victory over the Russkies. Well, they had no interest in going to the moon. There was no reason for sending anyone to the moon. Around the moon, take pictures—just like we did on Saturn. But the Russians had no equipment on the drawing boards for landing there, so we had to beat them. The whole moon program, all those billions, was all bullshit. We wanted to beat the Russians then and now it’s taken over again—they’ll do anything to get ahead. Psychic investigation is this year’s fad. I am sure we have plenty of fortune-tellers on our payroll.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, believe this—we can now take pictures of an empty room and have pretty good success telling who was in the room before it was empty. Hell, you and I have been doing thought transference on each other since the cradle. Think of a number.”

  Eric thought of six.

  “Nine,” Karen said. Then she said, “No, not nine, six.” She looked at him. “Right?” Eric nodded. “Need I mention they’re also doing a lot of experimentation with twins?”

  “What about my happy lady painter killing herself?”

  “I can ask questions if you’d like. I know a lot of people doing a lot of hush-hush stuff they love talking about. They’re into bioenergy and precognition and telepathy and telekinesis and there was one shithead professor when I was at Harvard who claimed the wave of the future was controlling reincarnation.”

  “Then I’m not necessarily crazy.”

  “No, Little—you are necessarily crazy, you’re just not necessarily wrong…”

  The sun was threatening to rise when Eric left the Foundation, taxied home. He was bone chilled and bleary when he reached his apartment, unlocked it.

  The two men in blue suits were seated quietly, waiting while the third man stared out at the view. Lovely Chagalls, he said, his back to Eric, and Eric waited for the man to turn before agreeing. Now, as he studied the man who looked like Kissinger, as he stared into the blue eyes of Leo Trude, Eric was struck with the absolute conviction that death was going to strike before another dawn.

  One of us or both, Eric wondered? If both, it didn’t matter much; if one, he wondered which…

  5

  The Murder

  As the nurse with the light brown hair brought him his tray of food, an alarm sounded sharply. Billy Boy watched as the guy in the blue suit standing in the doorway gestured with his gun toward the nurse. “That means move it,” he said.

  The nurse, anxious not to spill the food, continued toward the bed where Billy Boy lay.

  “Move!” from the blue suit and the nurse, stung, put the tray down fast, damn near spilled the whole shebang, and turned, hurrying away, and when she was gone and the alarm louder than ever the blue suit closed the door.

  But in the activity, Billy Boy didn’t hear it lock.

  The nurse ran off, the blue suit ran off, the alarm was pulsing now—something was fucked up somewhere in the hospital—and Billy Boy stared at the door. He almost was afraid to test it, afraid to get up and walk across and put his hand on the knob and turn.

  Because if it turned, he could be long gone, and that was the only way he’d ever get out of this room. This place was different from the one he’d wrecked—it was all reenforced and everything was bolted to the ceiling or the walls.

  The goddam alarm wouldn’t quit.

  If he was ever going to make the move, though, it hadda be soon, with all the running outside and the noise, nobody knowing diddledee-shit about what was happening. But if he made the try, if he turned the knob and it was locked, it would mean his bad luck streak was still on. If he just stayed where he was and didn’t try, he wouldn’t know, and sometimes not knowing was the best.

  Still the alarm.

  Fuck it. They weren’t making a chicken out of him. He shoved the tray aside, got up, dressed fast, went to the door, took a breath, put his hand on the knob, turned it—

  —it opened—

  —and the
alarm stopped.

  What’d that mean, what’d that mean, did it mean they knew, did it mean they’d be after him fast, the guys with the blue suits and the guns, he’d get them someday, when he was ready he’d get them but this wasn’t a good time for him, not a lucky time, and he didn’t want to take them on, not now, not until maybe the Duchess had given him a talk, told him he was back on the track again, the world his apple, the Apple his baby and—

  —and where to go, where to go, down the hall was good, down the hall, how could you fuck up by going down the hall—?

  —it was a long hall though, and a long hall took time, and what if they started coming back?

  He risked it, tried this door, locked, that door, locked, ail the goddam doors in the goddam corridor were locked and suddenly he saw the stairs to the roof and that was heaven, this was a top floor, you hit the roof and went across and there had to be a ladder down and heights were no big deal, not for him, he wasn’t afraid —they’d never make a chicken out of him—

  —he turned the knob that opened the door that led to the stairs that led to the roof and threw the door open, stopped dead.

  It had started to snow.

  But that wasn’t what stopped him. Hell, a little snow or a lot of snow, he’d seen blizzards back home where houses disappeared, where there was just a roof slanting and you knew there had to be something beneath it, a house had to be beneath it, you just couldn’t see it, couldn’t tell a thing because of the snow. So it wasn’t the weather that brought him to a halt. It wasn’t the weather that made his fingers twitch.

  It was going out on a roof again.