He scanned for the letters F-B-I in the news account, and for the name of Dr. Jessica Coran. She was there, in the morning edition. The Trib hadn't had this information. The FBI broad had flown into Zion as she had Wekosha. She recognized his work. Someone recognized his hand in both killings, what the FBI would call his “signature.” It had been a carefully orchestrated signature, to throw them off his trail. Zion had been too close to home. He should have resisted his urges. Now here he was, sitting before his boss, who had records that showed that he was in Zion the night Renee was drained of her life.
He controlled the panic he felt welling up. How much did the FBI know? How much did Coran know? The story was not saying; the reporters didn't know what Coran knew.
What did she know?
“ They'll never catch this guy,” he said to Sarafian suddenly.
“ Why do you say that?”
“ They don't have a clue-not a clue! Can't you read?”
' 'Cops aren't going to spread out their cards in the papers. Matt.”
“ Ahh, what do I care. Has nothing to do with me,” he said, and returned to the importance of his new orders, and thoughts of Lowenthal's goddamned patent, and the problems he faced there.
He wondered if his writing to Dr. Jessica Coran had been self-destructive and foolish.
He wondered how he could cloak himself, as he was feeling naked before Sarafian, as if even a fool like Sarafian could see that he was staring at the so-called Chicago vampire.
“ So, Matt… ah.” It wasn't like Sarafian to be nervously talking.
“ Yes?”
“ You seeing a dermatologist? You know, for your face and hands?”
“ Yes. Now, if you will please let my personal life be my personal life!” Matisak instinctively hid his hands, but what could he do about his face?
“ Hey, Matisak, when your appearance begins to affect your performance, then it's no longer a personal matter, it's a business matter-and that's my only concern.”
“ Have you had complaints about my appearance?”
“ Some, yes.”
“ From whom?”
“ A hospital administrator in Iowa-”
“ Bullshit.”
“ A physician in Kansas City.”
“ Is that all, Mr. Sarafian?”
“ Just a little friendly advice, Matt. You can't be an effective salesman in dark glasses, below that hat of yours with… with scales on your face. You either improve in this department of grooming or you may face a firing.”
“ Fire me on those grounds and I'll sue this goddamned place for every dime I can get.”
Sarafian stormed out, and Matisak was glad to see him go. He was all bluff and thunder and bullshit. No matter what anyone said, Matisak was Balue-Stork's top salesperson. He had proven that over and over again.
He turned his attention once more to Lowenthal and to Dr. Jessica Coran, possibly the only two people on the globe that could conceivably place him with the murder weapon or on the scene. It was, he believed, elimination time… or a time for simple diversion. A little sleight of hand, a bit of smoke and mirrors. Perhaps he need only kill Lowenthal and convince Coran that he, Lowenthal, was the vampire.
With his ridiculous patent, Lowenthal had signed his own death warrant.
# # #
At seven that evening, Matthew Matisak arrived at the home of Maurice Lowenthal. It was a small bungalow filled with bric-a-brac, the lights muted, and on the shelves were hundreds of books, mostly medical and scientific books, but some fiction and biographies and histories. Lowenthal had a book on the coffee table in his little living room, a marker deep in its pages. The book was about the latest discoveries of an oceanographer, the man who had located both the sunken Bismarck and the Titanic, Robert Ballard. Matisak almost reached out for it, but remembered not to touch anything. Outside, he had used his elbow to ring the doorbell.
Lowenthal offered tea, and so he had accepted. Matisak looked about for the file containing the information on the patent. He didn't see it readily lying about as he had hoped. Once more he silently cursed Lowenthal.
Lowenthal reentered the room with two steaming cups of liquid.
“ How're you enjoying retirement?” he asked, taking the cup and saucer gingerly into his possession, his mind flashing snapshot-fashion on the invisible prints forming on the porcelain dishes.
“ I feared it would be a tremendous bore, and it is. But I've managed to keep busy-reading, doing some writing, even! Always wanted to do some writing.”
“ Really? About your experiences at the lab?”
“ That, yes, but I've kind of gotten off on a tangent-gone self-indulgent, I suppose-writing about myself, my innermost thoughts, that sort of thing. Asking questions that defy answer.”
“ Careful,” said Matisak, looking around, “that can prove dangerous.”
“ To the suicidal, perhaps, but I'm a survivor, Matt. Always have been, and when something comes along to excite my interest, say like our little invention-”
“ Yes, well, that's why I'm here. Where is… where are the papers you've drawn up?”
“ In a safe place, trust me.”
“ But you said we would go over them tonight.” His voice rose out of control.
Lowenthal put up his hands as if he were being held at gunpoint. He got up quickly, paced the room and grimaced, saying, “We are equal partners in this, and we can have the papers drawn up. But as for me, I trust you, Matisak, regardless of whether you trust me or not.” He reached for his tea, took a sip and sat back down all in one easy motion. He was comfortable with his place, his things.
Matisak guessed that the only reason he had gotten involved in the “patent” was to keep busy, to, as he had said, have something to do. Once involved, he was excited by the prospects of the instrument that he had designed. It had become for Lowenthal a shining example of how he could help suffering humanity, something he could leave behind so that his life might count for something.
“ So, Maurice, are we going to go over the details tonight, or not?”
“ Really, what's to go over? I've completed the technical drawings and copy, including the new materials, so that you don't get that wobbling effect, you know, when you insert the tube, so that it doesn't pull on the vessel you attach it to. You told me that was a problem; that you had to use adhesive tape, remember? All that's been worked out. And with your records, showing its usefulness, what more is there to say? Did you bring some notes?” he asked, indicating the briefcase that Matisak had brought in with him.
“ Yes, a few,” he lied.
“ I'll be happy to go over them with you.”
“ You must think I'm a fool, Lowenthal.”
“ What?”
“ You plan to take over this entire idea, gaining the patent in your name, and-”
“ I only did so because I'm no longer associated with Balue-Stork. If I used your name-”
“ Then my name is nowhere on the patent papers?”
“ Absolutely not, but that doesn't mean we can't have papers drawn up to indicate that we are equal partners.”
“ Good, all right,” he said, calming. “My sentiments exactly. So, where are the patent papers?”
“ My safety-deposit box.”
“ I thought so.”
“ There's no safer place for them.”
Matisak nodded, got to his feet and snapped open the briefcase, snatching forth a manila file folder, handing it to Lowenthal, who began to scan the typed words, flipping through. All of the information was bogus, but Lowenthal didn't know that.
“ This is remarkable. It can be used then for water on the knee, fluid on the brain, fluid in the lungs. This news is wonderful! Wonderful!”
“ While Lowenthal read, Matisak removed the surgical gloves, the chloroform and the scalpel from his briefcase and slowly moved around to the other side of the couch where Lowenthal sat hunched over the
