“But you remember the rest? You and the others share memory?”
“I don't remember it directly, but I know what happened. Sort of like a dream. And of course there's always Mose, for the details. Like we always say, Mose knows.”
“Do you communicate directly with Mose?”
“Yes.”
“Any of the others?”
“Ish. Max, sometimes.”
“Now?”
“No.”
“Tell me what happened when you woke up, then-why did Max and Miss Miller need you?”
“You'll hate me.”
“I won't-I couldn't.”
He slid off the chaise, sat down on the carpet of needles, then reached out toward Irene. She climbed off her chair and sat crosslegged in front of him.
“Hold my hand,” he said. “Hold my hand and look into my eyes. And if you see me starting to switch, kiss me like you love me.”
“I will,” said Irene, trying not to sound as miserable as she felt. “I do.”
“The second one's name was Sandy Faircloth. It was Miss Miller's idea. Three months had gone by since Mary's death. At first Max was afraid somebody would come around asking questions, but as far as he could tell from reading the local paper, Mary was never even reported missing. The Witnesses may have just thought she ran away-who knows?
“He and Miss Miller settled back into the routine. He put all his energy into fixing up the place, gardening, raising the chickens, putting in the electric fence to keep the predators out.
“Then one day in August Max was out hoeing. Miss Miller was sitting in the shade watching him, wearing her new wig. It was hot, he was only wearing a pair of cutoffs, he had a hard-on, and frankly, he just didn't give a damn whether she saw it or not.
“She did-she said he ought to consider finding himself a girlfriend. Said a healthy young boy like him had needs. He thought she was teasing him at first, but she was serious. I think she knew she couldn't keep him penned up forever. She said if he brought another one back, he could keep her-that as long as it was a strawberry blond, and as long as he didn't get too attached, she wouldn't interfere.
“Looking back, I can't honestly tell you whether I knew what they had in mind-really, really knew. If I did, I was in denial about it, at least consciously. I found myself in the body. I knew I was supposed to pick up a girl, and I knew she had to be a strawberry blond. But subconsciously I must have known that once I brought her to the ridge, she wouldn't be leaving, because I didn't even bother trying to pick up any girls in Umpqua City, or even down in Medford, or over in Roseburg. Instead I stocked the freezer with enough food to last Miss Miller a week or two, then drove all the way to Eugene.
“I stayed in a cheap motel, hung around the University. I fit in pretty good, sat in on a few lectures-it was summer session. Sandy Faircloth was a secretary in Human Resources. Not much of a looker, except for her hair. But that didn't bother me. I figured it would help my chances. The prettier they were, the more likely they already had a boyfriend.
“Seducing her was a snap. It's a talent I didn't even know I had until I used it. I start off pretending I'm falling in love with the girl. Then after a while, I really do. Fall in love, I mean. Even though on some level I know I really don't. Does that make any sense?”
Irene lobbed the question back to him. “Does it make sense to you?”
“I'm not sure. But it happens every time. And then they fall in love with me. The hard part is maintaining a low profile, staying away from their friends and families. One thing about a girl in love, she wants to tell the world about it. I got better at it later. I'd tell them I had a stalker, or I was with the FBI. That's another thing about a girl in love-she'll believe anything.
“With Sandy, I didn't even bother making up a story. She had a week's vacation coming to her. I told her she could come home with me, see my place, but it had to be our secret, that she had to just trust me.
“And she did-not the brightest star in the firmament, my Sandy. I brought her back here, installed her in the guest bedroom, and screwed her brains out every night for a week-me or one of the others. Miss Miller, she laid low.
“Eventually the time came for Sandy to get back to Eugene. But by then, we were hooked. Not on Sandy-on sex. I personally couldn't imagine going back to the way things had been before. I tried everything. I told her I was in love with her, that I'd kill myself if she left. I even proposed marriage. No good-she was frightened by then, and maybe not quite as head over heels as she'd been before. She said it was over-no more sex, time for Sandy to go home now.
“I didn't know what to do, how to handle it. So Max took over. She freaked on him-he smacked her around. First time for that, for him. He liked it-it turned him on. He locked her in the drying shed when he was done. From then on the die was cast. We couldn't exactly let her go, could we?”
“I see,” said Irene, making a promise to God that if she survived, she would never say I see to a patient again.
“Long story short, we kept Sandy another few months. Everybody got to take their turns with her-even me, I'm ashamed to say. Sometimes Miss Miller would watch. Sandy didn't like that at all. Eventually she stopped taking care of herself, stopped talking, even stopped begging. We had to force-feed her, wash her. Sex wasn't much fun. She'd just lie there-it was like fucking a hole in the mattress. Didn't make me feel very good about myself, I can tell you. After a while I gave up on it, personally, but for Max and the others it didn't seem to matter.
“Then one night the two of them, Miss Miller and Max, were in the parlor playing chess. Max asked Miss Miller what she wanted for Christmas. Another wig, she said-Mary was starting to fade, so she wanted another long beautiful head of strawberry blond hair, just like the girl in the drying shed.
“Of course Max knew she wasn't talking about him buying her another wig. So on Christmas Eve Max washed Sandy's hair, and harvested it with an electric razor. On Christmas morning Miss Miller got her present, and so did Kinch.”
So little remorse, even for his own actions, thought Irene. It was almost as if Christopher were trying to paint himself in the least favorable light. Perhaps he was trying to test her. If so, she was determined to pass. She opened her arms to him. He leaned forward, put his arms around her in return. They rocked together awkwardly for a moment, then he lay down with his head in her lap. She stroked his brow.
“The third one's name was Ann Marie Peterson,” he began.
I can do this, Irene told herself. I can do anything I have to do.
75
Pender nearly knocked his Stetson off again entering the Old Umpqua Pharmacy. It felt like going back in time, to the drugstore on the corner of Clinton and Main, in Cortland, in the early fifties. Wooden floors, ceiling fan, white-jacketed pharmacist behind a high marble counter decorated with antique apothecary jars. Pender would have bet a week's salary that the old fellow was known as Doc to the townspeople. The only thing missing was the soda fountain where you could buy a cherry phosphate for a dime.
“Good afternoon,” said the pharmacist. “What can I do for you?”
Pender identified himself, flashed his tin, and slid Maxwell's mug shot across the counter. “Seen this fella lately?”
“Can't say I have.”
“Does the name Max ring a bell?”
“ 'Fraid not.”
“Christopher? Lee? Lyssy?”
“Nope, nope, and nope.”
“He was in the news about ten, twelve years ago-a fire, maybe a scandal?”
