'Lorraine is a nice woman,' de Gier said.
'You don't believe subject is dead?'
De Gier got up, walked a few steps down, came up again. 'Sure, she's dead. I saw her corpse.'
'Now,' Grijpstra said, 'I'm only trying to ascertain whether you were out of your mind and in that state murdered Lorraine. Tell me, is this whole thing of yours here'- Grijpstra pointed at the pagoda, at heads of seals popping up out of the sea, at pine trees on cliffs, at de Gier himself-'a continuation of what you tried to do in New Guinea?'
De Gier nodded. 'The shaman reminded me ofjeremy here.'
'Shaman,' Grijpstra said. 'Sorcerer. Witch doctor. Did the medicine man suggest you should do drug-induced vigils?'
'He did,' de Gier said. 'There was an island there he would go to. He told me he would use music, dance, sing, take his preferred drugs, seek out animals, birds. Collect rocks, shells, driftwood. Make shapes.'
'Exactly,' Grijpstra said, 'and your preferred drugs are bourbon and marijuana, which are easily available here, and this is an island, and your favorite music is Miles Davis's funk-jazz now and you have your own mini- trumpet, and everywhere in the pagoda I see your compositions of rocks and shells laid out, and you're trying to meet Mr. Bear, and the loons are singing.'
'You can't quite call it singing,' de Gier said.
'Something unique,' Grijpstra said. 'You mixed that in with all your other ingredients, and you finally work up to the final pitch.. ..'
'Maybe alcohol is not such a good idea,' de Gier said. 'The New Guinea shamans don't care for it but as I'd been using alcohol more or less successfully before I thought I might try…'
Grijpstra was reverting to his police mode, being pleasant but firm. 'After Lorraine fell, did you go after her and do some kicking?'
'So Farnsworth says.'
'But he wasn't there.'
'He and Bad George watched her die on the Kathy Three.'
'And she said you had kicked her? Again and again? In her belly, so that she lost her baby?'
'Not in so many words.'
Grijpstra nodded, as if all this were only too clear. 'How about this theory to explain your motivation: Lorraine's interference with your experiment, with all that effort, first in New Guinea on the other side of the world and now here, to reach the fourth, the spiritual dimension, enraged you. The bourgeoisie, unwilling to see you escape, tries to pull you back to your original level. You fight back.' Grijpstra patted de Gier's shoulder. 'What do you think?'
De Gier mumbled.
Grijpstra kept a hand behind an ear.
'Could be, Henk.'
'Now,' Grijpstra said. 'What about this theory? Would you admit to being bourgeois yourself, an ordinary, limited, petty true Dutchman? No? Bear with me a little longer. I say you're ordinary enough but you don't like that. You try to free yourself, be on your own, the lone cowboy. You can't do it, though. You submit to subterfuge, you replace your ordinary parents by a little less ordinary, but still quite ordinary folks, Katrien and the commissaris. You appoint me to replace your moralizing born-again Catholic sister as the older sibling. Meanwhile you stay what you always were, a self-seeking little boy reluctantly growing up as an emotionally retarded adult. Think of all those faxes from New Guinea-letters from summer camp, right? Trying to impress your parents and outdo your older sibling, me. It's all so obvious, Rinus. Remember that snapshot of you and the exotic girl on your moped?'
De Gier stood over Grijpstra, swinging his fists through the air. 'Outrageous, Henk… what the hell… where do you get that bull? That was a Kawasaki 2000, and the lady was Lieutenant Jennifer Jones of the Tobriands… a colleague at the time…'
'But,' Grijpstra said triumphantly, 'but what happens here? You can't fool the subconscious, my boy. You always knew you were being silly. You dislike that. Now, by happenstance, you manage to impregnate Lorraine, and you're about to double your bourgeois aspect. You can't handle one of you and now there'll be two. Self-hatred can lead to suicide, but suicide, in your case, would be too heroic to expect. You can't kill yourself so you help Lorraine to have an accident so that she may lose your clone.'
De Gier squeezed his face with both hands. His distorted features stared at Grijpstra.
'Yes?' Grijpstra asked.
'Dr. Shrinkski,' de Gier said. 'Go fuck yourself, Dr. Shrinkski.'
Chapter 7
Ishmael, who showed up later in the afternoon, making his dinghy go backward by pushing the oars with short frantic movements, said it was a piece of cake. Always confront the enemy. Live free or die. Buy American. Reduce the deficit. The attitude doesn't always work but isn't bad in simple cases. He used de Gier's CB in the pagoda's living room. 'This is Ishmael, Sheriff. Are you listening? Over.'
The answer came through clearly. 'Deputy Billy here. How may I help?'
'A question,' Ishmael said. 'You know I know a bit of the law, but I don't know all of the law.'
'You don't know all of the law,' Billy echoed.
Ishmael, turning the microphone off, looked at Grijpstra. 'There's this book, How to Take Care of Your Own Divorce in Maine, but it's hard to read. I can read the book, so I help folks out some. I've been doing that. Billy knows.'
'Ishmael?' the radio asked.
'Also did a spell in the military police, Billy Boy knows that too.'
Ishmael clicked onhis microphone. 'I was telling Krip here about the Constitution, Billy Boy. We the people. Maybe we better switch out of the open channel. This may take some time. Meet me on channel eighty?'
Ishmael turned the radio's dial and switched on the mike.
'Billy Boy?'
'Right here.'
'Tell me, Deputy, ifpeople have a complaint about you folks where should they take it? State police? The attorney general in Augusta? I'm a bit rusty on that.'
'You got a complaint about the sheriffs office?'
'On behalf of an esteemed and well-connected tourist from a friendly white Protestant country,' Ishmael said. 'Remember Kripstra?'
'Just a minute now,' Billy Boy said. 'You hold on.'
Hairy Harry's benign voice, avuncular, sounding concerned about others' welfare, made Grijpstra jump. 'Sheriff here. What's this complaint, Ishy?'
'Criminal negligence,' Ishmael said. 'Is that the right term?' Ishmael released the microphone's button and smiled at Grijpstra.
'Sounds good to me, Ishy. You have a for-instance?'
'It's like the example you had last winter, Harry. The raped college girl who got left at the roadside, with five inches of snow and the temperature in the low teens and this Portland couple came by in the rental and they didn't stop and the girl froze to death. But they did phone you much later, from a motel somewhere. Remember charging that couple with criminal negligence? Recall the court case?'
'It's summer now,' the sheriff said.
'Yep.' Ishmael winked at Grijpstra. 'Summer. You're right, Harry. But kind ofchilly, especially on the water. And we had quite a wind, more ofit oflshore, and we had low tide rushing out like Boston traffic and we had our confused friendly tourist in a bare dory, trying to get to Squid Island, but being swept out to nowhere, and then we had you and Billy Boy, Jameson's finest, in the exercise of your duty to serve and protect, in a powerboat designed and equipped to do just that, financed by us taxpayers.' Ishmael paused. 'And then what happened?'
'How's Kripstra doing?' the sheriff asked.
