Incubi

halo.”

What lovely bullshit this was. Of course, she didn’t believe they were psychic. They’d obviously read some of her local poetry, and someone had pointed her out to them downtown somewhere.

“If you were for real,” she said to Philippe, “You’d write a poem about me.”

“I will. I’ll call it ‘Lady of the Halo.’”

“And I will do a sculpture,” Fraus added.

“Of me?”

“Of this.” His hand cupped her pubis. A finger ran gently up the groove. “I will call it ‘Adoration.’”

“And I’ll write a poem about you guys,” she said. “I’ll call it ‘Bullshit Artists with Style.’”

All three of them laughed.

Soon it would be time to play sandwich. They’ll be the bread, and I’ll be the cheese. She’d seen it in a movie once, Room for Two, not exactly an Oscar winner, but the idea had always titillated her. Many things did, in fact. She felt alight with lust; nothing occurred to her then but her desire, not condoms or morality, not danger. Just the pinpoint, knife-sharp edge of the sensations that demanded to be loosed.

She pressed her breasts together and let Philippe stroke between them. “I’m a little disappointed, though,” she joked. “I was hoping you guys really were psychic.”

“Are you ready to go on?” Philippe asked.

“We’ll be the bread,” Fraus said. “You’ll be the cheese.”

Chapter 24

Jack woke up in his clothes. Aw, Jesus, not again. He staggered to the bathroom, groaning, and threw up. Only when he staggered back did he notice Faye sitting there.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Her detached gaze was the worst response he could fathom.

“I broke my promise.”

“You sure did,” she concurred.

“Something happened. I…” Only shreds of memory flitted back. He sat down on the bed and rubbed his eyes. “Somebody told me something about someone. I guess I couldn’t handle it, and I got drunk.”

“It’s that girl, isn’t it? Veronica?”

Jack nodded.

“You were calling out her name in your sleep.”

When Jack Cordesman fucks up, he thought, there are no half measures. How could he explain this? “I’m an alcoholic, Faye. I have been for a while, I guess. When I’m faced with something I can’t deal with, I drink.”

“That’s supposed to be an excuse? How long do you think you can go on like this? This was the second night in a row you’ve had to be brought home. You’re not in control of your own life.”

“I know, I can’t help it.” He said. “I’m a drunk.”

“If that’s what you think, then that’s all you’ll ever be.” Faye got up and walked out of the bedroom.

He followed after her. “Why don’t you give me a chance!”

She turned at the door with her briefcase. “A chance for what?”

“You know.”

“No, I don’t know. What are you saying?”

What was he saying? “I thought that when this Triangle thing is over, we might, you know—”

“Don’t even say it, Jack. Three nights ago you told me you still loved Veronica. Now you’re saying you don’t?”

Jack sat down in the middle of the stairs. “I guess I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m trying to get over it, that’s all.”

“So what am I? The consolation prize?”

“That’s not what I mean at all and you fucking know it. You ever been in love, Faye, and have it not work?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Once.”

“And all you had to do was blink and you were over it?”

“No, of course not.”

“How long did it take you?”

She looked at him. Her anger fizzed away. “A year,” she said.

“And if something happened to that person, say he disappeared, say he got in some kind of trouble, wouldn’t you still be concerned about him, even if it happened after the relationship fell apart?”

Her pause drew out. “Yeah, I’d still be concerned.”

“All right, fine. That’s what’s happening with me right now. So why don’t you cut me a little—”

Faye left and slammed the door. Outstanding, he thought, chin in his palm. He went down to the kitchen, drank some orange juice, and threw up again. Then he dialed Craig’s number, to find out what he’d forgotten about last night. Craig’s roommate answered.

“Craig there?”

“No,” she said. Jack could never remember her name; all he knew was that she rented him a room up the street. She sounded distressed. “The police took him,” she said.

“The police? What for? He get in trouble or something?”

“No, they just took him. For questioning, they said.”

“Questioning about what?”

“I don’t know!”

“Calm down, will you. I’m a cop myself. I might be able to help him out. But I need to know who took him.”

“I told you! Police!”

“What kind of police? City cops, state? County?”

“It was those county assholes.”

Jack frowned. “All right, I’ll—”

She hung up. Questioning? he wondered. But before he could make another call, the phone rang.

“Jack? Randy. We got another one.”

“Holy mother of shit,” Jack muttered. He felt faint, sick, and enraged all at once.

“And we’ve also got something else,” Randy added.

“What?”

“Two witnesses.”

* * *

“That’s it!” Jan Beck shouted nasally. “There’s too many people in here! Everybody out!” Jack and Randy stood behind three uniforms at the door. She pointed at the uniforms. “Out!” she pointed at Randy. “Out! You too, Captain. Out!”

“You heard the lady,” Jack said. “Everybody out.”

It was a cramped sixth-floor apartment, one bedroom, but nice, in a nice location. Jan Beck needed room to do her thing; Jack had only glimpsed the bedroom, but that’s all he’d needed to show him what he’d already seen twice this week. A room vibrant in red streaks, redecorated in blood, the pale victim lashed to the drenched bed. Red everywhere. Red.

Everything was the same, Randy had informed him upon arrival. No forced entry, exit off the balcony. Neighbors on either side had reported hearing a commotion at about 2:15 a.m.

“Susan Lynn,” Randy said in the living room. “Real estate broker, thirty-five. She owns the place.”