Krokodil Tears

'Miss Doe, how are you?' Dr Proctor was courteous to the poisoner.

'Very well thank you, Ottokar. When are you going to come over and try some of my home-baked apple pie? You're looking thin, you know. I'm sure you're not eating properly.'

'Maybe next week, ma'am. I'm a little tied up at the moment.' Apologetically, he lifted his manacled hands. 'Thank you for the cinnamon cookies. They were delicious.'

Incredulously, Gilhooly asked, 'You ate them cookies? After what she did?'

'She's no threat to me. Sergeant.'

The cell nearest the door was Tendenter's.

'Rex, good to see you…'

Tendenter flashed his million-dollar smile. 'Hey, doctor, how are you doing?'

'Can't complain.'

'I've nearly finished that book you lent me. I'd like to talk to you about the Greater Rhodesian economy sometime. I've had some thoughts about it I'd like to share with you.'

'That's a fascinating field, Rex. I'd like very much to confer with you, but my President calls…'

'That's okay, doctor, I understand.'

'Otto-kar! Otto-kar! Otto-kar! Otto-kar! Otto-kar!'

'That's it,' screamed Officer Kerr. 'Lockdown in the booby hatch! No exercise periods! No teevee! No porno!'

'Otto-kar! Otto-kar! Otto-kar! Otto-kar! Otto-kar!'

The door guard opened up, and Dr Proctor was bundled through. He tried to wave goodbye to his peers, but the chain between his knees and his wrists was too short.

The door slammed shut, and the soundproofing cut out the chants. The hospital corridor was almost unnaturally quiet after Monsters' Row.

'Ahh,' said Dr Proctor, 'my public.'

'Come on, Otto,' said Gilhooly, dragging him.

'I believe you are being deliberately obtuse. Sergeant.'

Gilhooly didn't reply. Dr Proctor did his best to keep up with the sergeant, rattling his chains as he jogged down the corridor on his leash, like a good dog. Bean kept up the rear, riot gun cradled like a baby in his beefy arms.

Dr Ottokar Proctor liked dogs, cartoons, Italian opera, Carl Jung, French food, Disneyworld, The New York Times Review of Books, pre-Columbian art, good wine, walks in the park on Sundays, horse-racing, Percy Bysshe Shelley, the romantic novels of Margaret Thatcher, and killing people.

They were waiting for him in the conference room. F. X. Wicking of the T-H-R Agency, Julian Russell from the Treasury, and a dark-faced man he didn't recognize.

'Good morning, gentlemen,' he said.

'Dr Proctor,' said Russell, 'can we get you anything?'

Dr Proctor chinked as he shrugged. 'My freedom would be nice.'

Wicking sighed and dropped his papers. This was going to be just like all the other meetings, he was thinking. He was wrong.

Dr Proctor sank into the specially-adapted, floor-rooted chair, and Bean padlocked his chains to the spine.

A secretary came in with coffee. She did her best not to look at Dr Proctor. He was reminded of the girl in the Coupe de Ville between Coronado Beach and Chula Vista three years ago. The one who had lasted for two nights and a day. She put cups in front of the delegates, and handed Gilhooly a child's dribble-proof plastic container. The sergeant propped it on Dr Proctor's shoulder-shackles, and angled the nipple so he could suck it, snarling as he did so.

'Thank you, sergeant.' He took a mouthful. 'Ahh, real coffee. Nicaraguan?'

Nobody answered. Russell spooned three loads of sugar into his cup.

'Watch your blood sugar levels, Julian,' cautioned Dr Proctor. 'You could be cruising into heart-attack country.'

Wicking pulled out his filofax, and switched it on. It hummed as the miniscreen lit up. The Op would be in contact with his home base throughout this consultation.

'How is Ms Harvest?' Dr Proctor asked. 'Well, I hope.' Wicking snorted. 'I do wish she wouldn't take so many unnecessary risks out in the field. I've been following her stats, Francis. The odds get shorter every time she takes a solo action. She should never have come for me alone, you know.'

'She got you, didn't she?' Wicking wasn't giving anything away.

'Yes, of course, but she had an unfair advantage.'

'And what's that, Ottokar?'

Dr Proctor smiled sweetly. 'Let me put it this way, what's the difference between Redd Harvest and, say, Jessamyn Bonney?'

The dark man reacted to the dropped name, as Dr Proctor had known he would. 'Bonney? The psycho-killer?' said Wicking. 'I've no idea.'

'A badge, Francis. A badge.'

Wicking didn't laugh. Dr Proctor drank some more coffee. Russell snapped a digestive biscuit in half, and dipped it in his cup.

'I suppose a cookie is out of the question? Ah well, we live with disappointments.'

Dr Proctor gave some thought to the dark man, and smiled. He realized that this was the meeting he had been waiting for ever since the trial.

'Tell me, how are they running at Santa Anita?'

Nobody knew.

'Well, we ought perhaps to get down to business then.'

Russell brought out a sheaf of papers. The dark man sat calmly, examining Dr Proctor. He was taking the man's measure at the same time. This meeting would be between the two of them. Wicking and Russell were just stooges along for the ride.

'This is Roger Duroc, Ottokar,' said Russell. 'He's not with the government.'

'How do you do, Mr Duroc.' Dr Proctor knew the Frenchman by reputation. 'Pardon me,' he corrected himself, 'Monsieur Duroc.'

Duroc nodded. 'Very well thank you, Dr Proctor.'

'Good. And how are you going to get me out of this place?'

There was a pause…

V

Hawk-That-Settles had been waiting for the One-Eyed White Girl all his life. And here she was.

Looking across the abandoned chapel at Jesse, he wondered yet again. Was this really the one? She was jumping up her ladder two steps at a time, like a good little mystic, but there was still a core of confusion to her. This messiah was spending too much time in the desert. The years for wandering and contemplation were up, and it was time for the miracles.

Also, far from Two-Dogs-Dying, he had doubts about himself. Perhaps he was fated to be just another Whisky Navaho, and all this medicine was dangerous tampering with forces beyond him.

She sat quietly, her one eye closed. He knew she saw him through the machine behind her patch. Her supple body was shot through with machinery. He could feel the lumps under her skin and muscle as they made love, and had to remind himself these were not cancers or tumours but the benefits of the white man's science. She could sit for whole periods, days sometimes, not moving, not speaking. Part of that was the meditation necessary for her education. But part of it was something else, something that she called her Frankenstein's Daughter trances.

Sometimes, as she clung to him in the nights, he was reminded of the other white girls, the rich liberals who