At the sight, nausea overcame me and I turned to retch. Wiping my hand across my mouth, I charged back inside, slammed and locked the door, and reset my security alarm.
I fumbled for a number, lurched to the phone, and willed myself to punch the correct buttons. The call was answered on the fourth ring.
?Get over here, please. Right now!?
?Brennan?? Groggy. ?What the f-?
?This goddamn minute, Ryan!
24
A GALLON OF TEA LATER I WAS CURLED IN BIRDIE?S ROCKER, DULLY observing Ryan. He was on his third call, this one personal, assuring someone he?d be a while. Judging by his end, the call?s recipient wasn?t happy. Tough.
Hysteria has its rewards. Ryan had arrived within twenty minutes. He searched the apartment and yard, then contacted the CUM to arrange for a patrol unit to stake out the building. Ryan had placed the bag and its grisly contents into another, larger bag, sealed it, and put it in a corner of the dining room floor. He would take it to the morgue tonight. The recovery team would come in the morning. We were in the living room, me sitting and sipping tea, Ryan pacing and talking.
I wasn?t sure which had the more calming effect, the tea or Ryan. Probably not the tea. What I really wanted was a serious drink. Want didn?t really describe it. Crave came closer. Actually, I wanted many drinks. A bottle I could pour from until there was no more. Forget it, Brennan. The cap?s on and it?s going to stay on.
I sipped my tea and watched Ryan. He wore jeans and a faded denim shirt. Good choice. The blues lit his eyes like colorizing on old film. He finished his calls and sat down.
?That should do it,? he said, tossing the phone onto the couch and running a hand over his face. His hair was disheveled and he looked tired. But, then, I probably didn?t look like Claudia Schiffer.
Do what? I wondered.
?I appreciate your coming,? I said. ?I?m sorry I overreacted.? I?d already said this, but repeated myself.
?No. You didn?t.?
?I don?t usually-?
?It?s okay. We?re going to get this psycho.?
?I could?ve just-?
He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. The blue lasers grabbed my eyes and held them. A fleck of lint rode one of his lashes, like a pollen grain clinging to a pistil.
?Brennan, this is serious. There?s a guy out there that?s some sort of mental mutant. He?s psychologically malformed. He?s like the rats that tunnel under garbage heaps and slink through sewer pipes in this city. He?s a predator. His wiring?s twisted, and now he?s fed you into whatever degenerate nightmare he?s spinning for himself. But he?s made a mistake, and we?re going to flush him out and squash him. That?s what you do with vermin.?
The intensity of his response startled me. I could think of nothing to say. Pointing out his mixed metaphors seemed unwise.
He took my silence for skepticism.
?I mean it, Brennan. This asshole has dog food for brains. Which means you can?t pull any more of your stunts.?
His comment turned me churlish, a swing that didn?t need much of a push. I was feeling vulnerable and dependent and hating myself for it, so I turned my frustration on him.
?Stunts?? I spat at him.
?Shit, Brennan, I don?t mean tonight.?
We both knew what he did mean. He was right, which increased my annoyance and made me even more contentious. I swirled my tea, now cold, and held my silence.
?This animal?s obviously been stalking you,? he drummed on, persistent as a jackhammer. ?He knows where you live. He knows how to get in.?
?He didn?t really get in.?
?He planted a goddamn human head in your backyard!?
?I know!? I screamed, my composure developing a major fault line.
My eyes slid to the dining room corner. The thing from the garden lay there, silent and inert, an artifact waiting to be processed. It could have been anything. A volleyball. A globe. A melon. The round object in its shiny black bag looked harmless inside the clear plastic into which Ryan had sealed it.
I stared at it, and images of the grisly contents washed over my mind. I saw the skull rising on its scrawny, picket neck. I saw empty orbits staring straight ahead and pink neon glinting off the white enamel in the gaping mouth. I imagined the intruder cutting the lock and boldly crossing the yard to plant his gruesome memento.
?I know,? I repeated, ?you?re right. I?ll have to be more careful.?
I swirled my cup again, looking for answers in the leaves.
?Want some tea??
?No. I?m fine.? He got up. ?I?ll check to see if the unit?s here.?
He disappeared into the back of the apartment, and I made myself another cup. I was still in the kitchen when he returned.
?There?s one unit parked in the alley across the street. There?ll be another one around back. I?ll check with them when I leave. No one should be able to get near this building without being seen.?
?Thanks.? I took a sip and leaned against the counter.
He took out a pack of du Maurier?s and raised his eyebrows at me.
?Sure.?
I hated smoke in the apartment. But, then, he probably hated being there. Life is compromise. I thought about searching out my one ashtray, but didn?t bother. He smoked and I sipped without speaking, leaning against the counter, each lost in thought. The refrigerator hummed.
?You know, it wasn?t really the skull that freaked me. I?m used to skulls. It was just so . . . so out of context.?
?Yeah.?
?It?s a clich #233;, I know, but I feel so violated. Like some alien creature breached my personal space, rooted about, and left when he lost interest in anything more.?
I gripped the mug tightly, feeling vulnerable and hating it. Also feeling stupid. He?d no doubt heard some version of that speech many times. If so, he didn?t mention it.
?Do you think it?s St. Jacques??
He looked at me, then flicked his ash into the sink. Leaning back against the counter, he took a deep pull. His legs stretched almost to the refrigerator.
?I don?t know. Hell, we can?t even pin down who it is we rousted. St. Jacques is probably an alias. Whoever was using that shithole probably didn?t really live there. Turns out the landlady only saw him twice. We?ve staked the place for a week, and no one?s gone in or out.?
Hummm. Pull, exhale. Swirl.
?He had my picture in his collection. He?d cut it out and marked it.?
?Yep.?
?Be straight with me.?
He paused a minute, then, ?He?d be my pick. Coincidence is just too improbable.?
I knew it, but didn?t want to hear it. Even more, I didn?t want to think about what it meant. I gestured toward the skull.
?From the body we found in St. Lambert??
?Whoa, that?s your country.?
He took a last drag, ran tap water over the butt, and looked around for someplace to put it. I pushed off the
