I thought back to his arrest photo, the look of terror in his eyes. It reminded me of something-a vicious dog from my boyhood. It had drawn lots of blood but, when finally cornered by the dogcatcher, had curled up and whimpered like a starving pup…
How much violence was fear catapulted back at the world? Was all viciousness cowardice at the root?
No, I didn't think so, was still convinced Claire's murderer had acted from a position of power and dominance.
Fun.
Had Peake enjoyed his blood walk? Looking at him now, I found it hard to imagine him extracting enjoyment out of anything.
As I watched at him now, the notion of this husk decapitating his own mother, stalking up the stairs, bloody knife in hand, running from room to room inflicting agony and death, seemed impossibly remote…
As unlikely as kindly Mr. Holtzmann sectioning and freezing his wife.
In this place, logic meant nothing.
I said, 'Bad eyes in a box.'
No flutter beneath the lids.
'Choo choo bang bang.'
Nothing.
I tried it again. Same lack of response.
Back to basics. Claire's name.
'Dr. Argent,' I said.
Nothing. Had I turned him off?
'Dr. Argent cared about you, Ardis.'
Five T.D.'s, six… the eyes ticced.
'Why did Dr. Argent die, Ardis?'
Eleven, twelve… tic, tic, tic.
'What about Wark?' Fourteen… 'Griffith D. Wark.'
Sixteen, seventeen. Nothing.
'Blood Walk.'
Static eyelids.
Maybe the tics meant nothing, and I'd fooled myself into allowing a random neurological spark to take on meaning.
Delusions were everywhere…
Knowing this might be my last shot with Peake, I decided to keep going. Keep it simple.
Moving close enough to whisper in his ear. 'Dr. Argent. Claire Argent.'
The eyelids jumped spasmodically and I retreated with a pounding heart.
He froze. No more T.D. for several seconds.
The eyes opened, revealing a sliver of gray white.
Looking at me. Seeing me? I wasn't sure.
They closed.
'Dr. Argent cared,' I said.
No eye movement-but the cords of his neck tightened; he craned toward me. Again, I drew back involuntarily.
Unable to see me but turning toward me, and I couldn't help feeling he was… engaging me. His mouth gaped wider. No tongue visible, and now he was making a gagging sound, as if choking on it. Suddenly, his head thrust forward, a snake darting, the eyelids fluttering once again, wildly.
I stared in fascinated horror as he tilted his head upward, neck stretched so tight it seemed to elongate impossibly. What little mandible he had pointed up at the ceiling.
I took another step backward. His arms began climbing. Slowly. Painfully.
His eyes opened. Remained open. Wide, very wide. Fixed on the ceiling.
As if heaven resided in the plaster… as if he were praying to something.
He gurgled, gagged some more. How far had he retracted the slug of muscle into his gullet?
His arms rose higher. Supplication…
He coughed, made no sound. The neck rolls resumed, more frantic than ever, epileptically rapid. More gagging. His sunken chest heaved. I thought of Denton Argent, dead in his cell, brain burned out from seizing, and wondered if I should do something.
But Peake seemed to be breathing fine. Not a seizure. New pattern of movement.
He began rocking faster. His scrawny buttocks lifted from the mattress as he thrust his chest upward.
Offering himself.
His right hand sank to his mouth. Four fingers jammed inside.
He withdrew them and the tongue appeared-yanked free-flapped like a fish on deck, curled, hovered…
Return of the initial T.D. sequence: thrust, curl, hover, retract. But his rear remained inches above the bed, feet barely touching the ground. Unnatural-it had to strain-did he even feel pain?
Then, suddenly, it was over, and his head had lowered to its usual slump, his arms were back in the bedcovers, and the beat went on…
One T.D.,two T.D.'s…
I sat there with him for five more minutes, whispering, coaxing, to no effect.
Now Claire's name left him silent as paint. Maybe a new approach would startle him into another outburst.
'The Beatty brothers,' I said. 'Ellroy. Leroy.'
Zero.
'Choo choo bang bang.'
Nothing.
'One with a gun, one run over by a train.'
Deaf, blind, mute.
Still, Claire's name had stimulated him. I needed more time with him, knew I wouldn't get much.
Keep going.
One T.D.,two…
I whispered: 'The Ardullos.'
No change.
'The Ardullos-Scott Ardullo, Terri-'Yes, yes, yes there it was: the eyelid tic, faster than before, much faster, a churning of the lids as if the eyeballs were rotating at jet speed.
'Terri and Scott Ardullo,' I said.
The eyes opened. Alive now.
Fixed on mine.
Awake.
Clear intent. To do what?
He stared at me. Didn't move at all.
Paying close attention? To me.
Success, but I felt as if a scorpion were cakewalking along my spine.
I checked his hands. Those hands. Both knotted in the sheets.
Keep a look out for sudden movement.
'Scott and Terri Ardullo,' I said.
The stare.
'Scott and Terri. Brittany and Justin.'
The stare.
'Brittany and Justin.'
He blinked. Once, twice, six times, twenty, forty-eyelid convulsions, which wouldn't-or couldn't-cease.
Metronomic, hypnotic. I felt myself being drawn in. Avoid that, watch his hands…
His arms rose again. Fear stabbed me and I stood up quickly, backed away.
