The two detectives lapse into silence for a while. LeBlanc paces some more. Says, ‘Jesus!’ to vent a little steam.
‘What are you going to do?’ Doyle asks. ‘You taking this to the lieutenant?’
‘Would you blame me if I did?’
‘Actually, no. You should do what you think is right.’
‘Well, that’s the fucking thing. ’Cause I don’t know what’s right anymore. You’ve got my head so screwed up, I don’t know what I should be doing.’ He pauses again. ‘You do know, don’t you, that all it will take is one word from Proust to drop you in the biggest pile of crap you ever saw?’
‘Did he say it was me, after I left?’
‘No, he didn’t. But if he does, I won’t be able to contain this, Cal. I’ll have to tell the boss what I saw and what I heard.’
‘Proust won’t say anything.’
‘What, are you going to make sure of that? Is that what you’re telling me, after all we’ve just discussed?’
Doyle sighs. ‘No, that’s not what I’m saying. Proust won’t accuse me because he knows it’s not true. He’s not sure he can get away with saying it was me. And he also doesn’t want cops looking too closely at him, not with him being a murderer.’
‘You’re sure about that?’
‘About me not hurting him, or him being a murderer, or him not putting in a complaint? Doesn’t matter — the answer’s the same to all of ’em.’
LeBlanc studies Doyle for a while, narrowing his eyes at him. ‘Tell me, Cal. How do you know all this? With such certainty, I mean. So far we’ve got nothing on Proust. Not one shred of evidence that says he’s bad. How can you be so damn sure you’re not wrong about him?’
Doyle thinks about this. ‘I know Proust. I’ve spent a lot more time with him than you have. I’ve looked into his eyes. I’ve looked into his soul. These homicides are his work, Tommy. I’d stake everything I have on that being true.’
‘Yeah, well, you may have already done that,’ says LeBlanc. He turns away from Doyle and heads for the door.
‘What happens now?’ asks Doyle.
LeBlanc halts and faces Doyle again. ‘We prove you’re right about Proust. We work the case. But by the numbers, Cal. I can’t work the way we’ve been working anymore. You want to carry on treating me like I don’t matter, then fine. But I won’t take it lying down.’
He reaches for the door, but again Doyle stops him.
‘Do you believe me? About me not being involved in what happened to Proust?’
Now it’s LeBlanc’s turn to sigh. ‘Like I said, I want to believe it. Crazy as the story sounds, I think I could probably make myself believe it. But you know what? There’s one thing getting in the way.’
‘What’s that?’
‘What you said a minute ago about looking into Proust’s eyes? Well, I looked into your eyes, Cal. When you had your hand around my throat in Proust’s place? I saw things in your eyes that terrified me. At that moment there was no doubt in my mind that you were capable of doing some god-awful things.’
And, with that, he leaves the room.
He’s naked in front of the bedroom mirror again.
Ha! Fairest! Look at you! Look at that wreck of a man staring back at you. It’s Halloween in a coupla weeks. You don’t even need a costume.
He has pulled off some of the Band-Aids. Too soon. Blood is trickling down his face. Coursing over the purple-blue flesh. There were healthier-looking specimens in the Michael Jackson
He tilts his head to the left, then the right, studying his features. He likes this look. He has undergone a metamorphosis. He is not what he was.
He has some more stitches, but most of the cuts were superficial. That cop — LeBlanc — took him to a different hospital this time. He knows why. LeBlanc was trying to protect his friend and colleague.
‘Doyle.’
He says the name out loud. And smiles.
It was painful, going through that door. He doesn’t deny that he felt the pain. Mostly in his cracked rib rather than because of the cuts. The cuts are nothing.
The pain, too, is nothing. He has mastered pain. He feels it, but he can choose to ignore it. That is the power he has discovered.
‘Do you believe me, Doyle? Do you believe you can’t hurt me?’
Proust slaps his own face. Hard. So hard it stings. He slaps it again, and again. A wound on his cheek opens up and more blood flows. It drips onto his chest.
He looks to his side. There is a dresser there. And on the dresser, a small pair of nail scissors. He picks up the scissors with his right hand, puts his left hand on the dresser.
Without hesitation he plunges the point of the scissors into the back of his hand. He yanks the scissors out, stabs it again into his flesh. And yet again. A cry escapes his lips and pink-stained froth bubbles out of his mouth.
He brings his damaged hand to his face and examines it. It trembles, and blood gushes from its wounds. He makes animalistic keening noises as he watches his hot blood run down his arm. His eyes blur with tears, and then he is laughing or crying or both.
‘You see, Doyle?’ he says to his mirror image. ‘You cannot hurt me. You cannot win.’
He is stronger than Doyle now. In fact, he feels almost invincible. He can survive a severe beating. He can jump through glass without serious injury. What’s next? How much stronger can he possibly get?
And there are other forces within him that are yet to be released. Doyle doesn’t suspect this. He doesn’t know what he has unleashed. Well, he will find out soon enough.
Doyle started this.
Stanley Francis Proust will finish it.
NINETEEN
What if Doyle is right?
LeBlanc considers this as he sits in his car. He pulses the windshield wipers, batting away the rainwater for a brief instant to afford him a glimpse of Proust’s place.
What went on in there? What really happened?
The most plausible scenario is the obvious one. Doyle beat the crap out of Proust, not once but twice. That account fits all the facts, without the requirement for much imagination or twisted reasoning. When faced with multiple possible explanations, always go with the simplest. Occam’s razor, and all that.
But would even Doyle go that far? Would he resort to beating a perp to within an inch of his life? Even if he got a confession, what could he do with it? It would be obvious to the DA and everybody else that it had been obtained through violence and intimidation. Why would Doyle put his job on the line like that?
So then there’s the alternative. Doyle is telling the truth. Proust is an evil genius who killed two girls and is now trying to discredit the only cop who believes he did it. And the way he does that is by practically killing himself.
How likely is that? Is Proust capable of such a thing?
He seems the genuine article to LeBlanc. Since the first moment he met Proust, he has felt that this is a man who is truly terrified of Doyle. An innocent man who has been wrongly accused and is being continually harassed and bullied by his accuser. Could that all be an act? Is Proust that good?
‘Shit,’ says LeBlanc.
