Two Songs This Archangel Sings

sap remained cocked, ready to strike. The face of the younger torturer at the foot of my bed revealed nothing; he was just a man doing his*job.

'You must not try to be amusing, Frederickson,' the older man said.

'It's the Goddamn truth,' I breathed, wriggling my body in an unsuccessful attempt to relieve the cramps in my stomach. 'The lecture I gave was to a group of police chiefs and criminologists.'

'You took the painting with you to the lecture?'

'I didn't have time to go home. Everyone in the lecture hall must have seen me carrying it, but it couldn't have meant anything to anybody. I'm considered eccentric in some circles.' I paused, tried to suck in a deep breath. 'I'm answering your questions; I don't have any reason not to. Why don't you loosen the ropes so I can breathe a little?'

'Just a few more questions, Dr. Frederickson; you're tied to make certain we have your undivided attention. You claim that your brother hasn't seen this painting, and that you haven't discussed it with him. Wasn't he at the lecture?'

'No.'

I groaned when the sap tapped harder against my left sole, but not too loudly; I didn't want the wet towel over my face again.

'But he said that he was going. Indeed, he seemed quite anxious to see and hear you.'

'Some emergency came up at his precinct station, and Garth had to handle it. Look, I'm really sorry you lost me in the subway. If you'd been able to follow me around all day, you'd see that everything I'm telling you is the truth. Aside from what I've told you, I don't know anything. You're the ones who know all the important questions and answers, so I don't understand why you're hassling me. You've got the painting. I've got nothing left to give you, except the money, and if you'll be patient and wait a few hours without driving my feet up into my chest, I'll get that for you.'

My interrogator nodded to his colleague, who raised Veil's painting to shoulder level for me to look at.

'What does the painting suggest to you, Dr. Frederickson?'

'I don't know what you want from me, pal,' I replied with a rising anger that was thoroughly absurd for someone in my position. 'For Christ's sake, it's not a Goddamn Rorschach blot. We're all looking at the same fucking painting; what you see is what I see. What the hell do you expect me to say?!'

'If you don't wish to be hurt again, keep your voice down,' the older man said politely but firmly. 'Just answer the question.'

'It's Veil Kendry as some kind of armed angel floating over a jungle filled with soldiers and guerrillas. It's probably Viet Nam. Is that what you want me to say?'

'What associations to Veil Kendry does it call to mind, Dr. Frederickson?'

'None.'

'What does the painting mean to you?'

'Nothing.'

'Why do you suppose Mr. Kendry left this for you?'

'I've already answered that-'

'Why you, and not someone else?'

'Probably because he overestimated my intuitive abilities, not to mention my tolerance for pain.'

'Ah, you're trying to be amusing again.'

'I'm a private investigator as well as a criminologist, pal. You know that. It looks like he was trying to throw some business my way. I don't understand what you're trying to get at.'

'The envelope with the money that was with the painting was clearly addressed to you, a point you repeatedly sought to make with your brother. I am suggesting that in the past Mr. Kendry may have said something to you, and only you, that would help you to understand the meaning of the painting. Furthermore, I am suggesting that in the past few hours you could have shared that information with one or more persons.'

'That's one wrong from column A, and one wrong from column B.'

'The connection could have come to you since your last phone conversation with your brother.'

'Nope. You know, if you keep this shit up you're likely to make me angry.'

'What do you know of Mr. Kendry's past?'

'When he first came to New York, he was apparently a very disturbed man. A few months before I met him, he'd started painting. It didn't quite keep him off the streets and out of trouble, but it apparently did help him keep his head straight. Now he's a big man on the art scene. He's also the best unarmed fighter I've ever met. Aside from that, nada. Zip.'

'He never talked to you about his experiences in the years before he came to New York?'

'Never.'

'Did he ever make insinuations?'

'About who or what?'

'About anyone or anything.'

'Veil Kendry never makes insinuations of any kind. If he had something to say, about you or anybody else, he'd say it right in your face.'

'You claim this man you call a friend never told you anything about his past?'

'It's the truth.'

'And you never inquired?'

'I'm not the inquisitive sort. Was it one of you guys who winged a shot at him?'

'You most certainly are the inquisitive sort, Dr. Frederickson. If you weren't, the three of us wouldn't be in this unfortunate situation.'

'When a friend asks me not be be inquisitive, I'm not inquisitive. Everything I've told you is the truth.'

The man sitting on the edge of my bed stared at me for some time in silence. I stared back, reflecting on the fact that I had never felt more alone or helpless than at this moment, in my own bed in my own apartment, surrounded by neighbors around, above, and below me. I was cut off from everyone by pain, the threat of pain, and a wet towel.

Finally the older man stood up, turned to his partner. 'I believe him,' he said easily. 'What do you think?'

The younger man nodded, spoke for the first time. 'I think he's telling the truth. Apparently, Kendry never shared information with anybody, and he's still keeping his own council; executing this painting is as far as he would go. It's curious, but it does seem to be the case.'

'Good,' I said. 'Now that you've got that right, let's close down this show. I'd appreciate it if you'd take these ropes off me and get the fuck out of my apartment. Go out and play in the traffic.'

The man with the thick glasses looked down at me. 'Do you smoke, Dr. Frederickson?'

'No,' I replied quickly, glancing back and forth between the two men. I found the question decidedly ominous. 'I was told it's unhealthy.'

The younger man dropped the sap in his pocket and took out a can of lighter fluid. I started to yell, but the towel slapped down over my mouth. Then the older man wrapped it around the back of my head, tied it. I could no nothing but squirm and watch helplessly as the man with the cold brown eyes removed the top from the can, then thoroughly soaked the painting. This done, he walked slowly around the bed, soaking the edges of the bedclothes. He screwed the top back on the can, put it back in his pocket, and took out an expensive-looking silver lighter. He opened the cap, then flicked the lighter to produce a long blue and white flame, which he touched to a corner of the painting. The fluid-soaked painting instantly burst into flame. The younger man tossed the burning painting beneath the bed, and then, without a backward glance, the two men turned and walked quickly from the bedroom. A few seconds later I heard the apartment door open and close.

I immediately began tugging at the ropes, to no avail. Smoke was beginning to billow out from beneath the bed, and I struggled against the oxygen-greedy panic rising within me. Breathing deeply through my nose, trying not even to think of what it would feel like when the black smoke began to fill my lungs and the flames to touch my flesh, I groped with my fingers for the knots around my wrists. It was no use; the ropes were taut, and the knots expertly tied. Again, I thrashed my body and yanked with my arms and legs, trying desperately to get one limb, any limb, free. But it was not to be. The only way the ropes were going to disappear was to burn along with me, which they would, obliterating any evidence to suggest that my death was anything more than the result of a freak accident, perhaps a fire caused by a short circuit in the reading lamp beside my bed.