Specimen Days - Michael Cunningham 26 стр.

Got to get to work, she said. Right, he said.

He was so fucking gorgeous like this, he who was a potent figure in his own circles but a spectator in this one, a wife if you will, lying here looking at her with those impossible agate eyes of his, hair electrically disordered, face bristling with stubble. It seemed for a moment that she could stop, she could just stop; she could blow off her job and move with Simon into his realm, his high-octane but undangerous life, the hush and sureness of him, buying and selling the future, seeking out maps and jars and bringing them home. She was on her way to a grim office where the equipment was outdated and the air-conditioning prone to failure, where most of her coworkers were right-wing zealots or B students or just too peculiar for the corporate jobs that claimed the best and the brightest; where the villains were as pathetic and off-kilter as the heroes; where the whole struggle between order and chaos had no beauty in it, no philosophy or poetry; where death itself felt cheap and cheesy. She wanted how could she possibly tell him? to take shelter in Simon, to live peacefully alongside him in his spiky and careless beauty, his electrified contentment. She wanted to abandon herself, to abide. But of course he wouldnt want her that way.

She got out of bed. Call you later, she said.

Right, he answered.

They both paused. Now would be the time for one of them to say I love you. If they were at that point.

Bye, she said. Bye, he answered.

It was Halloween at the office. Shed never felt the air so agitated. This was what never actually happened: a psychopath announcing his intentions, with every indication of follow-through. This was movie stuff.

Ed was just shy of coming in his pants. His hair, what was left of it, seemed to be standing on end. Hot damn, he said.

They find anything in Bed-Stuy? she asked. Nope. I wish I could talk to him.

And what would you say?

I think he needs a father figure.

Do you?

Dont be offended. Youre doing a fine job with him.

In my way.

No offense. I just think maybe a guy could get more out of him. Its the luck of the draw, him calling here and attaching to you.

You dont think a woman is as effective with him?

Hey. Dont get all Angela Davis on me.

Ed was one of the new breed, the guys who seemed to think that if they were right up front about their sexism and racism, if they walked in and sat down and just said it, they were at least semi-absolved. That if racism was inevitable, it was better, it was more manly and honorable, to be candid. She, frankly, preferred secrecy.

I wouldnt dream of it, she said.

A bad dad is telling him to do bad things. A good dad might have a better chance of telling him to do good things. A mother figure doesnt have the same authority. Shes a refuge. She cant contradict the bad dad. She can only console.

I cant tell you how much I hope youre wrong about that.

I hope so, too. Were going to get this little fucker.

Ed had the killer buzz in his voice. He had the pure, shining conviction of the almost smart. When Ed went on like this, Cat heard the ping inside her head. Here was a true murderer.

Yeah, she said. Were going to get him.

Pete came into the cubicle, with black coffee for her.

Youre sweet, she said.

Were nowhere, he told her.

Were never no where.

Theyve run dental records on more than two thousand missing kids. They got no matches to the teeth we found.

Disappointing.

Its like that first kid appeared out of thin air.

Or nobody knows or cares that the first kid is missing.

I know, I know. Its funny, though.

I agree. Its funny.

Ed broke in. Or somebody never cared enough to send their kid to a dentist.

Always a possibility, Cat said. Have you noticed how he starts to disintegrate as he gets agitated?

Go on, Pete said.

His coherence fades. He starts throwing out lines from Whitman. Or, as he would say, from home.

He gets more and more random, Ed offered.

Maybe, Cat said. Or maybe, in his mind, he gets less and less random. I have a feeling that the poem is his language. Its whats in his head. Maybe its more of a stretch for him to say something like Im afraid to die than it is to say Do you think a great city endures?

"That sounds like a bit of a stretch, to me, Ed said.

Cat wanted to say, I have a feeling, but she couldnt say that kind of thing in front of Ed. Hed use it against her. She was the girl with the degree from Columbia, whod read more books than all of the men put together, whod gone into forensics because she hadnt managed to establish a private practice. She was overaggressive and under-qualified. She was someone who relied on feelings.

She said, Its just an idea, Ed. This seems like an excellent time for us to give free rein to our ideas, wouldnt you say?

Queenly bearing, schoolmarm diction. She really had to quit that. Problem was, it worked. Most of the time.

Queenly bearing, schoolmarm diction. She really had to quit that. Problem was, it worked. Most of the time.

Sure, sure, Ed said. Absolutely.

Theres something strange about the kids associations, she said. Back to regular voice. Its like hes programmed. A concept trips a wire, and hes got the line, but he hasnt got the circuitry to make sense of it. Hes like a vessel for someone elses wishes. The poetry signifies something for him, but hes not able to say what it is.

I thought wed have a trace by now, Pete said. These are kids."

Someone is putting them up to it, Cat said.

I dont know, Ed said. No ones taken any credit yet.

Cat said, Unless whoever it is wants these kids to call in. Unless thats his way of taking credit.

Pete said, I started that Whitman book last night. Cant make head or tails of it, frankly.

Im seeing a woman at NYU later today.

Good.

What more do we know about Dick Harte? Cat asked.

A lot, Pete answered. But nothings jumping out. No history with boys. Or girls, even. Nothing we can find. Its all pretty standard. Went to law school

Where?

Cardozo. Not Harvard. Practiced for a few years, then went into real estate. Married a decent girl, got rich, dumped the decent girl and married a new decent girl but prettier. Had two pretty children with wife number two. Big house in Great Neck, country place in Westhampton. All in all, a very regular guy.

Apart from all that money, Cat said.

Right. But its real estate. He didnt have sweatshops. His employees didnt love him, but they didnt hate him, either. They got their salaries. They got their benefits. They got Christmas bonuses every year, plus a party at the Rihga Royal.

In my experience, Cat said, very few rich people have no enemies.

His enemies were all on his level. Basic business rivalries, guys he outbid, guys he undersold. But these people didnt hate him. It doesnt work that way. Its a club. Dick Harte was one of the less sleazy members.

What about the son who had to be sent away to school in Vermont?

Just a troubled kid. Got into drugs, grades started slipping. Mom and Dad shipped him off to the country. Im sure they werent happy about it, but it doesnt seem like any big deal.

What was Dick Harte up to at Ground Zero? Cat asked.

He was one of a group of honchos pushing for more retail and office space in the rebuild. As opposed to those who favor a memorial and a park.

That might be a big deal to any number of people, Cat said.

But to a ten-year-old?

This is a ten-year-old whos memorized Leaves of Grass."

A freak, Ed added.

Or maybe a savant, Cat said.

The one doesnt necessarily rule out the other, Pete said.

No, Cat answered. It doesnt.

She spent the morning waiting in her cubicle, hoping for another call. Who were the great waiters in literature?

She couldnt think of any stories about men whose job it was to wait. But as Ed had put it, Hey, dont get all Angela Davis on me. Shed do her best.

She listened to the tape, several times. She looked through Leaves of Grass.

Little boy. Who do you want to take into space to behold the birth of stars?

At ten-thirty, she tossed her cell into her bag and went over to Rita Dunns office at NYU. Dunn was in a building on Waverly. One of these buildings, Cat had never been quite sure which, had been that sweatshop, where the fire was. She knew the story only vaguely the exits had been blocked to keep the workers from sneaking out early. Something like that. Thered been a fire, and all those women were trapped inside. Some of them had jumped. From one of these buildings was it the one she was entering? women with their dresses on fire had fallen, had hit this pavement right here or the pavement just down the street. Now it was all NYU. Now it was students and shoppers, a coffeehouse and a bookstore that sold NYU sweatshirts.

Cat went up to the ninth floor and announced herself to the department secretary, who nodded her down the hall.

Rita Dunn turned out to be red-haired, mid-forties, wearing a green silk jacket and heavy makeup. Dark eyeliner, blush expertly applied. Around her neck, a strand of amber beads just slightly smaller than billiard balls. She looked more like a retired figure skater than she did like a professor of literature.

Hello, Cat said. She gave Rita Dunn a moment to adjust. No one ever said, You didnt sound black over the phone. Everybody thought it.

Hello, Rita responded, and pumped Cats hand enthusiastically. People loved talking to cops when they werent in trouble.

Thanks for taking the time to see me.

Glad to. Sit.

She gestured Cat into a squeaky leatherette chair across from her desk, seated herself behind the desk. Her office was a chaos of books and papers (disorderly sister). On the wall behind her, a poster of Whitman great lightbulb of old-man nose, small dark eyes looking out from the cottony crackle of beard and hair. In the window of Rita Dunns office, a spider plant dangled its fronds before the vista of Washington Square Park. Had seamstresses once huddled at that window, trapped by flames? Had they stood on that sill and jumped?