Prayer for the Dead (14 page)

“Guy became a golf pro, not a player, a teacher. How’s that for symbolism? Spend your life with this four-foot-long club swinging between your legs. A classic case of compensation.”

Becker said, “Unlike our good selves.”

“Well, exactly,” said Tee.

Dyce dreamed his father was alive again and looking for him. He could hear his angry voice calling “Roger,” with the snarl of an animal in the tone, and his footsteps, those dreaded, off-beat clumps of a cripple, were coming toward him. The young Dyce was hiding under the bed, whimpering with fear. He did not know what he had done to bring on the wrath this time, but then he seldom knew. Sometimes he thought his very existence enraged his father, as if his presence, perhaps even his very life, were a mistake that the man was trying to eradicate with his belt and his fists.

In the dream Dyce could see directly through the covers that hung to the floor and concealed him. His father entered the bedroom and Dyce could see him yanking the belt from his pants, see him breathing heavily through his mouth as he always did when he had been drinking. His eyes were red from the alcohol, the capillaries burst from within, and a crust of something had formed in the corners of his mouth. His hair fell diagonally across his forehead, limp and straight and dirty blond.

“Roger,”
he said again, this time softer, cajoling. “Come on out, Roger. Come here son. Daddy’s not mad.”

Dyce was not fooled by the change in tone. He had been caught that way before. There was neither sweetness nor forgiveness in the man when he had been drinking, only malice and cunning. Much as Dyce wanted to believe it was the voice of love calling, he dared not move.

He looked straight up through the bed and saw the man’s eyes cloud and the lids quiver, then close. His father sat heavily on the bed above Dyce, then fell back, inert, dropped finally by the liquor. When his father’s rage was gone, he collapsed inward, as if the anger was the only thing to keep him going.

Hovering over his father while somehow still under the bed, Dyce saw the drool form and dribble from his mouth. He heard the breath making its tortured way through his nose, still miraculously straight and fine despite the brawls, the spills, and the accidents of a drunkard’s life.

With his heart racing in his chest, the young Dyce crawled out from under the bed and knelt with his face next to his father’s. Peace had come upon the man and he looked so young lying there. If only he could always be this way, Dyce thought. He leaned forward to kiss his father and the man’s eyes flew open and he bared his teeth as he said, “Roger.” His hand grasped Dyce’s shoulder and the young boy felt his bowels release in fear.

Dyce awoke with a start to find Helen at his side, shaking his shoulder and whispering his name. Two men stood behind her, watching him.

“These men are from the police, dear,” she said. Helen never called him
dear.

“I’m not,” said Becker.

“Oh,” said Helen. “I thought you were.”

“I’m Chief Terhune of the Clamden Police,” said Tee. “Mr. Becker has some experience in these matters, and he’s here to help out.”

“What matters?” asked Dyce. He rolled his tongue to moisten his dry mouth.

“The mugging,” said Helen.

“I talked to the police,” said Dyce.

“That’s true,” said Helen, looking to Tee for explanation.

“That would be the Guileford Police. You were attacked in Guileford. I’m from Clamden.”

“I don’t understand.”

“They’re here to
help,”
said Helen. Dyce wished she would shut up and leave. He needed to concentrate and not worry about what stupid thing she might say next. There was something not right here, something to be careful of.

Dyce looked at the one who was so quick to point out that he wasn’t with the police.

“We think this might be part of a pattern,” said Tee.

The quiet man was studying Dyce. Not staring at him precisely, but sizing him up. His eyes would wander off sometimes, taking in the rest of the room, and then return suddenly, as if to catch him off guard. Dyce averted his own eyes. There was something dangerous there. It was almost as if the man were reading Dyce’s mind. Or as if Dyce were reading his.

The policeman was asking about the incident. Dyce had almost convinced himself by now that it was a mugging.

“Were you able to get a look at the man who hit you?” Tee asked. “No,” said Helen.

“You must have some idea what he looks like— white, black? Dark, fair?”

“It all happened so fast,” said Helen.

“Ma’am,” said Tee. “It might work better if Mr. Dyce tells us himself.”

Dyce lay back and closed his eyes. “Helen, could you get me some water, please?”

“Of course, dear,” she said. Again, the dear. She was showing the police her position, he supposed. Giving herself the right to be here.

“I’m sorry,” Dyce said. “They’ve got me all drugged up. It’s a little hard to concentrate.”

“Sure,” said Tee. “Take your time. But any kind of description would help.”

Dyce kept his eyes closed and forced himself to visualize the incident as he had described it to the police before. He could feel the quiet man’s eyes on him, but there was nothing to see now. Let him look, thought Dyce. He can’t see into my skull, and if he does, he’ll see only what I’m thinking. But remember him, he’s dangerous.

“It was very fast,” Dyce said. “He knocked on the window on the passenger’s side of my car. I opened the door and he reached in and hit me in the face. I was stunned. He hit me again, several times, but I didn’t really seem to feel it after that first time. I had my eyes closed, of course—he was hitting me in the face. He was white, though, I think I know that much. And he was wearing leather. Yes, I can see that much now. When he rapped on the window his sleeve was leather.”

“What kind of leather? Suede?”

“Black, heavy, like a motorcycle jacket.”

“Did you see the syringe, Mr. Dyce?” It was the other voice, the dangerous man named Becker.

Dyce paused and rubbed his throat. The other police had not mentioned the syringe, had not seen a connection.

“Helen,” he said. “I’m so dry.”

Helen put the glass of water in his hand and helped him to sit upright as he sipped on the straw. Dyce allowed himself a look at Becker. The man smiled as their eyes met, politely. He seemed almost bored. So quickly? Dyce wondered. Could he lose interest that fast, or is he hiding something? He slipped back onto the pillows and closed his eyes again.

“No one said anything about a syringe,” said Dyce. “What do you mean?”

Tee said, “Did you see one?”

“No.”

“Do you use drugs, Mr. Dyce?” Becker’s voice again.

“Heavens, no!” said Helen. “I can swear to that.”

There was a weight on the bed. Someone was sitting next to him.

“I don’t usually even take aspirin. That’s why I’m reacting so much to the pain killers here, I guess.”

There was a hand on his arm; he knew it wasn’t Helen’s. Dyce opened his eyes and saw Becker sitting on the bed next to him. His face was close and he was smiling, not just politely this time, but with warmth. Dyce recognized the smile. It was the same one his father would use sometimes to make him calm down before he hit him.

I know you, Dyce thought. I’m ready for you.

“What’s your mother’s maiden name?” Becker asked.

Dyce smiled back.

“I never knew her.”

The two looked at each other for a long time. Their smiles widened as if they were sharing a private joke. Tee thought it was creepy.

“What’s your mother’s name?” Dyce asked finally.

“Larssen,” Becker said.

When Becker rose from the bed, it seemed to Tee that he released Dyce’s arm with reluctance.

“What the hell was that all about?” Tee asked as they waited for the elevator to take them to the lobby. “I thought you two were going to kiss or something, staring at each other like that. What the hell were you doing?”

“Communicating.”

“That what they teach you in the Bureau?”

“I’m not in the Bureau now, I’m not a cop, either. I can use whatever methods I need to.”

“You trying to seduce him or something? What kind of witness do you think he’ll make if the defense attorney learns you questioned him by making goo-goo eyes at him?”

“I was just establishing trust,” said Becker, laughing. “Letting him know I was on his side. Besides, I don’t think you’re going to be able to use him as a witness.”

“No, he doesn’t seem to know much, does he? He doesn’t even fit the pattern.” Becker looked at Tee from under his brows. “Were we in the same room?” he asked.

Chapter 9

T
he weed trimmer came back from
the shop, thirty-five-dollar repair fee, and conked out after three minutes. Removing his work gloves, Eric tinkered ineffectually with the machine for a moment, but his right hand was so swollen it was as useless as the weed trimmer. He had dislocated a knuckle, or possibly broken it, while pounding the jerk-off s face, and the area around the joint was now an ugly purple. The son of a bitch, thought Eric. A syringe full of drugs, and he was going to stick
me.
I should have killed him. What kind of perverted thing was that? To lure someone into your car and then shoot them up with drugs? Jesus. He didn’t want to get high by himself or what? The world was full of weirdos and getting stranger every day, but the jerk-off had chosen the wrong guy when he decided to play with Eric. I should have killed him.

Eric squatted in the backyard, the weed trimmer dead and useless at his feet, while the lady of the house and her teenage daughter played at their pool. The daughter was a little young yet, not much meat on her and not enough breasts that she needed to walk around all the time with her arms crossed over her chest the way she did. She did it even when she was alone; he knew, because he had watched from secrecy. Did she think she had such prizes there that people were staring at her all the time? A bitch who was modest even when alone? Not the kind of person Eric had in mind. The mother, on the other hand, was more his idea of something to do. A little too much flesh, maybe, but it was arranged properly, and she wasn’t ashamed of it. The bitch liked to flaunt it: Eric had noticed the way she talked to him, one hip cocked to the side like that, arms akimbo with just a trace of toughness, like she was daring him. That little terry cloth jacket always open and not hiding much. She was asking for it, no doubt about that. Husband was this dried-up executive type, big wallet, no balls. Eric could tell just from the types of jobs the man didn’t do around the yard, things he left to Eric because he didn’t know how to hook up a hose.

The daughter saw Eric staring and pulled on her robe as she said something to her mother. The mother was reclining in one of those come-and-hop-me chairs and she turned her head to look at Eric, then spoke to her daughter and laughed.

Go over there and slap her across the chops, not too hard, just enough to get her attention, then pull off” those bikini briefs and show her something her dried-up husband hadn’t used in years except to yank on. That would stop her laughing; start her moaning for more, which he had, more than she could handle.

Do it in front of the kid, let her see how it’s done, then give her a turn while her mother watched. He’d get her over her modesty quick enough.

And he’d do it, too, if it weren’t for his goddamned hand. With his right hand like this he couldn’t screw the cat, much less two haughty rich bitches. That jerk-off with the needle was really beginning to cost him.

Should have killed him. Should have just kept pounding since he’d screwed up the hand anyway. A missed opportunity, just like the one with the women by the pool.

But what really burned him was the real chance he’d missed with the guy. Roger Dyce, that was his name on the driver’s license. Name, address, photo— although he didn’t look much like it now that Eric had rearranged his nose. Why hadn’t he taken his keys? Because it had been too long and Eric was out of practice. Because he was having too much fun? No, bullshit. The truth was he panicked. He hated needles, they scared the shit out of him, and he had just overreacted. Christ, he was in the guy’s pockets anyway. He took the fifty-five dollars, he might as well have taken his keys. Drive over to his address in Clamden while the creep was still lying on his front seat, clean out the place. The son of a bitch deserved
it.

The women walked into the house. He loved the way the mother’s ass jiggled. Not too taut, had some cellulite, but not bad, either. She still had a few good years left in her. The daughter didn’t jiggle at all. Juiceless, that was her problem.

They’d be going upstairs now, into their separate Spanish-tiled bathrooms, take a shower, get the chlorine off. Christ, he could slip up there, do them each in the shower, the other’d never know. Give them both some juice.

He tossed the weed trimmer into the back of the wagon and felt a twinge of pain in his hand. That jerk-off. He didn’t need a key. Call the hospital tonight, ask about the condition of Mr. Dyce. If he was Still there, zip over to his house and clean it out. And if he’d checked out, well, that might be even better. Ask him what he planned to do with that syringe before kicking the shit out of him again. Maybe stick a needle in the bastard’s ass—or maybe that’s what he wanted. Either way. Make the call right after this job. No, now. Make the call now, here, use the phone.

Eric rang the front doorbell. Hell yes, do the wife in the kitchen while calling the hospital. The girl hears the moaning, starts downstairs, wrapped in a towel, Eric does her on the carpeted stairs. Make the call, fuck the bitches, then clean out Dyce’s house. That would be a pretty good day for a one-handed man.

Helen had taken the keys from his trousers while he slept. She wasn’t sure he would have given them if she’d asked; he seemed very secretive about his house. Helen had not been there since that first time, not that she wanted to go particularly; she didn’t like the place, but still it was odd that he’d never suggested it. But then Roger was odd in a number of ways.