Sara Paretsky - Total Recall

It wasn’t clear whether the room was to punish Ulrich or to serve as Paul’s refuge. Interspersed with Ulrich’s disfigured face were pictures of Rhea. Paul had cut them from magazines or newspapers and then apparently taken them to a studio to have prints made-several shots which had been cut out of newsprint were repeated in glossy, framed photographs. Around these he had draped the things he’d lifted from Rhea’s office. Her scarf, one of her gloves, even some pale lavender tissues. The cup he’d taken from the waiting room stood underneath with a wilted rose in it.

He’d also added memorabilia about Max to the wall. It made my stomach ache, seeing the way he’d accumulated information on Max’s family in one short week: there was a set of photographs of the Cellini Ensemble, with Michael Loewenthal’s face circled. Programs from the Chicago concerts they’d given last week. Photocopies of newspaper articles about Beth Israel Hospital, with Max’s quotes circled in red. Maybe Paul had been heading here to add Ninshubur to the shrine when his assailant shot him.

The whole idea of the place was so horrible I wanted to run away from it. I shuddered convulsively but forced myself to keep looking.

Among the pictures of Rhea was a woman I didn’t recognize, a framed five-by-seven photograph in a silver frame. It showed a middle-aged woman in a dark dress, with large dark eyes and heavy brows over a mouth that was smiling in a kind of wistful resignation. A placard he’d attached to the frame said, My savior in England, but she couldn’t save me enough.

Facing the wall of pictures stood a little fold-up bed, shelves of canned food, a ten-gallon water jug, and a number of flashlights. And underneath the cot an accordion file tied up in a black ribbon. A disfigured photograph of Ulrich was glued to the outside, with the triumphant scrawl, I’ve found you out, Einsatzgruppenführer Hoffman.

Dimly, from the world outside the closet, I heard the insistent ring of the front doorbell. It jolted me awake, away from the horrific symbols of Paul’s obsession. I pulled the picture of his English savior from the wall, stuffed it into the accordion folder, jamming the folder inside my shirt, behind the bloody little dog. I ran down the stairs two at a time, bolted down the hall, and flung myself out the kitchen door.

I lay down in the rank grass, thankful for the protection of the bloodstained coverall. The accordion file pushed unpleasantly into my breasts. I inched my way around the side of the house. I could see the tail end of a cop car, but no one was watching the side of the house: they were expecting to find me, the helpful family friend, within. Still lying in the grass, I looked around for the bush where I’d tossed my picklocks. When I’d retrieved them, I crawled stealthily to the back fence, where I shed the bloodstained boiler suit and my kerchief, stuffing the picklocks into the back pocket of my jeans. I found the boards where I’d watched the cat vanish earlier, pried them apart, and shoved my way through.

As I walked down Lake View Street to my car, I joined the crowd of gapers watching the cops force their way into Radbuka’s house. I tsked to myself in disapproval: I could have shown them how to do it in a much neater way. Also, they should have had someone at the side gate, to watch for anyone trying to leave through the back. These were not the best of Chicago ’s finest.

My front felt damp; looking down I saw that Ninshubur had bled through the sheet and onto my blouse. Having discarded my bloodstained coverall to avoid being conspicuous, I now looked as though I’d played the central role in open-heart surgery. I turned away, clasping my arms across my sodden front, feeling Ninshubur squishing against the accordion file.

Bending over as if in intense stomach pain, I jogged the three blocks to my car. I took my shoes off: they were covered in blood, which I didn’t want to transfer to my car. In fact, they were the same crepe-soled shoes I’d worn when I’d stepped in Howard Fepple’s remains on Monday. Maybe it was time to kiss them good-bye. I pulled a brown paper bag from a nearby garbage canister and stuck them into that. I didn’t have an alternate pair in the trunk, but I could go home and change. I found an old towel in the trunk and a rather rank T-shirt left over from pickup softball this past summer. I pulled the shirt over my bloodstained blouse. Inside the car, I took out the faithful hound and wrapped him in the towel on the seat next to me. His brown glass eyes stared at me balefully.

“You are still a hero, but one badly in need of a bath. And I need to call Tim to tell him about Radbuka.”

Morrell had only been gone two days, and I was already talking to stuffed animals. Not a good sign. Back at Racine Avenue I ran up the stairs in my stocking feet, Ninshubur clutched tightly in one hand.

“Peroxide for you, my friend.” I found the bottle under the sink and poured it liberally onto Ninshubur’s head. It foamed up around his brown eyes. I took a brush and scrubbed hard all over his head and chest, murmuring, “Can this little paw ever be sweet again?”

I left him to soak in a pan of cold water, while I went into the bathroom to turn on the taps in the bathtub. Like the faithful dog Ninshubur, I was smeared in blood. I’d take my blouse-a beloved soft cotton in my favorite dark gold-to the cleaners, but the bra-the rose-and-silver bra Morrell had liked-I bundled into a plastic bag for the garbage. I couldn’t stand the thought of Paul’s blood against my breasts, even if I could get those brown stains out of the silver lace.

While the tub filled I called Tim Streeter up at Max’s to let him know I had the faithful dog and that Paul would definitely not be in a position to bother them before Calia and Agnes boarded the plane on Saturday.

“I’ve got the dog soaking in a basin of peroxide. I’ll put him in the dryer before I leave the house again, and hope he’ll look respectable enough that he won’t freak out Calia when she gets him back.”

Tim let out a sigh of relief. “But who shot Radbuka?”

“A woman. Paul called her Ilse-I didn’t quite get the last name-it sounded something like Bullfin. I’m utterly baffled. By the way, the police don’t know I was in there, and I’d like them to continue in blissful ignorance.”

“I never heard anything about you knowing where the dude lived,” Tim said. “Dropped the dog on the street, did he, bicycling away?”

I laughed. “Something like that. Anyway, I’m going to take a bath. I’ll come up in a couple of hours. I want to show Max a picture and some other stuff. How’s the kid doing?”

She’d fallen asleep in front of the television, watching Arthur. Agnes, who’d canceled her appointment at the gallery, was curled up on the couch next to her daughter. Tim was standing in the playroom doorway where he could see both of them.

“And Michael’s on his way into town. Agnes called him after this latest incident; he wants to stay close until Agnes and Calia fly home on Saturday. He’s already in the air, landing at O’Hare in an hour or so.”

“Even so, I think you should hang on, although there probably isn’t any other risk to Calia,” I said. “Just in case that prize fanatic Posner decides to carry on for his fallen disciple.”

He agreed, but added that baby-sitting was harder work than moving furniture. “I’d rather carry a grand piano up three flights of stairs. At least when you got there you’d know where the piano was, and you’d be done for the day.”

I switched my house phone over to the answering service while I soaked, obsessively sponging my breasts as if blood had seeped through the pores of my skin. I shampooed my hair several times as well before I finally felt clean enough to leave the tub.