Эд Макбейн - Learning to Kill - Stories

“Flesh,” the doctor said.

“Blood.”

“All quite normal,” the doctor said, turning his back and examining a picture hanging on the wall. “Flesh and blood, a normal association.”

Bellew rose from his seat and stared at the doctor’s back.

“Blood,” the doctor said, still studying the picture.

“Knife,” Bellew answered. His eyes fled to the desktop, and he reached for the letter opener there, grasping it in firm fingers.

“Knife,” the doctor said wearily.

“Death,” Bellew answered, walking swiftly around the desk and raising the sharp metal letter opener over his head.

“Death,” the doctor repeated softly.

The letter opener sped downward with a terrible rush. It sank between the doctor’s shoulder blades, and Bellew screamed, “Death, death, death, death! ” as the doctor sank to the floor.

My wife was watching me again. She pretended to be reading her newspaper, but I knew she was watching me. I could feel her eyes boring through the printed page. She was very clever, and so she kept the paper in front of her face, but she wasn’t fooling me, not anymore she wasn’t.

“What are you reading?” I asked.

I was sitting in the chair opposite her. She had her legs crossed, and I thought what a shame such a pretty girl and with a sickness like that, and the worst kind, the kind they can’t fix, even with all their drugs and their shocks.

“The comics,” she answered.

“Which? Which comic?”

“Pogo,” she said. “Why?”

She was being tricky again. She was always like a defense attorney, always with a comeback, always trying to twist whatever I said. I understand they get clever that way. The minute they get twisted, they start getting clever, too. Only I was just a little bit cleverer than her.

“Why what? ” I asked.

“I mean, what difference does it make which comic I’m reading?”

“I thought you might be reading something gory,” I said. I smiled, and she lowered the paper and looked at me curiously, and maybe she suspected I was on to her in that moment.

“Gory?”

“Yes, gory. Death and violence. Something with blood in it. Gory. Don’t you know what gory means, for God’s sake?”

“Of course I know what gory means.”

“Then why did you say it as if you didn’t know what it meant? Were you trying to test me? Were you trying to find out if I knew?”

“Oh, don’t be silly. Everybody knows what gory means. I was just surprised that you asked.” She shrugged and lifted the paper again, but I could feel her eyes through the page, watching me, always watching me. I stared at the paper until she lowered it again.

“What’s the matter with you, Dave?” she asked.

I chuckled a little, and then I narrowed my eyes. “There’s nothing the matter with me,” I said.

“You’ve been behaving so... so strangely lately,” she said.

“Maybe I’m just beginning to wise up,” I said.

“I don’t understand you. That’s what I mean, the things you say. They don’t make sense.”

“Does soup make sense?” I asked her.

“What?” She was playing it innocent, as if she didn’t know about the soup, as if she had no idea what I was talking about.

“Soup,” I said. “Soup. What the hell’s wrong with you? Can’t you understand English?”

“Well, what about soup? I don’t understand.”

“The soup last night,” I said. I watched her carefully, my eyes slitted.

“Yes, we had soup last night.”

“No,” I corrected her. “ We did not have soup last night. I had soup last night.”

“It was too hot last night,” she said, trying to appear tired, trying to pretend she didn’t know what I was driving at. “Much too hot to be having soup. I just didn’t feel like any, that’s all.”

“But I did, huh?”

“You said you wanted soup.”

“Yes, but that was before I knew you weren’t having any.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” I said. I paused and waited to see what she’d say next. She didn’t say anything, so I prompted her. “Were you surprised I didn’t finish the soup?”

“Not particularly. It was a hot night.”

“Yes, but I only had two spoonfuls. Weren’t you surprised?”

“No,” she said.

She was being very cagey now, because we were getting closer to the heart of the matter, and she didn’t like that. I had to go on with what I was doing, but I felt sorry for her at the same time. It wasn’t her fault, her illness, and it was a shame they wouldn’t be able to do anything for her. I felt really sorry.

“But didn’t you wonder why I stopped after only two spoonfuls?”

“Are we back to that damned soup again?”

“Yes. Yes, we are back to that damned soup again. It’s a good thing I have excellent taste buds.”

“What are you talking about?”

“My reasons for not finishing the soup. After I tasted it. That’s what I’m talking about.”

“Was there something wrong with the soup?”

That I liked. Oh, that I liked. That innocent look on her face, that little small voice, pretending ignorance, pretending the soup was all right.

“No, nothing,” I lied. “Nothing wrong with it at all. There was nothing wrong with the brake lining on the car, either. Nothing that sixty bucks couldn’t fix after I discovered it.”

“Here we go on the brake lining again,” she said.

“You don’t like me to talk about it, do you?”

“We’ve only talked about it for the past three weeks. What the hell is wrong with you anyway, Dave?”

“Nothing’s wrong with me, honey,” I said. “No, nothing’s wrong with me.”

“Then why do you keep harping on things? How did I know the brake lining was shot? How could I possibly know that?”

“Oh no, you couldn’t know,” I said.

“You see? You’re implying that I did know.”

“I’m not implying anything. Stop trying to twist what I say.”

“You had the brakes fixed, didn’t you?”

“Yes. Because I discovered them in time. Like the soup. Just in time.”

“Dave...”

She stopped talking and shook her head, and I felt sorry for her again, but what could I do about it? How could I continue living with her, knowing what I did about her? And how could I turn her over to people I knew could not help her? I loved her too much for that, far too much. I could not bear seeing her waste away, unhelped, curling into a fetal ball, cutting herself off from reality, escaping the world we both knew. But at the same time, I recognized the danger of having her around, watching me, waiting for her chance.

“You watch me all the time, don’t you?” I asked.

“No, I do not watch you all the time. Christ knows I’ve got better things to do than watch you.”

“What’s wrong with me?” I asked.

“That’s just what I’d like to know, believe me,” she said emphatically.

“I didn’t mean it that way, and you know it. You’re twisting again. You always twist. For Christ’s sake, Anne, can’t you see that you’re all mixed up? These attempts you made on my...”

“Me mixed up? Me?” she said, and sighed heavily.

I got out of my chair and walked toward her.

“Why’d you make those attempts on my life, Anne?” I asked.

“What? What!”

“The poisoned soup, and the...”

“Poisoned soup! Dave, what on earth are you...?”

“...and the brake lining, and that loose step on the basement stairs, and oh, all the other little things. Don’t you think I spotted them all? Don’t you think I’ve known for a long time now?”

She stared up at me, bewildered, and I felt immensely sorry for her again, but I could not see turning her over to people who could not help her, I could not see committing her.