Christopher Smith - Running of the bulls

Intrigued, Marty followed.

How did this little, peculiar man survive in New York? Was it all an act, as Gloria suggested, or was it something deeper, some unexplained disturbance he had never resolved?

As they moved forward, Marty watched the man list left, then right. They reached the end of the hallway and E’s shoulder struck the edge of the doorway. The blow took him by surprise and he lurched sideways, almost falling into the room but righting himself at the last moment.

He tripped across the living area, bumped into one of the few white chairs arranged in the center of the room, sent it toppling and pushed forward, toward the table along the far white wall.

Marty couldn’t tell if the man were sick, drunk or simply unable to make out the subtle shading that defined where this chair was, that couch, that table. He stood in the doorway and watched E grasp the small white urn at the end of a table. He unscrewed the lid, reached inside and removed a short white stick.

The stick was a joint. Marty stepped inside and watched E fire it up with the white lighter beside the urn. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, the blue smoke rising before him in thick little clouds. It wasn’t until after he had exhaled that he finally looked at Marty and said to him in a thin, exasperated voice: “Glaucoma.” He sighed and for a moment, Marty thought he understood him.

“I need to ask you a few questions,” he said. “But if now isn’t a good time, I can come back when you’re feeling better.”

E screwed up his face and sucked harder. He coughed and brought a hand to his chest, which he gently patted once.

Marty looked at the fingernails on that hand. With the exception of the thumbnail, which was clipped close, the nails on the remaining four fingers were long and slender, curving and yellow. Marty glanced at the nails on the other hand and saw that they had been chewed to the skin.

And E sucked.

“Did you know Kendra Wood?” Marty asked.

E finished the joint, snuffed the roach in a clean glass ashtray and put a finger to the very tip of his narrow nose. His eyes were clouded and unfocused. His body occupied space, but his mind was far away. He coughed again and gazed across the room toward Marty. His upper lip twitched.

Marty wasn’t sure if the man had heard him. “You’ve been her neighbor for six years. It would be helpful if you could tell me anything you might know about her.”

E turned his head and traced a finger along the urn’s curving white lid. He gave no indication of pending response.

“Perhaps I should be more blunt,” Marty said, keeping the frustration from his voice. “Last night, Judge Wood was found dead in her bedroom. Her head was severed and, until this morning, was missing. The evidence suggests she lived two separate lives. I’d like to know if you’ve seen anything unusual in her behavior over the years.”

“Yes,” said E.

Finally, thought Marty. “Could you tell me about that?” he said. “What have you seen?”

“Things,” said E.

“Such as?” asked Marty.

“People,” said E.

“Who?” asked Marty.

“Rodents,” said E.

And that stopped Marty.

He watched a wave of disturbance flash across E’s face, which was somehow paler than before. The air in the room seemed to shift and turn in on itself. Marty could sense it tightening. “I need you to be more specific,” he said. “Can you do that for me?”

“No.”

“She was decapitated, E.”

“Life lops heads.”

“Please, tell me what you know.”

“I know they’ll be looking for a new judge.”

“And I know your routine is an act.”

E recoiled.

“Gloria told me that you were a good man. She told me that you would help me. She said that death fascinates you.”

“Life is the new death.”

“What did you mean by ‘rodents’?”

E’s eyes flicked up to meet his. “Rodents eat their young.”

“What does that mean?”

“Rodents eat their own.”

“You’re saying Judge Wood was a rodent?”

“Yes.”

“Who ate her, E?”

But E had spent his words. Like a child, he turned his back on Marty, folded his arms around himself and behaved as if he’d offer nothing more.

But Marty was having none of it. He’d be damned if minimal Emilio was going to dangle a carrot in front of his face and snatch it away.

“The police will be here, E. Kendra Wood was a federal court justice and they’re going to question everyone on this block. They’ll question you and they won’t be as understanding as I am. They’ll harass you. They’ll make you talk. They’ll know you’re hiding something and they’ll force you to tell them what you know. They’ll humiliate you. They’ll get subpoenas. They’ll bring in the FBI. They’ll call you a freak. Everything will be leaked to the media. It will be a circus. You’ll have to talk to everyone.”

E lifted his head toward the ceiling.

Marty lowered his voice. “But if you tell me what you know and I solve the case, you’ll never even have to deal with the police.” Which was a lie, but time was short and Marty needed answers.

“You don’t know me,” said E.

“I don’t need to,” said Marty.

“You’re not an artist.”

“What does that have to do with a dead woman?”

“Artists see things differently.”

“You’re probably right.”

“You and I can’t communicate.”

“I believe we are now.”

“Communication isn’t harassment.”

“No one is harassing you.”

“Life harasses me.”

“I’m trying to solve a crime.”

E turned to him. “It wasn’t a crime.”

“What does that mean?”

“Rodents eat rodents.”

“Cut the bullshit, E.”

“It’s the truth.”

“Tell me what you know.”

“I know you were a bad husband.”

“You’re hiding something.”

“I hide everything.”

Marty pulled out his cell. “One call and your life changes.”

“One call to Gloria and so does yours.”

He dialed Hines’ number.

“This is what I know.”

He listened to the phone ring.

“I know you hurt your family.”

He refused to let this man in.

“I know your daughters will never have a normal life.”

Hines’ answering service picked up.

“I know you’re a shitty critic.”

Marty focused on Hines’ voice.

“And I know you need to get out of my house.”

Marty snapped the phone shut. “You’ll regret this, E.”

“I never regret truth.”

“Have a look at yourself and tell me that.”

“I’ll tell you this. I’m incubating. Tonight, I change.”

And without another word, E went to one of the plain white chairs in the center of the room and sat down. He put his face in his hands and positioned his body in such a way that his limbs drew close to his body and appeared to make him even smaller. The lines of his body shortened. His will to vanish quickly became the strongest statement he’d made thus far.

There would be nothing more forthcoming.

Marty turned to leave. But when he reached the door, E’s voice lifted and carried down the hall. “Those rodents are going to eat you, too, Spellman.”

6:26 p.m.

Helena Adams’ home was four houses to the left of DeSoto’s and almost directly across from Wood’s. It was three stories of bricks and shiny casement windows, black shutters pressed with winding ivy, a carved mahogany door with stained glass and reinforced, Marty suspected, with at least two inches of steel.

He looked down the street, toward the Park that was so close at the end of it, and watched the dozens of people rushing by on the sidewalk. They were either hurrying up Fifth or hustling to move down it. He pressed the glowing buzzer and waited while trying to clear his mind of the scene he’d just had with DeSoto.