William Bernhardt - Dark Eye

It took him more than three hours to remove all of Annabel’s teeth. He used no anesthetic and nothing to stanch the bleeding. She bled profusely, down her chin, onto her bare neck and shoulders, mixing with saliva and coagulating to create a nasty bubbling paste. He had no means of measuring the quantity of blood lost, but it seemed enormous, an endless flow from those torn and ravaged gums. He had no idea if, as in the story, she would bleed to death, but it certainly seemed possible. And if she did not do so as a natural consequence, he knew how to see that she did.

After the first tooth was removed, she began to scream. He turned the Mozart up high. Fortunately, Camille’s boyfriend was not nearby; it would have been an inopportune time for a visit. After the third tooth, the screaming ceased, as did the threats about her mother’s revenge, the name-calling, the inappropriate remarks about his parentage. By the tenth tooth, she was entirely broken, shattered, incoherent. She began to hallucinate. She lost all sense of who and where she was. She called him Warren, made sexual advances. She alternated between pleading for mercy and babbling about her schoolwork. He was moved by her pain, truly. It took great force of will to remind himself that there was a higher purpose behind all this. The path to godhood was strewn with sacrifice.

“Am I dead?” she asked at one point just before unconsciousness descended, her pulpy gums mashing together. “I feel dead.”

“The sleep will come, my sweet Berenice.”

“Thasss good,” she said, and her last thought was expressed as a single word. “Why?”

“ ‘And still the phantasma of the teeth maintained its terrible ascendancy,’ ” he murmured, and with gentle fingers closed her eyelids for the last time. “Make a place for me in the firmament, my darling. Tell my love I will soon be reunited with her. That we will all be together once again.”

He walked upstairs and gazed out his window at the striking sunset. It was a glorious evening, bright and clear, a vivid orange and blue curtain draped across the skyline. He could almost feel the warmth of the light emanating from the Luxor pyramid, a forty-billion-candlepower beacon said to be the most powerful spotlight in the world. It shone for ten miles into space, carving a swath through the heavens. Was it the light that illumined sweet Virginia ’s face? Was it a trail of bread crumbs Annabel might follow? There was no basis for these beliefs in the prophecies. But it seemed so in his dreams, and the prophet did teach that dreams were a portal into the land of the ideal. If he could dream there, he could be there. And so he would. And so would they all.

After dark, I told Lisa I was going to the grocery store for some Vanilla Heath Bar Crunch. Hated to lie, but it seemed simpler than having an argument about whether I should do what I already knew I was going to do. I had to see O’Bannon. And I’d decided to confront him in an environment in which he couldn’t so easily blow me off.

Short drive with the top lowered down the streets of neon did me a world of good. Saw the transparent dome of the Fremont Street Exposition, my new favorite tourist joint. Basically, they tarted up the old Strip so it could compete with the new, and did a darn good job of it, in my opinion. Hey, beats seeing David Cassidy lip-sync or the ten billionth magic show, right?

Once I arrived at his house, I pounded on his front door, literally pounded. Guess my rage was still boiling. When I thought about what he’d done to me, after all I’d done for him, the cases I’d solved, only to have him shaft me the first time I’m vulnerable-it just infuriated me. I pounded and pounded, and when he didn’t come to the door immediately, I started shouting.

Some kid opened the door.

Okay, kid might be pushing it, but he seemed like a kid to me. He was probably in his early-twenties. He had peach fuzz on his upper lip and cheeks, and long brown hair that wasn’t very well groomed. He was dressed in a green T-shirt and was tall and lanky. Actually, my first thought was of Shaggy from those Scooby-Doo cartoons.

“Do I know you?” he asked.

I blinked. “I… don’t think so.”

We stared at each other.

“Is this the O’Bannon residence?”

“Uh-huh.”

More staring.

Finally he spoke: “Did they give you ice cream?”

“Umm… excuse me?”

“I wondered if maybe they gave you ice cream. They gave me ice cream. I like ice cream, don’t you?”

“I never had much of a sweet tooth. Who is they?”

“The hospital.”

“The… hospital?”

“I had to be in the hospital once and I didn’t like it. But they gave me ice cream and I liked that.”

I checked my reflection in the glass in the door. Did I look sick? Was I still wearing the ID bracelet? I had on a short-sleeved blouse, but I had replaced the gauze bandage on my wrist with a plain wide Band-Aid. “How do you know I’ve been in the hospital?”

He gave me a sheepish look. “Did you have to wear one of those gowns with your butt hanging out?”

“Um, I don’t-”

“Do you mind if I say butt ? I think butt is a funny word, but my dad says I shouldn’t say it.”

“How did you know-”

“This.” He grabbed my arm-a little too roughly, but of course he didn’t know I’d recently punctured myself. At least, I don’t think he knew. “See?” He turned my left arm around so the crook of the elbow faced up. There was a red pinprick where they had drawn blood and now that I noticed it, a couple of faint bruises above and below. “I bet you have small veins. I have small veins, and it took them three times to get the needle into me.”

“Could I possibly see your father?” I assumed O’Bannon was the previously mentioned dad and I was speaking to his twenty-something boomerang boy.

“Do you have a dog?” he asked.

“Not currently. Why?”

“I don’t like dogs. Do you like dogs?” With each new remark, I became increasingly aware of the oddness of his voice. He talked too loudly, for starters, given that we were only about a foot apart. And the inflections were all wrong. It was almost like one of those computer-generated voices that are assembled by syllables, so the intonation goes up and down with no relation to what is being said.

“Well… some dogs. I used to have German shepherds-”

“If you have a dog, I can’t let you in the house.”

“That’s cool. No dog.”

“Did you know that dogs were first domesticated around fourteen thousand years ago near Israel?”

“No…”

“I think it was a mistake.”

I stared at him, but not as intently as he was staring at me. He never actually made eye contact. Every time my eyes came near his, he averted them. I tried to get a fix on who I was talking to, without success. There was something odd about his expression, a certain vacancy behind the eyes. Almost as if he wasn’t really there. Like his body was on the front patio with me but he wasn’t. Like he was gazing out through an invisible acrylic barrier-he could see through it, but he couldn’t make contact. It disturbed me.

One of my chief assets has always been my hyper-empathy. I’ve had it since I was a child. I don’t know why. And I can’t really explain what it is. But I’ve had this ability to tune into what other people are feeling. It isn’t a mind-reading trick. But it’s real. Of course, it’s always been a great asset to me in my work as a behaviorist. One of the reasons I’ve been able to create useful profiles is that I’ve had this talent for understanding what motivates people, what impels them to take action. But it wasn’t doing me any good with this guy. When I put out my feelers toward him, I got nothing.