Робин Кук - Brain

“I only want to know about Lisa Marino,” said Martin, limply. Werner’s life story had made Philips conscious of his physical fatigue.

“I’m coming to that,” said Werner. He took a sip from the fresh beer, then put it on the table. “I started making extra money around the morgue when anatomy was more popular than it is now. Lots of little things. Then I hit on the idea of pictures. I sell them on Forty-second Street. I’ve been doing it for years.” With one of his arms Werner made a gesture of introduction around his apartment.

Philips let his eyes roam the dimly lit room. He’d vaguely been aware the red velvet walls were covered with pictures. Now when he looked, he realized the pictures were lewd, gruesome photos of nude female corpses. Philips slowly turned his attention back to the leering Werner.

“Lisa Marino was one of my best models,” said Werner. He picked up the pile of Polaroid shots on the table and dumped them in Philips’ lap. “Look at them. They’re bringing top dollar, especially on Second Avenue. Take your time. I’ve got to go to the bathroom. It’s the beer; it goes right through me.”

Werner walked around the stunned Philips and disappeared through the bedroom door. Martin reluctantly looked down at the sickeningly sadistic photos of Lisa Marino’s corpse. He was afraid to touch them, as if the mental aberration they represented might rub off on his fingers. Werner had obviously misinterpreted Philips’ interest. Perhaps the diener didn’t know anything about the missing brain, and his suspicious behavior was only owing to his illicit trade in necrophilic photos. Philips felt the stirrings of nausea.

Werner had gone through the bedroom and into the bathroom. He ran the water at a rate that sounded like someone urinating and, reaching into his sleeve, he extracted the long slender autopsy knife. He grabbed it in his right hand like a dagger, then moved silently back through the bedroom.

Philips was sitting fifteen feet away, his back to Werner, his head bowed, looking at the photos in his lap. Werner paused just beyond the bedroom doorway. His slender fingers tightened around the worn wooden handle of the knife and he pressed his lips tightly together.

Philips picked up the pictures and lifted them in preparation of putting them face-down on the table. He got them as far as his chest when he was aware of motion behind him. He started to turn. There was a scream!

The knife blade plunged down just behind the right clavicle at the base of the neck, slicing through the upper lobe of the lung before piercing the right pulmonary artery. Blood poured into the opened bronchus, causing a reflex agonal cough, which sent the blood hurling from the mouth in a ballistic arc over the top of Philips’ head, drenching the table in front of him.

Martin moved by animal reflex, jumping to the right and grabbing the beer bottle in the process. Spinning around, he was confronted by the sight of Werner staggering forward, his hand groping vainly to pull out a stiletto buried to the hilt in his neck. With only a gurgle issuing from his throat, his thrashing body fell forward onto the table before crashing in a heap on the floor. The autopsy knife Werner had been holding clattered as it hit the table and skidded off with a thump.

“Don’t move, and don’t touch anything,” yelled Werner’s assailant, who had come through the open door to the hallway. “It’s a good thing we decided to put you under surveillance.” He was the Spanish-American with the heavy mustache and polyester suit Philips remembered seeing on the subway. “The idea is to hit either a major vessel or the heart, but this guy wasn’t going to give me any time.” The man leaned over and tried to pull his knife from Werner’s neck. Werner had collapsed with his head against his right shoulder and the blade was trapped. The assailant stepped over the twitching diener to give himself a better purchase on the weapon.

Philips had recovered enough from the initial shock to react as the man bent down by the table. Swinging the beer bottle in a full arc, Martin brought it down on the intruder’s head. The man had seen the blow coming and, at the last minute, had turned slightly away so some of the force was dissipated on his shoulder. Still, it sent him sprawling on top of his dying victim.

In the grip of utter panic, Philips started to run, still clutching the beer bottle. But, at the door, he thought he heard noises in the hallway below, making him afraid that the killer wasn’t alone. Grabbing the doorjamb to reverse his direction, he dashed back through Werner’s apartment. He saw that the killer had regained his feet but was still stunned, holding his head with both hands.

Martin rushed to a rear window in the bedroom and threw up the sash. He tried to open the screen but couldn’t so he bashed it out with his foot. Once out on the fire escape, he plummeted down. It was miraculous he didn’t stumble, because his exit was more like a controlled fall. On the ground, he had no choice of direction; he had to run east. Just beyond the neighboring building, he entered a vegetable garden in a vacant lot. To his right there was a hurricane fence that barred the way back to Hamilton Terrace.

The ground fell off sharply as he ran eastward and he found himself sliding and falling down a steep rock-strewn hill. The light was now behind him and he advanced into darkness. Soon he tumbled against a wire fence. Beyond it was a drop of ten feet into an automobile junkyard. Beyond that was the weakly illuminated expanse of St. Nicholas Avenue. Philips was about to scale the low fence when he realized it had been cut. He squeezed through the convenient opening and swung himself down the cement wall, dropping the last few feet blindly.

It wasn’t a real junkyard. It was just a vacant area where abandoned cars had been left to rust. Carefully, Martin picked his way between twisted metal hulks toward the light on the avenue in front of him. At any second he expected to hear pursuers.

Once on the street, he could run more easily. He wanted to put as much distance as possible between himself and Werner’s apartment. Vainly, he looked for a police cruiser. He saw no one. The buildings on either side of him had deteriorated, and as Philips looked from side to side, he realized that many of the structures were burned out and abandoned. The huge empty tenements looked like skeletons in the dark misty night. The sidewalks were cluttered with trash and debris.

Suddenly, Philips realized where he was. He’d run directly into Harlem. The realization slowed his pace. The dark and deserted scene accentuated his terror. Two blocks farther on Martin saw a ragged group of street-tough blacks who were more than a little shocked at Philips’ running figure. They paused in their drug-dealing to watch the crazy white fellow run past them, heading toward the center of Harlem.

Although he was in good shape, the strenuous pace soon exhausted him and Martin felt as if he was about to drop, each breath bringing a stabbing pain in his chest. Finally, in desperation, he ducked into a dark, doorless opening, his breath coming in harsh gasps while his feet stumbled over loose bricks. By holding on to the damp wall, he steadied himself. Immediately his nostrils were assaulted by the rank smell. But he ignored it. It was such a relief to stop running.

Cautiously, he leaned out and struggled to see if anyone had followed him. It was quiet, deathly quiet. Philips smelled the person before he felt the hand that reached out from the black depths of the building and grabbed his arm. A scream started in his throat, but when it escaped from his mouth it was more like the bleat of a baby lamb. He leaped out of the doorway, thrashing his arm as if it were in the grasp of a venomous insect. The owner of the hand was inadvertently pulled from the doorway and Martin found himself looking at a drug-sodden junkie, barely capable of standing upright. “Christ!” shouted Philips as he turned and fled back into the night.