Steven Brust - Agyar

“Huh?” he said. “Maybe.”

“Then I should clean up-” which was as far as I got before I saw flashing lights through one of the uncovered and unbroken windows on the main floor. I took the pistol because it came to mind that I might need one, dashed upstairs once more, and hid the pistol in the attic. I was trying to figure out what to do when I heard the door open, and a voice called out, “Police!” This was repeated several times.

Jim was next to me. “They have a dog,” he said.

“I know; I smell it.”

“What are you going to do?”

“What worries me,” I said, “is that, if they think there’s someone here, they’ll keep looking until they find someone.”

“But then-”

“On the other hand,” I said, “they do have a dog.”

I made my way silently to another bedroom, one with an unbroken window. I opened it, and the cold air rushed in. They were being very cautious downstairs; they had found the bodies, and must assume someone else was in the house; they had probably seen two sets of footprints entering through the snow, and none leaving.

I saw the beam of a flashlight from outside just in time to duck back from the window. The easy part was getting out the window, down to an imperfectly sealed and very small basement window, into the basement, and into my hideyhole, all without being seen. The hard part was convincing the dog that I had gone directly up the stairs, into the bedroom, and out the window. From there, I could have gone onto the roof and down a tree, landing on the dry pavement of the alley behind the house.

It must have worked, because they didn’t make an exhaustive search of the house, although I could hear them for hours, going over every inch of the living room. They must have been efficient, however, because by the next evening they were gone, taking the bodies and other evidence with them. The doors have been sealed with yellow tape that reads, “Crime Site, Sealed by Order of the Police Department,” and a placard citing the ordinance that gives them permission to do this, and threatens imprisonment of up to five years, fines of up to one hundred thousand dollars, or both to anyone breaking the seal or disturbing the scene. I am not terribly worried.

When I looked at the mess on the main floor, the first thing I noticed was that they had removed large sections of the woodwork, apparently taking every piece in which a bullet was embedded, which annoyed me and made poor Jim miserable. I don’t think he was happy about the stains on the polished maple floor, either, but what choice did I have?

After commiserating with him for a few minutes, I came up to the typewriting room, found the typewriting machine undisturbed and the papers still in the attic, and set to work recording what had happened, which brings me, Constant Reader, up to the very minute.

I have been sitting here thinking and remembering my thoughts as I lay waiting for the police to either find me or not. I don’t know if these thoughts are sufficiently organized to set down, but let me try.

It seems that attitudes toward criminals have changed substantially since I was a child. It may be that I am wrong, because I was largely sheltered from contact with those sorts of people until I met Laura, but it seems that, when I was young, one was a criminal, or one was an honest citizen, and the demarcation was well drawn. Today, most people break laws and don’t think much of it, perhaps because of the odd things that have come to be illegal. But the result is that the line between lawabiding citizen and hardened criminal is much softer than it was.

It seems clear to me that our visitors of last night were criminals in every sense of the word, but one of them had a little brother who acted the way any young man might have. So, did something go “wrong” with his older brother? Or does being a criminal mean something different than it did years ago? Jill is a criminal too, because there were marijuana buds in her ashtray, but is she like the gentlemen from last night? Or like the three children who were here before? When I was much younger, and far more naive, I thought that the line between legal and illegal stayed close to the line between right and wrong. Well, either I was living an illusory life then, or everything has changed now, so that when the two lines intersect it seems only momentary, transitory, coincidental.

Or, more likely, it is because when I do what I must to survive, I am, technically, committing crimes; yet how can what I do be wrong, when it is only what I must do? Still, perhaps this is a justification that has been used by scoundrels ever since the class has existed; I do not know.

I wish I could listen to some music. I’m hearing Chopin in my head, and I would love to truly hear it. With the police nosing around the house, though, I wouldn’t dare put in a stereo system even if I had one.

Hell, I’m a criminal; I could steal one; I’ve been stealing electricity all along. I suppose Professor Carpenter pays the dollar or two a month to keep it on and hasn’t noticed the six or seven cents it costs to run the water pump. I’m glad the place has its own well so that after I managed to turn the water on I didn’t have to worry about him suddenly getting unexplained bills from the city.

I wish, for Jim’s sake, that the woodwork hadn’t gotten messed up.

I have just returned from Susan’s. It occurs to me that I never saw Jill, nor even asked about her. It was a mad and crazy time, and in the end, I nearly-well, it doesn’t matter, I didn’t. When I think of how close I came it does give me to tremble.

I have never been one to rail against the gods, but that passion should be so dangerous is a crime. I do not know what I have done that I should be punished in this way; that the more I love, the more I must fight myself, or else the more I will kill. I know, I know that someday I will lose control, and take her life, and on that day I will weep.

But let me set it down as well as I can remember it-and this, I think, I will be able to set down verbatim, because it is branded on all the cells that constitute my brain. In fact, it may not be necessary to record it, for I cannot imagine a time when the memory will grow dim.

But I will set it down anyway, because in that way I can live it again.

The two roommates from upstairs-I forget their names-were just leaving as I arrived. They nodded to me vaguely, as if they couldn’t remember who I was but thought we might have met once. I knocked on the door, and this time it was Susan who answered. She greeted me with a big smile and showed me in.

“Hello,” I said. “And how are we today?”

“Perky and chipper,” she sang, and twirled around the room, ending in a classic ballet pose, one arm over her head, the other in front of her, knees bent, one foot pointed down, head tilted and face in a china-doll smile.

I bowed gracefully and held out my hand. She took it, I bowed, she curtsied, and we waltzed around the room, sans music, for a minute or two, before I twirled her away. She finally stopped in the same pose that had started the dance, held it for a moment, dimpled, then bowed. I said, “Let’s chat.”

“Hmmm?” she said. “Something on your mind?”

“How many lovers do you have, my dear?”

Her face clouded for a moment, but it was only a cirrus, no thunderhead in sight, and presently it went away, leaving a few pale wisps of puzzled expression in its wake. She said, “Don’t you think that a rather personal question, Jonathan?”

“Well, yes, but I’m a daring individual that way. How many lovers do you have?”

She stood straight, her arms folded, and she frowned an enchanting frown while she decided whether to answer me. At last she said, “You and Jennifer. Why? Do you think I need more?”