Empties (16 page)

One thing at a time.
 

But she felt sorry for Benek as she pictured his dark wavy hair and puzzled expression. He was attractive in his blue suit, and she wondered if he had been a poor boy who had learned to dress well. She imagined his stocky body standing up naked before her and wondered how he might take her from behind; he had not been very pleasant when restrained on his back. Now his image stood transfixed, unable to reach out to her as she touched herself, hoping that if she had a child by him, her power might be passed on. Wind rattled the wooden fences below, and she felt a stab of fear mixed with pleasure. Cats screeched, and she opened her eyes. The sky flashed without thunder as her wrist twitched. Rain washed across the windows and she surrendered to her orgasm.
 

Later, she dialed Benek’s number, sure that he had gone home.
 

“There’s no one to help you now,” she said, disappointed that he had not come after her. “Gibney’s dead. No one knows. No one will care what you say.” She hung up before he could speak, wondering what kind of father he would make. The chassis was okay, but the brain was cowardly.
 

14

Benek hung up the phone and sank down into his dusty sofa, closed his eyes and pressed cold towels around his aching wrists.
 

He leaned forward and quickly dialed the coroner’s office.
 

The phone rang three times. “City morgue,” a voice said. \“Frank Gibney, please. This is Detective Benek.”
 

There was a pause. “Doctor Gibney died this afternoon,” the voice said. “They think it was a brain hemorrhage of some kind.”
 

“Who’s this?” Benek asked.
 

“Johansen, his assistant.”
 

So it was true. He was alone. He sat back again and listened to the blood pumping in his ears, wondering how to surprise Dierdre from behind and kill her. She was a dangerous intruder in the human swarm, and had to be killed. She would not expect him to come after her right away, he told himself, and saw himself firing before she could turn around. It was up to him, because he was the only one who knew.
 

“Are you there?” Johansen’s voice shouted from the receiver.
 

“Yes, thank you,” he said and hung up.
 

There was a loud knock on his door. Had she found him already? Was she ready to core him when he opened the door? He got up and stood still, waiting, then approached the door.
 

Three rapid knocks followed, and a deep male voice said, “This is your upstairs neighbor, Mr. DeSapio, asking you nicely, in person, to turn the ringer down on that goddamned antique phone of yours! I know you’re there because I heard you come in. What about it, do I get a break?”
 

Benek took a deep breath and said, “Sure thing. I just bought a new one. It’ll go right in.”
 

“Thanks,” said the voice behind the door.
 

Benek went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. There were dark circles under his eyes. He ran some hot water in the sink and washed his face, realizing that he would have to call the precinct and report in sick before he could do anything on his own.
 

The phone rang again. He rushed to it, hoping that DeSapio hadn’t heard it, and lifted the receiver.
 

“Hello,” he said.
 

“Benek? This is Reddy. Where in hell have you been?”
 

In hell, he wanted to say, but said, “I’ve been ill... high fever, trying to sleep it off.”
 

“Flu, huh?”
 

“Yes, sir. I couldn’t even answer the phone or call in.”
 

“So it seems. I sent a patrolman to knock on your door, but he got no answer.”
 

“Sorry.”
 

“Have you seen a doctor?”
 

“Yes, I have.”
 

“Get back as soon as you can.”
 

As he hung up, he heard a familiar rap on his door, but decided to ignore it as he went into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of cold leftover coffee.
 

“Come on!” DeSapio shouted like a rumbling mountain. “You’re a goddamned liar about that new phone of yours! I’m gonna stand here until you open this fucking door!”
 

Benek took a long sip, set the cup down, and went out to the door. He opened the locks and pulled back the sticky door with a jolt, startling DeSapio.
 

The tall, thin man with graying hair looked down at him with ratlike eyes and asked, “Geez, what’s happened to you, buddy?” His expression softened as he noticed Benek’s bruises and abrasions.
 

“Just a hard day’s law enforcement.”
 

The man took a few steps back. “Well... get that new phone in.”
 

Benek closed the door and stood there, telling himself that he had to go after Dierdre. She would be better off dead. There was no way anyone would be able to study her; they’d have to keep her sedated. She was just too dangerous to let go around conscious, too much of a threat to let live...
 

He went back into the kitchen, downed the rest of his coffee, then poured another cup, trying to control his feelings of outrage and humiliation as he remembered the fear he had felt as she rode him. The freakiness of it crossed with the pleasure he had felt, and his stomach knotted. He stumbled out into the living room, spilling coffee, and sat down on the sofa, embracing his rising conviction that he had to hunt her down and kill her before she came after him, then leaned back and closed his eyes, trying to ease the pressure that was building behind them.
 

He drifted into sleep, telling himself that he would be moving toward his own death if he went after her. She’ll scoop you out and your brains will steam on the street, he said. Protect yourself. Ignore her and you might never hear from her again. His dream-words grew weak. He floated free, blind and unfeeling, and saw himself lying on a street, decomposing. Rats came and ate pieces of him. He woke up in the dream and looked into the bathroom mirror. His eyes were gone, but somehow he saw that there was no brain in his skull. Frank Gibney came up behind him and said, “What could ever strike at a human being more completely, or with more contempt, than the loss of his most prideful organ? Power and uniqueness live there, striving to escape from the million-year-old labyrinth of instinct and survival. Even your dick is wired into its imagination, dreaming feverishly of offspring, of making another of itself.” Gibney smiled and put a hand on Benek’s shoulder. “I’m sorry you’ve lost your brains, son. They were your best weapon, the only hope you had, the only hope we’ll all ever have.” Gibney shook his head. “No, come to think of it, maybe not. Reason is only the obedient dog of the will, which says I want this or I want that and reason runs to fetch it, rationalizing all the way. No, reason won’t help you at all, or any of us. Nothing will, I guess. Sorry, kid, but that’s just the way things are.”
 

He awoke to a crashing sound, shivering on the sofa. His cup lay broken on the floor, coffee sinking into the floorboards, and for once he wished that he had put in rugs. He got up, aching again, and wandered into his bedroom, where he fell on the bed, covered himself to get warm, and began to drift again in limbo.
 

“I could have done some real thinking for you,” Gibney said, “been your friend, the father you never had, if you’d warned me in time to save my life—but you’re past needing anyone now. You’ve got to look out for yourself, raise yourself up again and do it right. I can’t help you, being dead and all.”
 

A knocking on his door woke him, stopping and starting every few seconds, insistent but gentle. Someone really wanted to see him. Someone really cared. He struggled out of bed and staggered out through the living room to the door.
 

He saw Carla through the peephole, looking pretty despite the distortion of the lens.
 

“Hello,” he said through the door, trying to sound normal.
 

She said, “I just came by to tell you that a policeman was here earlier looking for you.”
 

Reddy had told him that he had sent someone over. “Yes, I know. Thanks. I got the message.”
 

“Is everything all right?”
 

“Just a little flu.”
 

“Can I get you anything?”
 

Her concern was welcome, but he realized at once that it would be dangerous for her to be seen anywhere near him. No telling what Dierdre would do after killing Gibney. She might think Carla was a girlfriend and start to worry about what he might have told her.
 

“No,” he said. “Don’t trouble yourself.”
 

“Are you sure?”
 

“Yes, thanks—”
 

“No trouble. What are neighbors for?”
 

Suddenly Benek knew that he would have to keep her out of danger. She had to stay away from him to be safe. “Go away and don’t worry about me!” he shouted, trying to sound rude.
 

“But—” she began, startled.
 

Good, he thought, then added to be certain, “Get lost, you stupid bitch!”
 

His father said, “Don’t worry, son, they’re all witches,” and Benek heard him as if he were alive.
 

He heard Carla gasp and move away down the hall. His chest knotted as he felt her hurt and retreated to the sofa, feeling twisted and lost, and started to shiver again.
 

“You’ll lose your mind,” his father whispered to him. “It’s what they all do. Kiss your brains goodbye, son.”
 

“Go away,” he whispered.
 

“They get you with their looks,” his father hissed, “for as long as they’re beautiful. Like poison flowers!”
 

There was no way to tell the dead drunk that it was only Dierdre who was guilty, that this was a case of strangeness and not his foolishness, maybe not anyone’s fault. There was no way to tell him because the dead man was laughing too loudly to hear.
 

15

He had lost his mind, but it was the right thing to do; to lose his mind and kill her before she took his brain. It all made perfect sense.
 

He approached the house cautiously the next morning, eyes fixed on the windows of her apartment, fearing that she might look out, see him, and empty him on the street. He had no idea at what distance her power fell off; maybe it didn’t diminish, and all she needed was a clear image of her victim’s location to core him halfway around the world, or even on the moon. Or did she need eye contact? Was it possible to struggle with her physically? Could she core during a hand to hand fight?
 

Maybe she was not here.
 

He was sure now that he would kill her, no matter how long it took and wherever he might have to hunt for her, even if it meant his own death. His own humiliation and Gibney’s murder were more than enough. He had lost not only an ally but someone who might have become a friend. He had never had any friends, only acquaintances, never anyone close at all. He saw himself and Gibney on his boat, sailing to some far-off island across a sunny sea as if they were both the father and son that each had been denied. Gibney would never have his dream of retirement.
 

But it was more than that. Having started with Gibney, she would eliminate her mistakes. She now understood that no one should ever find out about her, but an accident and pride in her power had exposed her to at least one person, because she had needed to show off. Whichever way he thought about it, Benek knew that she had to kill him, that she would have killed him if he had not escaped, and that he had no choice but to kill her. He was the only one who knew enough to do it. Trying to get anyone to help him would only get more people killed in a way that no one would understand. If by some chance she died, it would only conceal her ability forever, because she would not be present to demonstrate it, which was the only way to prove that it had existed in her, and might continue in others. Better for humankind to be rid of her and not look back...
 

Gripping the gun in the pocket of his long coat, he went up the stairs to the house and saw that the front door was slightly open. He paused and looked around the neighborhood of refurbished brownstones, breathing in the chill air, then turned and pushed the door open with his foot, stepped inside, and peered down the hall toward her apartment. That door was also ajar. Was she waiting for him just inside? It had to be a trap. Only a fool would leave an apartment unlocked in Manhattan. Her pride had told her that she could act faster than he could shoot, and maybe it was true.