Empties (18 page)

Still, the safest course was to kill everyone who had the slightest knowledge of her. No one must know anything about her ever again. She would never make that mistake again. She smiled and repeated to herself that her ability was not something anyone would easily believe existed, and that gave her an advantage. In fact it was impossible to accept. Benek might even now still be doubting what he had seen, or questioning his own sanity. Nevertheless, some imaginative genius might accumulate enough information about her to guess the truth. She would make sure to leave nothing behind her—no clues, no one alive; no risk left standing. Soon she would be back at the beginning, when no one knew about her and she could do as she pleased.
 

“It’s just over here,” she said to the Israeli cabby. She pointed to the rubble and brick-strewn lot with only one seven storey house on it.
 

“That? It’s condemned, lady. Looks like fucking Beirut during the wars. Excuse me, I was there.”
 

“You’re kidding,” she said, just to say something.
 

“Yah, I drove a tank into Gaza once. Made me sick breathing the fumes...”
 

“Stop at the corner,” she said before he could finish.
 

“You want to be left
here?
”
 

“Yes, thank you.”
 

“Got a gun somewhere in those tight jeans, lady?” he asked as she got out. He sighed as he watched her take out the bags of groceries and her suitcase. “Even if you had a gun, you don’t have enough hands! In this neighborhood they’ll take your pretty coat and eat you alive with your groceries. Believe me, lady, what I tell you!”
 

She glared at him.
 

“So now you put your death on my head? Please, lady!”
 

“Get going,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”
 

He grimaced. “So what can I do if some people want to get killed?” he said and pulled away.
 

She held the bags of groceries against her, grabbed the suitcase with her right hand, and picked her way across the rubble toward the boarded up building she had lived in for two years as a child, by her uncle’s charity, long before he and her father had bought the brownstone. She had not sold it, thinking that the land might one day become valuable, but that day had not come, and would probably never come. The city had no money to tear the place down. She continued to pay the taxes for no reason beyond vague sentiment, so the building was not technically abandoned, although at least one lawyer had told her that technically she no longer owned even the land. She had refused the price he wanted to settle the question, and the city never sent back her tax checks.
 

She wondered, as she neared the entrance, whether the basement apartment was usable without water and utilities, but she wouldn’t have to stay long, if Benek was smart enough to follow her promptly.
 

She stopped at the big glass door, still miraculously unbroken, and looked back along the way she had come. A few people were staring at her from across the street, but they quickly seemed to lose interest.
 

She put down her bag and pulled back the big door. It squeaked and stuck open. She slid the suitcase inside, set the grocery bags next to it, and pulled the door shut behind her as she came inside. Picking up the groceries, she went to the stairwell and cautiously made her way down to the basement, remembering the child who had run down these steps with no fear of falling, crying out to hear her echo.
 

She crept through the basement hall and saw that the door to the superintendent’s apartment was open. She peered inside and saw no one, then stood still and listened, but heard nothing. She went inside, put the groceries down on a dusty wooden table, and tried to close the door behind her. It creaked, but closed without latching. She tried the lock and found that it was broken. She went to the barred window and looked up through the dusty glass at the late afternoon sky that was already deepening into a dark blue.
 

Turning, she looked around the studio apartment, noticed a lamp, and tried it. The switch clicked but the bare bulb remained dark. Then she noticed that the cord was not plugged in. She put it in and the light went on. Somewhere, a circuit still worked, or had been illegally connected.
 

She tried the kitchen sink faucet. It ran clear. There was no stove, but she saw an old hotplate on the counter. She tried the sink in the bathroom and flushed the toilet. Both worked, with very little rust in the water. Someone was staying here, she realized as she went upstairs to get her suitcase. Probably homeless people who knew how to turn water on from the street. Or the city engineers had been sloppy.
 

She looked out through the front door, and saw no one. The neighborhood where once the Third Avenue elevated train had come up from Manhattan was now a ruin, too large even for scavengers to exhaust, but they would soon get it all, leaving only shattered glass, broken bricks, concrete, and rotting wood. Strange that this door was still here, she thought, looking around at the deserted neighborhood.
 

She came back to the basement apartment with the suitcase, opened it on the table, then heard footsteps outside in the hall and felt the familiar impersonal hatred stirring within her. Turning around to face the door, she waited, readying herself to strike.
 

It opened slowly and she saw two figures, an old man and a woman, come inside. They stopped and stared at her in fear.
 

“Who are you?” the man whispered as the old woman clutched his ragged coat sleeve with bony fingers.
 

“The landlady. Go away.”
 

The couple stood there for a moment; then the man said, “Can we stay here?” He spoke with a practiced pleading in his voice.
 

“We have nowhere to go,” the woman said nearly as well. “Just until we find another place. Please.”
 

“You can’t stay here,” Dierdre said.
 

“Please,” the man said, “we’ve done no harm.”
 

“So you’ve been here before,” Dierdre said.
 

They both nodded.
 

“Not today, go away.”
 

They stood still, resisting her.
 

“Right now.” She didn’t want to wear herself out on them; better to just let them go.
 

“Please, just for today. My husband is sick. Can’t you see?”
 

“No.”
 

“You’re cruel,” the old woman said. “It would cost you nothing to be kind.” She sounded even more convincing this time.
 

The man glared at her through his weakness. Dierdre sat down in a nearby chair and stared at the couple. The woman was holding the old man up, and Dierdre almost remembered that she might feel something for them, some sentiment that she had lost a long time ago, when her grandmother had held her.
 

Now, Dierdre thought, might be a good time to try removing something other than brains; with enough practice she might be able to remove bones, leaving the body mostly intact. Livers and kidneys flying out of people might be amusing.
 

Eyes.
 

Hearts, better still.
 

Yes, hearts. Maybe she could burst hearts. Hurl hearts. Leave them heartless. It would be useful to take hearts, she thought as she gazed at the homeless couple, and reached out to both of them at once.
 

They grabbed at their chests and stared at her, confused.
 

“Please!” the old woman cried.
 

The old man moaned.
 

But their hearts would not come out. Not one, or the other. Dierdre’s frustration jolted her hatred. How did they dare resist? It was as if some goodness, some defensive virus of pity within herself was protecting them, Dierdre thought as she collapsed and darkness passed across her eyes...
 

“She’s bleeding,” she heard the old man say somewhere far in the dark flood.
 

“We should call for help,” the woman said, her aged voice trembling with kindness.
 

“No,” said the man, “we’ll only have trouble.”
 

Dierdre felt the old woman take her wrist and hold it. “Her pulse is normal,” she said after a long time. “She’ll be okay.”
 

“We’d better leave,” said the old man.
 

Dierdre opened her eyes. The couple stood over her.
 

“She won’t die,” the old man said.
 

“She’s so pale,” said the old women.
 

“She was pale when she came in,” the old man added. “Take her coat.”
 

Furious, she closed her eyes—and opened them in time to see the old man collapse as if crushed by an invisible weight, and his brain dropped at her feet with a squish. The old woman whimpered and tried to hold him up with feeble arms. Dierdre reached out again and twisted, but it was like trying to open a stuck jar of pickles. Finally, the old woman’s brain hit the floor behind her man’s, as the couple fell face down on the dusty floor near her feet. Dierdre put out her hand to the table and sat up.
 

She took a deep breath and felt a surge of strength fighting her fatigue. Her nose began to bleed and stained her coat. She lay down on the floor until the blood stopped and the fatigue passed. After a few more minutes she imagined that somehow her effort at hearts had strengthened her, even if she would have to stay with brains for a while longer. She had reached more deeply into herself than ever before, and further exploration might one day give her more than she knew, with greater control of her skill.
 

She found some old newspapers, scooped the two brains up from the floor, took them into the kitchen and put them on the cooking counter. Then she went back to her suitcase, took out the ball of aluminum foil in which she had wrapped Gibney’s brain, and brought it to the kitchen.
 

She cut up all three organs into small pieces and flushed them down the toilet. Then she dragged the two bodies out into the utility area of the basement and covered them with some old canvas, getting a few old bags for their heads to make it look as if they slept there. The bodies might not be found for a long time, unless the building was demolished. She washed up and went upstairs to the front door to see if Benek was coming.
 

Surveying the rubble-strewn lot through the dirty glass, she wondered again whether he could get help to come against her. Killing the old couple had irritated her, and she knew that she was again thinking wildly. If she killed Benek and a few policemen, she might have to flee because the local precinct would know that they had come here, and they would look to question the owner of the lot. She would have to hide bodies. The police would not understand what had happened, by then might suspect her of... what? If she cored them and fled, some people might believe the impossible, she told herself. Superstition had never died out. She was better than any witch that never existed...
 

If Benek came for her alone, she told herself more calmly, that would suggest that he had failed to convince anyone of his story. She would never demonstrate her ability directly to anyone. That was the first thing to keep in mind.
 

Then it occurred to her again that she probably didn’t have to do anything to remain safe. With no one likely to believe him, Benek would never pose any kind of official threat to her. She should just leave him alone.
 

Hatred stirred her as she pushed the door open, stepped outside, looked out across the rubble and stretched, feeling a sexual exhilaration flowing through her body. The sunset was a ribbon of fire on the purple horizon, as if someone had laid out a hot iron behind the skyline. She took a deep breath of the cool evening air, and saw two cats picking their way across the debris toward the house.
 

She reached out to test her growing strength, and dropped the cats in their tracks, feeling a jolt of pleasure and much less fatigue. But it was still only brains.
 

Several rats approached the bodies, sniffing, and she felt a twinge for Atalanta. She closed her eyes, breathed deeply and opened them, her pleasure mounting, and suddenly nothing stirred around the dead cats.
 

A stray dog came by and barked. She jerked her head back, silencing him.
 

Bats fluttered in the sunset glow. She clenched her teeth and they fell like coals from the sky.
 

Her body tingled, and she looked around desperately for something else to empty, but the lot was silent as the sun set and her hatred subsided. She shivered as warmth left her, pulled her open coat around her and buttoned it.
 

Practice, she told herself; that would build up her strength to an untiring level of skill. Armies might yet fall before her and she would not weaken.