Empties (19 page)

She felt fatigue now, but told herself that was only from a lack of food and rest. Soon she would be stronger than ever.
 

Down in the old kitchen, she set herself a dinner of cold cuts and bread from the groceries, and sat eating at the dusty table, imagining herself in the Senate gallery, emptying heads below, listening to cries of panic and fleeing. Were there others like her? She might know their gaze when she saw it, and have only a moment in which to act—but now she was thinking ahead, arming herself with the experience of easy dangers, unable to imagine any that she would not be able to overcome.
 

Later, she boiled water on the hotplate, made coffee, and sat over it as daylight died in the small basement windows, leaving only a faint glow from the city. She did not want to turn on a light.
 

As she sat in the dark, her pulse quickened and raced, and her heart pumped wildly, but she knew it was from her extra efforts. Blood dripped from her nose into the blackness of her cup. She breathed deeply to calm herself and sipped the bloodied coffee.
 

17

Convinced now that Dierdre wanted to lure him out to the Bronx address, Benek decided not to go alone. She was armed as no suspect had ever been.
 

He drove home, circled the block, then parked two streets away and walked over to his building. The outer door was locked, as usual, but she might have pressed enough buttons for someone to buzz her in, or followed in behind someone who had a key. She would not have been able to get into his apartment without setting off an alarm, but she could be waiting for him in the elevator, or in the upstairs hallway. He wondered whether she expected him to think that the Bronx lure was only a feint, to give him a false sense of security about returning to his apartment. Could she have been that clever? But with certain death waiting for him from a face to face confrontation he had to prepare for the worst.
 

He let himself in with his key and started toward the elevator. An out-of-order sign hung on a chain across the closed door. He heard a sound behind him and tensed, then turned around.
 

Carla, in a bulky sweater and jeans, a large purse slung over her shoulder, was at the bank of mailboxes in the alcove. She closed and locked her box, then turned and saw him. She looked fresh and youthful, still unmarked by the city. Her hair was a slightly lighter shade of red. She seemed about to smile, then narrowed her eyes.
 

Carla might have seen Dierdre arrive, and might know if she were waiting for him upstairs. But she did not look as though she wanted to say anything to him. The back of his neck prickled with embarrassment as he recalled how he had shouted at her through his door. She stood still, waiting for him to speak.
 

“I owe you an apology,” he said. “I was kind of feverish with that flu—didn’t know what I was saying.”
 

Her expression softened. “I understand,” she said, but he felt that she was only being kind.
 

“Did you just come down the stairs?” he asked.
 

“Yes, why?”
 

“Was anyone waiting for me in the hallway or on the stairs?”
 

“No—no one all day.”
 

“You’re sure?”
 

“I’ve been home. I would have heard. After all, I am one of those small-town busybodies.” She smiled slightly. “Have a hard day?”
 

He shrugged. “They’re all either hard or annoying.”
 

“Maybe you need to kick back for a while,” she said, and he knew that she sensed that more was the matter with him. “I made some beef burgundy in my crock pot yesterday, and I’ve got a ton of leftovers. Why don’t you come over for dinner in a couple of hours?”
 

He thought of sitting in her apartment, gazing into her friendly green eyes and open face and forgetting that such a creature as Dierdre Matera existed. His stomach tightened. Dierdre, if she had gotten inside, might come down the stairs at any moment and hear him talking to Carla.
 

“Sorry, I can’t,” he said quickly. “I’m—well, I’ve been trying to work through some problems lately.” He might save her life if he pushed her away. “Right now, I think I just have to be left alone.”
 

She gazed at him sympathetically. “So long, then. Maybe another time.” She walked toward the entrance as he hurried to the stairs.
 

He climbed slowly, knowing that it was possible that Carla had missed seeing Dierdre.
 

He came out on his own fourth floor, feeling winded, went out through the stairwell entrance, and hurried to his door, taking out his keys and gun at the same time.
 

He stood at his door and listened, then slipped the key into the deadlock, turned it and pulled it out. He shoved the other key into the lower lock and pushed the door open.
 

Turning on the lights, he rushed through the living room and into the bedroom, then checked the kitchen and bathroom, and the walk-in closet. Returning to the bedroom, he got down on all fours, peered under the bed, and tensed as he saw a shape, but it was only a missing towel among the dustballs.
 

Breathing badly from all the dust, he went back to the front door, looked right, then left just as Carla’s door closed. She had apparently gone out for a short walk, then come back upstairs. He shut his own door and went back to his bedroom, where he stripped and got ready to shower.
 

Dierdre had to be at the Bronx address, waiting for him, he told himself, so he would not go there. He would keep her guessing, at least for tonight.
 

But she came to him in his sleep, and he struggled with her. She scratched at him, and her nails were in his brain, trying to pull the mass out through his nose; but it stuck behind his eyes, because she didn’t know how the ancient Egyptians had done it.
 

Toward morning he lay awake, thinking that he was stronger than she was, and wondering again if she could core him during a physical struggle.
 

Early the next morning, he got up and dressed in his best work suit, knowing that he might be more plausible if he at least didn’t look as if he were having a nervous breakdown.
 

At the precinct, Silvera, Abrams, and Didsbury peered out of their alcoves as he came up to Captain Reddy’s office and knocked on the door. Benek nodded to them, but they seemed reluctant to ask him anything, as if they’d already made up their minds that maybe he was on his way out of his job.
 

“Come in!” Reddy shouted from inside.
 

Benek tensed and opened the door. He went in feeling as if he were sleepwalking and sat down in the chair before the captain’s desk and tried to look composed as he told his story. Reddy played with a ballpen as he listened, and did not look up at him.
 

Finally, Benek finished, and waited.
 

Reddy said after a long silence, “What else can you tell me?” And Benek knew by his tone of voice that the captain did not believe him. No one could ever believe it; telling was not enough. He should not have come here and just told it; better to have gone on alone, because his training was not enough. No one can back you up without some proof beyond your word.
 

“There’s nothing else,” Benek said. “She’s got to be stopped. If we go in with a team, one or two men will certainly die. Do we tell them what we’re up against?”
 

“Of course not,” Reddy said conspiratorially, obviously humoring him. “They wouldn’t believe you, because I don’t know that any of this is true. It just can’t be. Oh, she may be guilty of something, but not what you say. Would you believe it if you were me?”
 

Benek leaned forward in the creaky wooden chair, feeling suddenly that he might still convince the captain after all. “Go look at the autopsy. And Gibney.”
 

“We’ll check about Gibney.” The captain shook his head in disbelief. “An empty skull still wouldn’t prove anything. As far as I know he died of a cerebral accident. Do you honestly expect me to find that brain missing?”
 

“Yes,” Benek said.
 

The captain gave him a pitying look and Benek felt lost. The captain had every reason to think that he was looking at a classic case.
 

“I can’t believe you. There’s nothing to believe. We could go out there and hit her with a trank dart, if she’s as crazy as you say, but I’ve no evidence that she’s nuts, which is the only part of what you say that could possibly be true. From what you’ve told me, she’s done nothing except... get you upset.”
 

“I guess you’d have to see her in action,” Benek said.
 

Reddy sighed and threw up his hands. “That’s about it, Benek.”
 

“By then it would be too late!”
 

“A trank shot
would
put her right under,” Reddy said, playing along, as if he wanted to prevent his detective from raving.
 

“But you have to get in close with that gun. She’ll core the shooter before he can fire.”
 

Reddy grimaced and threw his pen down on his desk. “Look, Benek, you still make enough sense to know I can’t kid you. Tell me what it is that you expect me to do.”
 

Benek took a deep breath and said, “She’s still waiting in that place she owns in the Bronx—I’m sure of it. Send two snipers and get her from a distance.”
 

“You mean just shoot her down?”
 

Benek nodded. “That’s the only way to avoid losing lives, Captain.”
 

“You can’t be serious, Benek. I’ve looked at your case file. There’s nothing but the one autopsy and that crazy stuff at the church. This woman is a respectable person, a landlord, with no record of any kind, who’s never been charged with anything, and you’re telling me that the NYPD should send out a hit squad and finish her off. You tell me Gibney’s skull is also empty, and the priest’s, but what would that prove? The best I could do would be to politely ask her to come in and answer a few questions. And what would I ask her?”
 

Benek stood up, shaking slightly. “Captain, I’ll go out there with a few men, and you’ll lose one or two. Would that convince you? Is that what it would take?”
 

“You know that’s not what would happen. You’re not well...”
 

“They wouldn’t know what they’re dealing with. She won’t have a gun in her hand, but what she can do is as good as being heavily armed. They’ll be sitting ducks. They won’t know what’s happening until it’s too late. Come out there with me.”
 

“Just listen to what you’re saying. We should go out there and get killed to prove you right?”
 

“We’ll go carefully, because I know what’s waiting.”
 

“And shoot her down?”
 

“We have to,” Benek said.
 

“Look, Benek, you’re deluded about this woman. I don’t know how this could have happened to you! By what you’ve said, by your own words, if we shot her down, all the evidence would be gone. What would her dead body prove?”
 

“You’d see with Gibney’s body, the priest, and the wino,” Benek said. Killing her from a safe distance still seemed the safest thing to do—but her death would prove nothing, and would look like a police mistake of some kind. People would have to be cored out in the open, before multiple witnesses, and even then some would deny the proof and look for another explanation.
 

He looked at Reddy and said, “More people will die. Wait until you see it for yourself.”
 

Reddy shook his head and sat back. “You sound so goddamned convinced. Do you really believe all this? Why did you come here, Benek? To prove to me that you’re nuts so I’d put you on disability?”
 

Benek said, “I guess I was naive enough to believe that I could stop her by laying it all out to you, as honestly as I could, like a good cop, and get some backup.” He stared at Reddy in despair, realizing that the true horror of other people lay in the fact that they could only imagine others in their own separate interiors; you couldn’t just break out of yourself and into them, so they’d know that what you knew was true.
 

Captain Reddy swallowed hard and sat back. “How do you manage to sound so convinced? Worse than that, how do you manage to
look
so convinced?”
 

Benek said, “It’s a gift given to the truly disturbed.”
 

“You haven’t lost your sense of humor,” Reddy said.
 

“Look, let’s go down to the morgue and look inside Gibney’s skull. That’s what Gibney and I did with the other case. It was a start.”
 

“And what did Gibney say?”