Bad to the Bone (30 page)

Hello, Poochie.

Bye-bye, Poochies.

Hanover House was a convenience I could no longer afford. The constant quarreling. The bullshit politics. Enough was enough.

Time is the limiting factor in all great efforts. I was needed at the lab, but I was forced to spend long hours baby-sitting two hundred neurotic poochies. (
Neurotic poochies
? An example of redundancy fit for the dictionary.) Originally, I’d planned to simply disappear, but that course of action had obvious flaws. My deserted poochies would first grow resentful, then seek out lawyers, investigative journalists, fat detectives,
Geraldo Rivera!

I decided to end the Hanoverian experiment by uniting my poochies. By keeping them distracted while I made my getaway.

My performance was masterful. I had them gather in the meeting room, then wait a half hour before I made my appearance. When I entered by the rear doors, all eyes turned to me.

I literally dragged myself to the front of the room. “The time has come to end the great experiment,” I announced.

The melodrama of the moment was so overwhelming I allowed a tear to form in the corner of my right eye.

“No. No. No.” They stood in their seats, shouting.

“As most of you know, we’ve been investigated by several agencies over the last two years. In each and every case we’ve been cleared of any wrongdoing. Yet each investigation has taken its toll. Our legal costs have been enormous and contributions have virtually stopped because of the bad publicity.”

This last was a complete lie. There had never been any ‘contributions.’ My only source of income was the slave labor I exacted from my poochies.

“The wolf is at the door,” I continued. “The buildings are about to be repossessed.” (Of course they were. The properties were heavily mortgaged and I hadn’t made a payment in eight months.) “We can’t even afford to buy food and clothing. It’s…” I began to sob and moan. “Hanover House is gone, but you must not let the Hanoverian system die. You have the
knowledge
. You have the
strength
. Stay close to each other. Meet in small groups. You must live as the early Christians lived. You must be aware of your enemies at all times. As for me, I must go into a brief exile, but I
will
return to you if you keep hope alive. If you do not forget that the Hanoverian system is the
last great hope
for mankind.”

At this point I broke down completely. Most of my poochies broke down as well. They forgot about the quarreling, the complaints and the bullshit poochie politics.

When I recovered somewhat, I tossed them a bone. Our cleaning business was still viable. I’d gotten offers from prospective buyers, but I would not sell. Instead, I would turn the business over to the Therapists who’d been running it all along.

Most of my poochies hadn’t had to look for a job in years. Few of them were psychologically prepared for the rigors of mainstream employment. Their jobs would keep them together. That and the hope (should I say the
threat
?) of my return. By the time they sorted it out, I’d be gone.

“It’s possible to view these events as a stroke of good fortune. As an opportunity. Some of you have become more dependent on Hanover House than Hanoverian psychology. Some of you have become dependent on
me
. What you must remember is that your therapy was designed to give you the strength to meet crises. I’ve always counseled you on the dangers of drug addiction. Well, you can also become addicted to situations and individuals. Withdrawal from addiction, from
any
addiction, is inevitably painful. Withdrawal is also
necessary
.”

I ran the St. George and the dragon bit up the flagpole, then paused, giving them a chance to swallow the bait. What choice did they have? My bait was the only food in the sea. Not that I harbored any romantic delusions. Without me, their
real
addiction, to their neurotic poochie egos, would blow them apart within six months. The ones who didn’t leave immediately, would separate into pockets of orthodoxy, neo-orthodoxy and outright heresy.

But, of course, I only needed a month to become yesterday’s news. If not to my poochies, some of whom would surely keep the myth alive, then to any official agency with the ability to make my life miserable.

I sent the few Therapists addicted to PURE out to the lab where they would function as security. I gave the rest of the poochies five days to get out.

I endured their good-bye hugs until I could stand it no more. Pleading an imminent breakdown, I retired to my quarters. Blossom was sitting in a chair instead of on the floor, and I was forced to give her stripes. She received them with resolute determination.

I enjoyed the stripes, though I lacked the energy for sex. My performance had taken its toll, but its success filled me with a sense of accomplishment. I slept the sleep of the truly innocent.

I woke at four and began to write. It’s now seven-fifteen. The writing was so effortless that I begin to believe that I missed my true calling. I should have been a writer instead of a psychopath.

The fat detective
must
pay. The fat detective’s payment begins this afternoon with the arrival of the fat detective’s fat bitch. I have judged her to be seriously disturbed and the only remedy to be chemotherapy. How does the saying go? The dope shall make you PURE? Here, Poochie.

B
ETTY HALUKA, DESPITE A
perfunctory description provided by Stanley Moodrow, had entertained many images of the cult leader, Davis Craddock. She’d imagined him to be anything from a white-robed guru to a tweedy academic, eventually settling on a tall, slender figure, an urbane maniac whose glittering eyes revealed his underlying insanity. She’d been expecting to meet Craddock all along; her Therapist had assured her that Craddock personally interviewed all patients before they became part of the Hanoverian community. Still, the summons came as a shock. Betty was marched up to Craddock’s suite before she could shed her coat.

“The thing is to just be yourself,” her Therapist, Jack Burke, advised. “No pretensions. He’ll see through you in a minute.” He smiled as he advised her, thinking of Craddock’s penchant for seduction as a test of worthiness. For most of Hanover House’s existence, a night with Davis Craddock had been an absolute precondition to the admission of females. But over the last year, what with all the problems, Craddock had become less concerned with day-to-day Hanoverian life. Now the experiment was entering a new, unpredictable phase. Yet the great man could still take the time to counsel a patient. That’s what made him a great man.

Betty, following her Therapist up the stairs, was aware of the general agitation within the community. Knots of Hanoverians, their bags already packed, talked excitedly. Many were crying. If Betty had had the instincts of an ex-cop, the alarm bells would have been ringing loud enough to wake the dead, but Betty deliberately refused to speculate, focusing her attention on what she would say to Davis Craddock.

“This is it. Good luck.” Burke held the door to Craddock’s suite open.

“You’re not coming in?”

“It’s a personal interview.” He grinned lewdly. “I’m sure you’ll find it enlightening.”

Betty stepped into what real estate agents like to call an eat-in kitchen. The counters, sinks and stove gleamed with the efforts of Hanoverians to please their master. The floors and walls were spotless.

“Are you Betty?” A small, Asian girl sat by a white Formica table. Her hands were folded on her lap, her eyes downcast.

“I am.”

“You can go inside. Davis is waiting for you.”

Betty expected to enter an office or, at the least, a cozy living room. Instead, she found an enormous bedroom, big enough for a pool table and a bank of electronic gear against the far wall. She let her eyes wander for a moment, trying to take it in, then noticed the black man sitting calmly in an overstuffed chair. He was enormous, almost as big as Moodrow, and he regarded her with curious, amused eyes.

“Wendell Bogard,” he announced. “At your service.”

Without answering, Betty turned her attention to the man sitting at the foot of the bed. Far from her expectations, Davis Craddock was short and wiry, with a thick head of stiff, black hair that hung over his brow, dominating his small dark eyes. Looking into those eyes, Betty found no trace of the glittering insanity she’d anticipated. The man’s eyes were dead black circles, as blank and empty as the eyes of a cooked fish on a plate.

“Please,” Craddock said, “sit down.” He indicated a straight-backed chair a few feet from his knees. “You’re Betty Haluka?”

“Yes. You’ll have to excuse me. I’m a little nervous.”

“I can see that.” He waited a moment, as if expecting a response, then continued. “You know I’ve been very lax these past few months or we’d have met before this. Things haven’t been going too well for Hanover House. I’m sure you noticed that everybody’s getting ready to leave. Have you noticed that?”

“There does seem to be a lot of activity, but I don’t know what it’s about.”

“It’s about the end of Hanover House. The end of the
great
experiment. I’m sending my children out into the cold, cruel world. Now, they’ll have to maintain their various neuroses without my tender ministrations. Do you have any idea how many have come to me, begging to remain by my side? I’m not an emotional man—I admit it—but I was deeply touched by the response. I thought they’d hate me. After all, I lured them into Hanover House, made them my slaves, destroyed
any
chance of a normal life…Wouldn’t you hate someone who did that to
you
?”

This time the pause went on so long, Betty felt obliged to make some sort of a response. “I don’t understand.” She’d been nervous before coming into the room. Now she was afraid. It was one thing to be face to face with a criminal psychopath in a courthouse interview room and quite another to be a potential victim.

“Well, that’s neither here nor there. The important thing is that I’m making a few exceptions. I’m looking for Hanoverians with very, very special qualities to accompany me into exile. Tell me, do you fuck?”

“Mr. Craddock…”

Without a hint of warning, Davis Craddock drove his right fist into the side of Betty’s face. “Call me Davis.”

Betty scrambled to her feet. Her mind formed a dozen responses, all equally meaningless. She looked toward the door, but Wendell was already there. He was laughing.

“Please,” Craddock said, “sit down. Right here. Next to me. Trust is very important to a successful therapeutic relationship. Don’t you think?”

Betty touched her fingertips to the side of her face. The swelling beneath her eye was noticeable. There was anger, now, to go along with the fear, and the notion that perhaps this was still a test. It was an idea that could only have been formed in desperation. She set the chair upright and sat close to Craddock, trying to feign a sincerity that went against everything she was feeling.

“What was I saying?” There was life in Craddock’s eyes now. A glow of anticipation. “Oh, yes. I was talking about special qualities. I’m looking for middle-aged women with fat detective boyfriends who manage to insinuate themselves into my life. I’m looking for creative letter writers who amuse themselves by pretending I’m an asshole. But most of all, I’m looking for insurance. Do you know anybody with all those qualities?”

“Fuck you.”

Craddock’s fist shot out again. “I think I like you better on the floor.” He regarded her for a moment. “Yes, I definitely like you better on the floor. I only wish your skirt had ridden up over your thighs.” He sighed loudly. “But in the course of a long and troubled life I’ve learned that you can’t have everything. Wendell, will you ask Kenneth and Blossom to come inside?”

The Asian girl appeared a moment later. A blond man wearing the blue blazer of a Hanoverian Therapist stood behind her. He glared at Betty through unblinking eyes.

“I believe you’ve already met Blossom,” Craddock said. “You should take a lesson from her. In my opinion, obedience is natural to the human female. Doesn’t she look happy? And this is Kenneth Scott. Kenneth has a personal interest in the fat detective. Show her, Kenneth.”

Kenneth Scott took off his blazer, then opened his white shirt and pulled it to one side. The round bruise on the upper right side of his chest was a few days old. The reddish purple had faded to a dull greenish yellow, but it was clearly visible. “The detective is Satan,” he whispered. “And the woman is Eve.”

“Please, Kenneth,” Craddock laughed. “Enough of the Bible bullshit.” He turned to Betty. “Poor Kenneth. He was raised in a good Christian home and he can’t shake it off. I think you should know that Kenneth and Blossom are personally responsible for your well-being. If you want anything, just ask one of them. I promise they’ll be attentive to your needs.

“Stanley’s going to kill you for this,” Betty answered.

“Kenneth, would you go down to the van and get it running?” Craddock waited until the door closed before continuing. “Stanley Moodrow is
my
problem. And we’re not here to talk about
my
problems. We’re here to talk about
your
problems. Blossom, get some ice and wrap it in a towel. By the way, Betty, would you like to see Blossom naked? No? Gee, and you look so butch. I thought for sure…All right, Blossom, go fetch the ice.” He waited patiently until Blossom returned. “Give the ice to Betty.” The Asian girl, without a trace of emotion, crossed the room and offered the towel.

“Blossom is learning obedience,” Craddock continued, pulling the girl onto his lap. “She’s proven herself an excellent pupil.” He slid his hand into her blouse. “Notice that her expression doesn’t change. Hopefully, you’ll reach this level before our relationship comes to an end. But all in good time.”

Betty got to her feet and moved to a chair several yards away from Craddock’s fists. Her mind was in turmoil, anger and fear mingling with self-recrimination. How could she have been so stupid? Moodrow had warned her. Jim and Rose had warned her, too. What would Moodrow do when he found out? If he exploded, Craddock could easily kill the both of them. She needed to get herself under control, but her thoughts were tumbling through her mind like handkerchiefs in a clothes dryer.