Last Days (10 page)

"Well," said Borchert. "Mr. Kline. Always a pleasant surprise. You should be more careful. You should have a little more respect."

"Aline's not dead," said Kline, still rubbing his throat.

"Of course he is," said Borchert. "Whatever gave you that idea?"

"Andreissen."

"Why would he say that?" asked Borchert.

"He said I was here to investigate a robbery."

"No, no," said Borchert. "Aline's dead. You're here for Aline."

"Who's dead?"

"It's that you're only a four," said Borchert. "He's not telling you the truth because of that."

"You're lying."

"Maybe we should remove another toe," said Borchert. "Or maybe two more. Then we'll see if Andreissen tells you the truth."

"No," said Kline. "No more toes."

"All right, then," said Borchert. "Perhaps one of the others will be a little more forthcoming."

"No more interviews."

"All right," said Borchert. "You're the investigator. You should do what feels right."

Using his remaining foot, Borchert pushed the chair slowly along the floor until he was back by the counter. Slowly he managed to open the cabinet above it and to tug down first one glass and then another. And then, more precariously, a bottle of Scotch. He took off the cap with his mouth. He moved the glasses to the edge of the counter and, pinning the bottle between his arm and his body, poured.

"Drink?" he asked.

"Absolutely not," said Kline.

"Oh come on," said Borchert. "It's Scotch, plain and simple. Nothing but Scotch."

"No," said Kline.

"Suit yourself," said Borchert. He pinched the glass' rim between his thumb and remaining half-finger, lifted it to his lips, drank. "So," he said. "Made any progress, have we?"

"On what?"

"On finding Aline's killer."

"My guess is that Aline is still very much alive."

"Please, Mr. Kline. Let's have no more such talk."

"Show me the body."

Borchert shook his head. "I can't allow you to see the body. At the very least you'd have to lose a few more toes."

"This is absurd."

"Be that as it may, Mr. Kline," said Borchert, taking a large swallow. "Be that as it may."

Later that evening he wandered out of his room and down the hall and into the gravel yard in front of the building. He stood looking up at the stars, his foot aching with pain, feeling slightly feverish. He did not understand what it was he had gotten himself into, nor for that matter how he had gotten himself into it. But the more important question was, now that he was in, how to get out.

He walked out to the main road, turned, limped toward the main gates. A man was dead, murdered, or perhaps very much alive. Borchert was playing with him, and perhaps the others were as well. The night was cool, cloudless. Where was this place? He turned and looked back, saw the building he was staying in, the only light being that of his own room. Why was nobody else in the building? Had there been anyone living in the building but him since his arrival? Where did Gous and Ramse sleep?

At the main gate at the edge of the compound, the guard stepped out of the shadows and flicked on his flashlight, shining the beam into Kline's eyes.

"What is wanted?" he asked.

"It's Kline," Kline said, squinting his eyes.

"Right," said the guard. "We met the first night. A one. Self-cauterizer. Right hand, right?"

"Yes," said Kline. "Now a four."

"A four?" said the guard. "That was quick. What else?"

"A few toes," he said. "Nothing much."

The guard moved the flashbeam down, shined it on Kline's feet. Kline could see the man now, a dim shape just behind the flashlight.

"I need to leave," said Kline. "Please open the gate."

"I'm sorry," said the guard. "I can't do that."

"My work here is finished," said Kline.

"I have my orders, I'm afraid," said the guard.

Kline took a step forward. The guard brought the light up and into his eyes. Kline took another step and heard a rustling and a click and the guard quickly flashed the light back on himself to reveal a sort of metal prosthetic slipped over his stump, a gun barrel at the end of it.

"I thought prosthetics were frowned upon," said Kline.

"We don't like to use them," said the guard. "But when we have to, we do."

"Say I climb the fence somewhere."

"You're welcome to try. My guess is we'd catch you eventually."

Kline nodded, turned to leave.

"Very nice to see you, Mr. Kline," said the guard. "If you have any more questions, don't hesitate to ask."

He found Gous and Ramse in the bar, already drunk, Ramse in particular, who was drinking whiskey through a straw. Gous kept saying he had to go easy, that it thinned the blood, and then taking another drink. They cheered when they caught sight of Kline, clapped him on the back with their stumps.

"Drink?" asked Ramse.

Kline nodded. Ramse called the bartender over. "A drink for my friend here," he said.

"The self-cauterizer."

"Word gets around," said Ramse.

"Say," said Gous, his voice slurred and too slow. "When do the women come out?"

"Ten," said the bartender. "I told you already. Ten."

"Drink?" Ramse asked Kline.

"He's already getting me a drink," said Kline.

"Hell," said Ramse. "I wanted to get you a drink."

"You did," said Kline.

"What?" asked Ramse. "What?"

"Never mind," said Kline.

"Just so you know," said Ramse. "I'm buying the next one."

Kline smiled.

"So," said Gous, hunched over his drink. "How's the investigation?"

"It's not."

"No?" said Gous. "Thash too bad."

"Do you want to hear about it?" asked Kline.

"About what?" asked Ramse.

"The investigation," said Kline. The bartender put the drink on the counter. Kline took it up in his left hand and drank from it.

"Oh, no," said Ramse. "You can't tell Gous anything."

"Why not?" asked Gous. "Why not?"

"Gous is a one," said Ramse. "We can't bring a one in."

"I was a one," said Kline. "They brought me in."

"I'm not a one," said Gous, lifting up his hand. "Not any more."

"Still," said Ramse. "You're not much. You're what you are and we love you for it, but you're not much."

"It's all right, Ramse," said Kline. "Trust me."

"I just don't think--"

"Ramse," said Kline. "Trust me and listen."

Ramse opened his mouth, then closed it again.

"Aline is dead," Kline said.

"Aline is dead?" said Ramse, his voice rising.

"Is that possible?" said Gous. "How is that possible?"

"Or not," said Kline. "Maybe not."

"Well," said Gous. "Which is it?"

"What did you say about Aline?" asked the bartender.

"Nothing," said Kline.

"Oh, God," said Ramse, shaking his head. "Dear God."

"Aline is either dead or not dead," said Gous to the bartender.

"Be quiet, Gous," said Kline.

"Well, which is he?" asked the bartender. "Dead or not dead? There's a big difference, you know."

"That," said Gous, stabbing the air with his stump. "Is what I intend to find out."

"You don't think there's a big difference?" asked Ramse.

"Ramse," said Kline. "Look at me. Why am I here? What am I investigating?"

"What?" said Ramse. "Smuggling."

"Smuggling?"

Gous, Kline noticed, was watching them more intently.

"Somebody smuggled out pictures."

"What sorts of pictures?"

"Sex pictures," said Ramse. "Of people missing limbs. Somebody stealing them and selling them without the proceeds benefiting the community."

"That," said Kline, "in your opinion, is why I am here?"

Ramse nodded.

"No," said Kline. "I'm here because of Aline."

"Who's either dead or not dead."

"Exactly," said Kline.

"There's a big difference," said Gous. "That's what we intend to find out."

"What?" said Ramse.

"That," said Gous.

"What?" said Ramse, looking around. "What's going on?"

"Exactly," said Kline. "That's what I want to know."

VIII.

There are two possibilities
, he thought, as he was escorted on his way to visit Borchert the next morning, a hungover Ramse on one side of him, a hungover Gous on the other side. He was coming at Borchert's request.
Possibility one: Aline is dead. Possibility two: Aline is alive.
Perhaps Ramse was right, perhaps he really did know something and the reason he, Kline, was here was because of smuggling or theft. But if it was smuggling, why hadn't he been told? Why had Borchert told him he was investigating a murder? Certainly, considering what Kline's specialty had been before, it seemed more logical that they would recruit him to investigate a smuggling operation.

Perhaps Borchert himself had a vested interest, had reasons to stop the smuggling from being investigated.

But even so, why declare Aline dead? Why suggest there is a murder to be investigated? Why not simply suggest something a little more benign?

And here he was, standing alone in front of Borchert, with Gous and Ramse abandoned at the gate, the one-armed, one-legged man looking grimly at him from his chair.

"I thought we had an agreement," Borchert was saying.

"What agreement?"

"I asked you not to speak about the case with those who didn't need to know. Instead, you've been spreading rumors."

"Look," said Kline. "I don't know what I'm doing here. What exactly am I investigating?"

"Aline's death."

"I don't believe Aline is dead."

"No," said Borchert. "You've made that quite clear."

"What about the smuggling?"

"The smuggling," said Borchert. "A cover story. Something we agreed to tell people like Ramse."

"And Andreissen?"

"We talked about that," said Borchert. "I give my solemn word that if you simply have one or two more amputations, Andreissen will change his story. Why didn't you speak to any of the others? Perhaps one of them would tell you the truth."

"You're lying."

Borchert sighed. "Well," he said. "I was hoping it wouldn't come to this, but you're a stubborn bastard and have your own particular way of conducting business. You'd be better off if you were willing to take some things on faith, but
Thou woulds't doubt
, as Jesus said, and for the doubting there's nothing but what you can touch." He turned his head, gestured with his chin to the counter behind. "There's a gun there," he said. "In the drawer. No bullets in it, but the guard outside Aline's door doesn't need to know that. If you need to go see for yourself, go see for yourself. I wouldn't advise it, but neither will I prevent you."

Kline took the pistol and left. He could see, as soon as he opened the door to the hall, the guard in front of what he had been told by Andreissen was Aline's door. Was it the door Borchert expected him to go to as well? he wondered. Or was he being told to visit the room where Borchert had led him before, the faked crime scene?

"Is this the door to Aline's room?" Kline asked the guard.

The guard did not reply. Kline realized the man's lone eye was directed downward, fixed on his hand, and then Kline remembered the gun. He lifted his hand, pointed the pistol at the man's head.

"Please open the door," he said.

The guard shook his head.

"I'll kill you," said Kline.

"Then kill me."

Kline hit the guard hard in the face with his stump, then hit him across his jaw with the butt of the pistol. The guard took two awkward steps, wavering into the door, and Kline struck him with the pistol butt again, just behind the ear. The man went down in a heap.

The door was unlocked. He opened it and went in, locking it behind him.

Inside, it was dark. He felt around on the wall to either side of the door for a switch, only found one after his eyes had adjusted enough to see it, low on the wall, at knee level.

The room was as simple as Borchert's. A counter and a small kitchen in the back of the room. A single chair, this one with a sort of net webbing draped over it. A bed, in this case, three feet long, flush to the floor, pushed against one wall.

In the bed, a mutilated head rode on the pillow, the rest of the body covered by a blanket. He knelt down beside it. The eyes had been dug out, the lids cut off as well. The ears had been shorn away to leave two whirls of slick pink flesh. The nose, too, was gone, leaving a dark gaping hole. The lips seemed to have been gnawed mostly away, perhaps by the teeth that now loomed through their gap.

As he watched, the flesh on the face shivered and the head turned slightly, the missing eyes seeming to bore into his own eyes. He broke the gaze and then, grabbing the blanket, tugged it off the body.

Underneath was only a torso, all limbs gone, nipples cut away, penis severed. He sat watching the chest rise and fall, air whistling between the teeth. There was something wrong with the way the body lay, he realized, and he pushed it over onto the side a little, enough to see that the buttocks had been shaved away.

The mouth said something urgently but he couldn't understand what because most of the tongue was gone. He let go of the body. He looked away, let himself slip from his knees to lie on the floor. Behind him, he could hear someone pounding at the door. He stayed there, staring up at the ceiling, listening to Aline babble, until they came and dragged him away.

"So," said Borchert, "now you've seen for yourself." He was standing using a cane, precariously grounded in his palm to support himself. Kline was in the chair now, Borchert's chair, having been brought there by the guards after they had dragged him by the feet out of Aline's room and down the stairs, his head bumping against each step.

"What's wrong with you?" asked Borchert. "You look feverish."

"Aline's alive," said Kline.

"Of course he's alive," said Borchert. "I must apologize for lying, Mr. Kline, but trust I had my reasons."

"Why?"

"Why, Mr. Kline?" Borchert turned, moved closer by hopping slightly. "You want to know?"