Red Dragon (36 page)

Was the killer the thief?

As he stared at his stained photograph of the Jacobis, Graham felt the sweet jolt of a new connection. But when he saw the answer whole it was seedy and disappointing and small.

There was a telephone in the jury room. Graham called Birmingham Homicide. He got the three-to-eleven watch commander.

“In the Jacobi case I noticed you kept an in-and-out log at the house after it was sealed off, right?”

“Let me get somebody to look,” the watch commander said.

Graham knew they kept one. It was good procedure to record every person entering or leaving a murder scene, and Graham had been pleased to see that Birmingham did it. He waited five minutes before a clerk picked up the telephone.

“Okay, in-and-out, what do you want to know?”

“Is Niles Jacobi, son of the deceased—is he on it?”

“Umm-hmmm, yep. July 2, seven P.M. He had permission to get personal items.”

“Did he have a suitcase, does it say?”

“Nope. Sorry.”

Byron Metcalf’s voice was husky and his breathing heavy when he answered the telephone. Graham wondered what he was doing.

“Hope I didn’t disturb you.”

“What can I do for you, Will?”

“I need a little help with Niles Jacobi.”

“What’s he done now?”

“I think he lifted a few things out of the Jacobi house after they were killed.”

“Ummm.”

“There’s a sterling picture frame missing from your lockbox inventory. When I was in Birmingham I picked up a loose photograph of the family in Niles’s dormitory room. It used to be in a frame—I can see the impression the mat left on it.”

“The little bastard. I gave permission for him to get his clothes and some books he needed,” Metcalf said.

“Niles has expensive friendships. This is mainly what I’m after, though—a movie projector and a movie camera are missing too. I want to know if he got them. Probably he did, but if he
didn’t
, maybe the killer got them. In that case we need to get the serial numbers out to the hock shops. We need to put ’em on the national hot sheet. The frame’s probably melted down by now.”

“He’ll think ‘frame’ when I get through with him.”

“One thing—if Niles took the projector, he might have kept the film. He couldn’t get anything for it. I want the film. I need to see it. If you come at him from the front, he’ll deny everything and flush the film if he has any.”

“Okay,” Metcalf said. “His car title reverted to the estate. I’m executor, so I can search it without a warrant. My friend the judge won’t mind papering his room for me. I’ll call you.”

Graham went back to work.

Affluence. Put affluence in the profile the police would use.

Graham wondered if Mrs. Leeds and Mrs. Jacobi ever did their marketing in tennis clothes. That was a fashionable thing to do in some areas. It was a dumb thing to do in some areas because it was doubly provocative—arousing class resentment and lust at the same time.

Graham imagined them pushing grocery carts, short pleated skirts brushing the brown thighs, the little balls on their sweat socks winking—passing the husky man with the barracuda eyes who was buying cold lunch meat to gnaw in his car.

How many families were there with three children and a pet, and only common locks between them and the Dragon as they slept?

When Graham pictured possible victims, he saw clever, successful people in graceful houses.

But the next person to confront the Dragon did not have children or a pet, and there was no grace in his house. The next person to confront the Dragon was Francis Dolarhyde.

The thump of weights on the attic floor carried through the old house.

Dolarhyde was lifting, straining, pumping more weight than he had ever lifted. His costume was different; sweatpants covered his tattoo. The sweatshirt hung over
The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed with the Sun.
The kimono hung on the wall like the shed skin of a tree snake. It covered the mirror.

Dolarhyde wore no mask.

Up. Two hundred and eighty pounds from the floor to his chest in one heave. Now over his head.

“WHOM ARE YOU THINKING ABOUT?”

Startled by the voice, he nearly dropped the weight, swayed beneath it. Down. The plates thudded and clanked on the floor.

He turned, his great arms hanging, and stared in the direction of the voice.

“WHOM ARE YOU THINKING ABOUT?”

It seemed to come from behind the sweatshirt, but its rasp and volume hurt his throat.

“WHOM ARE YOU THINKING ABOUT?”

He knew who spoke and he was frightened. From the beginning, he and the Dragon had been one. He was Becoming and the Dragon was his higher self. Their bodies, voices, wills were one.

Not now. Not since Reba. Don’t think Reba.

“WHO IS ACCEPTABLE?” the Dragon asked.

“Mrs. . . . erhman—Sherman.” It was hard for Dolarhyde to say.

“SPEAK UP. I CAN’T UNDERSTAND YOU. WHOM ARE YOU THINKING ABOUT?”

Dolarhyde, his face set, turned to the barbell. Up. Over his head. Much harder this time.

“Mrs. . . . erhman wet in the water.”

“YOU THINK ABOUT YOUR LITTLE BUDDY, DON’T YOU? YOU WANT HER TO BE YOUR LITTLE BUDDY, DON’T YOU?”

The weight came down with a thud.

“I on’t have a li’l . . . huddy.” With the fear his speech was failing. He had to occlude his nostrils with his upper lip.

“A STUPID LIE.” The Dragon’s voice was strong and clear. He said the /s/ without effort. “YOU FORGET THE BECOMING. PREPARE FOR THE SHERMANS. LIFT THE WEIGHT.”

Dolarhyde seized the barbell and strained. His mind strained with his body. Desperately he tried to think of the Shermans. He forced himself to think of the weight of Mrs. Sherman in his arms. Mrs. Sherman was next. It was Mrs. Sherman. He was fighting Mr. Sherman in the dark. Holding him down until loss of blood made Sherman’s heart quiver like a bird. It was the only heart he heard. He didn’t hear Reba’s heart. He didn’t.

Fear leeched his strength. He got the weight up to his thighs, could not make the turn up to his chest. He thought of the Shermans ranged around him, eyes wide, as he took the Dragon’s due. It was no good. It was hollow, empty. The weight thudded down.

“NOT ACCEPTABLE.”

“Mrs. . . .”

“YOU CAN’T EVEN SAY ‘MRS. SHERMAN.’ YOU NEVER INTEND TO TAKE THE SHERMANS. YOU WANT REBAMCCLANE. YOU WANT HER TO BE YOUR LITTLE BUDDY, DON’T YOU? YOU WANT TO BE ‘FRIENDS. ’”

“No.”

“LIE!”

“Nyus mhor a niddow wyow.”

“JUST FOR A LITTLE WHILE? YOU SNIVELING HARELIP, WHO WOULD BE FRIENDS WITH YOU? COME HERE. I’LL SHOW YOU WHAT YOU ARE.”

Dolarhyde did not move.

“I’VE NEVER SEEN A CHILD AS DISGUSTING AND DIRTY AS YOU. COME HERE.”

He went.

“TAKE DOWN THE SWEATSHIRT.”

He took it down.

“LOOK AT ME.”

The Dragon glowed from the wall.

“TAKE DOWN THE KIMONO. LOOK IN THE MIRROR.”

He looked. He could not help himself or turn his face from the scalding light. He saw himself drool.

“LOOK AT YOURSELF. I’M GOING TO GIVE YOU A SURPRISE FOR YOUR LITTLE BUDDY. TAKE OFF THAT RAG.”

Dolarhyde’s hands fought each other at the waistband of the sweatpants. The sweatpants tore. He stripped them away from him with his right hand, held the rags to him with his left.

His right hand snatched the rags away from his trembling, failing left. He threw them into the corner and fell back on the mat, curling on himself like a lobster split live. He hugged himself and groaned, breathing hard, his tattoo brilliant in the harsh gym lights.

“I’VE NEVER SEEN A CHILD AS DISGUSTING AND DIRTY AS YOU. GO GET THEM.”

“aaaymah.”

“GET THEM.”

He padded from the room and returned with the Dragon’s teeth.

“PUT THEM IN YOUR PALMS. LOCK YOUR FINGERS AND SQUEEZE MY TEETH TOGETHER.”

Dolarhyde’s pectoral muscles bunched.

“YOU KNOW HOW THEY CAN SNAP. NOW HOLD THEM UNDER YOUR BELLY. HOLD YOURSELF BETWEEN THE TEETH.”

“no.”

“DO IT. . . . NOW LOOK.”

The teeth were beginning to hurt him. Spit and tears fell on his chest.

“mleadse.”

“YOU ARE OFFAL LEFT BEHIND IN THE BECOMING. YOU ARE OFFAL AND I WILL NAME YOU. YOU ARE CUNT FACE. SAY IT.”

“i am cunt face.” He occluded his nostrils with his lip to say the words.

“SOON I WILL BE CLEANSED OF YOU,” the Dragon said effortlessly. “WILL THAT BE GOOD?”

“good.”

“WHO WILL BE NEXT WHEN IT IS TIME?”

“mrs. . . . ehrman . . .”

Sharp pain shot through Dolarhyde, pain and terrible fear.

“I’LL TEAR IT OFF.”

“reba. reba. i’ll give you reba.” Already his speech was improving.

“YOU’LL GIVE ME NOTHING. SHE IS MINE. THEY ARE ALL MINE. REBA MCCLANE AND THEN THE SHERMANS.”

“reba and then the Shermans. the law will know.”

“I HAVE PROVIDED FOR THAT DAY. DO YOU DOUBT IT?”

“no.”

“WHO ARE YOU?”

“cunt face.”

“YOU MAY PUT AWAY MY TEETH. YOU PITIFUL WEAK HARELIP, YOU’D KEEP YOUR LITTLE BUDDY FROM ME, WOULD YOU? I’LL TEAR HER APART AND RUB THE PIECES IN YOUR UGLY FACE. I’LL HANG YOU WITH HER LARGE INTESTINE IF YOU OPPOSE ME. YOU KNOW I CAN. PUT THREE HUNDRED POUNDS ON THE BAR.”

Dolarhyde added the plates to the bar. He had never lifted as much as 280 until today.

“LIFT IT.”

If he were not as strong as the Dragon, Reba would die. He knew it. He strained until the room turned red before his bulging eyes.

“i can’t.”

“NO YOU CAN’T. BUT I CAN.”

Dolarhyde gripped the bar. It bowed as the weight rose to his shoulders. UP. Above his head easily. “GOOD-BYE, CUNT FACE,” he said, proud Dragon, quivering in the light.

Francis Dolarhyde never got to work on Monday morning.

He started from his house exactly on time, as he always did. His appearance was impeccable, his driving precise. He put on his dark glasses when he made the turn at the Missouri River bridge and drove into the morning sun.

His foam cooler squeaked as it jiggled against the passenger seat. He leaned across and set it on the floor, remembering that he must pick up the dry ice and get the film from . . .

Crossing the Missouri channel now, moving water under him. He looked at the whitecaps on the sliding river and suddenly felt that he was sliding and the river was still. A strange, disjointed, collapsing feeling flooded him. He let up on the accelerator.

The van slowed in the outside lane and stopped. Traffic behind him was stacking up, honking. He didn’t hear it.

He sat, sliding slowly northward over the still river, facing the morning sun. Tears leaked from beneath his sunglasses and fell hot on his forearms.

Someone was pecking on the window. A driver, face early-morning pale and puffed with sleep, had gotten out of a car behind him. The driver was yelling something through the window.

Dolarhyde looked at the man. Flashing blue lights were coming from the other end of the bridge. He knew he should drive. He asked his body to step on the gas, and it did. The man beside the van skipped backward to save his feet.

Dolarhyde pulled into the parking lot of a big motel near the U.S. 270 interchange. A school bus was parked in the lot, the bell of a tuba leaning against its back window.

Dolarhyde wondered if he was supposed to get on the bus with the old people.

No, that wasn’t it. He looked around for his mother’s Packard.

“Get in. Don’t put your feet on the seat,”
his mother said.

That wasn’t it either.

He was in a motel parking lot on the west side of St. Louis and he wanted to be able to Choose and he couldn’t.

In six days, if he could wait that long, he would kill Reba McClane. He made a sudden high sound through his nose.

Maybe the Dragon would be willing to take the Shermans first and wait another moon.

No. He wouldn’t.

Reba McClane didn’t know about the Dragon. She thought she was with Francis Dolarhyde. She wanted to put her body on Francis Dolarhyde. She welcomed Francis Dolarhyde in Grandmother’s bed.

“I’ve had a really terrific time, D.,”
Reba McClane said in the yard.

Maybe she liked Francis Dolarhyde. That was a perverted, despicable thing for a woman to do. He understood that he should despise her for it, but oh God it was good.

Reba McClane was guilty of liking Francis Dolarhyde. Demonstrably guilty.

If it weren’t for the power of his Becoming, if it weren’t for the Dragon, he could never have taken her to his house. He would not have been capable of sex. Or would he?

That’s what she said. She said “man.”

The breakfast crowd was coming out of the motel, passing his van. Their idle glances walked on him with many tiny feet.

He needed to think. He couldn’t go home. He checked into the motel, called his office and reported himself sick. The room he got was bland and quiet. The only decorations were bad steamboat prints. Nothing glowed from the walls.

Dolarhyde lay down in his clothes. The ceiling had sparkling flecks in the plaster. Every few minutes he had to get up and urinate. He shivered, then he sweated. An hour passed.

He did not want to give Reba McClane to the Dragon. He thought about what the Dragon would do to him if he didn’t serve her up.

Intense fear comes in waves; the body can’t stand it for long at a time. In the heavy calm between the waves, Dolarhyde could think.

How could he keep from giving her to the Dragon? One way kept nudging him. He got up.

The light switch clacked loud in the tiled bathroom. Dolarhyde looked at the shower-curtain rod, a solid piece of one-inch pipe bolted to the bathroom walls. He took down the shower curtain and hung it over the mirror.