The Bad Place (59 page)

Frank remained vacant-eyed and detached, but a muscle in his left cheek twitched twice.

The bourbon apparently relaxed the physician, for he sat behind his desk again, leaned forward, and clasped his hands around the glass. “In 1959, when Roselle was thirteen, Cynthia died. Killed herself, actually. Blew her brains out. The following year, about seven months after his sister’s suicide, Yarnell came to the office with his daughter—that is, with Roselle. He never called her his daughter, maintaining the fiction that she was only his bastard niece. Anyway, Roselle was pregnant at fourteen, same age at which Cynthia had given birth to her.”

“Good God!” Bobby said.

The shocks kept piling one atop another with such speed that Julie was almost ready to grab the whiskey bottle off the desk, drink straight from it, and never mind that it was Fogarty’s booze.

Enjoying their reactions, Fogarty sipped the bourbon and gave them time to absorb the shock.

Julie said, “Yarnell raped the daughter he had fathered by his own sister?”

Fogarty waited a little longer, savoring the moment. Then: “No, no. He found the girl repellent, and I’m confident he wouldn’t have touched her. I’m sure what Roselle told me was the truth.” He sipped more bourbon. “Cynthia had developed quite a religious streak between the time she gave birth to Roselle and the day she killed herself, and she had passed on that passion for God to Roselle. The girl knew the Bible backward and forward. So Roselle came in here, pregnant. Said she’d decided she should have a child. Said God had made her special—that’s what she called hermaphroditism, speciall—because she was to be a pure vessel by which blessed children could be brought into the world. Therefore she had collected the semen from her male half and mechanically inserted it into her female half.”

Bobby shot up from the sofa as if one of its springs had broken under him, and he grabbed the bottle of Wild Turkey from the desk. “You have another glass?”

Fogarty pointed to a bar cabinet in the corner, which Julie had not noticed before. Bobby opened the double doors, revealing not only more glasses but additional fifths of Wild Turkey. Evidently the physician kept a bottle in his desk drawer only so he would not have to walk across the room for it. Bobby poured two glasses full, with no ice, and brought one back to Julie.

To Fogarty, she said, “Of course, I never thought Roselle was barren. She did bear children, we know that. But I assumed you meant the male part of her was sterile.”

“Fertile as a male
and
as a female. She couldn’t actually join herself to herself, so to speak. So she resorted to artificial insemination, as I said.”

Late that afternoon, in the office in Newport, when Bobby had tried to explain how traveling with Frank was like a bobsled ride off the edge of the world, Julie had not really understood why he was so unnerved by the experience. Now she thought she had an inkling of what he had meant, for the chaos of the Pollard family’s relationships and sexual identities made her skin crawl and filled her with a dark suspicion that nature was even stranger and more hospitable to anarchy than she had feared.

“Yarnell wanted me to abort the fetus, and abortion was a fairly lucrative sideline in those days, though illegal and hush-hush. But the girl had hidden her pregnancy from him for seven months, as he and Cynthia had tried to hide a pregnancy fourteen years earlier. It was much too late for an abortion then. The girl would’ve died, hemorrhaging. Besides, I would no more have aborted that fetus than I’d have shot myself in the foot. Imagine the degree of inbreeding involved here: the hermaphroditic child of brother-sister incest impregnates herself! Her child’s mother is also its father. Its grandmother is also its great-aunt, and its grandfather is its great-uncle! One tight genetic line—and genes damaged by Yamell’s use of hallucinogenics, remember. Virtually a guarantee of a freak of one kind or another, and I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

Julie took a long swallow of the bourbon. It tasted sour and stung her throat. She didn’t care. She needed it.

“I’d become a doctor because the pay was good,” Fogarty said. “Later, when I gravitated toward illegal abortions, the pay was better, and it became my main business. Not much danger, either, because I knew what I was doing, and I could buy off an authority now and then if I had to. When you’re getting those fat fees, you don’t have to schedule many office visits, you can have a lot of free time, money and leisure, the best of both worlds. But having settled for a career like that, what I never figured was that I’d encounter anything as medically interesting, as fascinating, as
entertaining
as this Pollard mess.”

The only consideration that caused Julie to refrain from going across the room and kicking the crap out of the old man was not his age but the fact that he would leave the story unfinished and some vital piece of information unrevealed.

“But the birth of Roselle’s first child wasn’t the event I’d thought it would be,” Fogarty said. “In spite of the odds, the baby she produced was healthy and, from all indications, perfectly normal. That was 1960, and the baby was Frank.”

In the wingback chair, Frank whimpered softly but remained in his semicomatose condition.

STILL LISTENING to Doc Fogarty through Darkle, Violet sat up and swung her bare legs over the edge of the bed, dispossessing some of the cats from their resting places, and eliciting a murmur of protest from Verbina, who was seldoni content to share just a mental link with her sister and needed the reassurance of physical contact. With cats swarming at her feet, seeing through their eyes as well as her own and therefore not blinded by the darkness, Violet started toward the open door to the lightless upstairs hall.

Then she remembered that she was nude, and she turned back for panties and T-shirt.

She wasn’t afraid of Candy’s disapproval—or of Candy himself. In fact, she would welcome his violent attentions, for that would be the ultimate game of hunter and prey, hawk and mouse, brother and sister. Candy was the only wild creature into whose mind she couldn’t intrude; though wild, he was also human and beyond the reach of her powers. If he tore out her throat, however, then her blood would get into him, and she would become a part of him in the only manner she ever could. Likewise, that was the only way he could get into her: by biting his way in, by chewing into her, the only way.

On any other night, she would have called to him and let him see her nude, with the hope that her shamelessness would at last provoke him to violence. But she could not pursue her fondest desire right now, not when Frank was nearby and still unpunished for what he had done to their poor puss, Samantha.

When she had dressed, she returned to the hall, moved along it in the gloom—still in complete touch with Darkle and Zitha and the wild world—and stopped before the door to their mother’s room, into which Candy had moved upon her death. A thin line of light showed along the sill.

“Candy,” she said. “Candy, are you there?”

LIKE A MEMORY from wars past or a presentiment of an ultimate war to come, a searing flash of lightning and a sky-shattering crash of thunder shook the night. The windows of the study vibrated. It was the first thunder Bobby had heard since the faint and distant peal when they had come out of the motel, nearly an hour and a half ago. In spite of the fireworks in the sky, rain was not yet falling. But though the tempest was slow-moving, it was almost upon them. The pyrotechnics of a storm was an ideal backdrop to Fogarty’s tale.

“I was disappointed in Frank,” Fogarty said, taking a second bottle of bourbon from his capacious desk drawer and refilling his glass. “No fun at all. So normal. But two years later, she was pregnant again! This time the delivery was every bit as entertaining as I’d expected Frank’s to be. A baby boy again, and she called him James. Her second virgin birth, she said, and she didn’t mind at all that he was as much of a mess as she was. She said that was just proof that he, too, was favored by God and brought into the world without a need to wallow in the depravity of sex. I knew then that she was as mad as a hatter.”

Bobby knew he had to remain sober, and he was aware of the danger of too much bourbon after a night of too little sleep. But he had a hunch that he was burning it off as fast as he drank it, at least for now. He took another sip before he said, “You’re not telling us that beefy hulk is hermaphroditic too?”

“Oh, no,” Fogarty said. “Worse than that.”

CANDY OPENED the door. “What do you want?”

“He’s here, in town, right now,” she said.

His eyes widened. “You mean Frank?”

“Yes.”

“WORSE,” Bobby said numbly.

He got up from the sofa long enough to put his glass on the desk. It was still three-quarters full, but he suddenly decided that even bourbon would not be an effective tranquilizer in this case.

Julie seemed to reach the same conclusion, and put her glass aside too.

“James—or Candy, if you wish—was born with four testes instead of two, but with no male organ. Now, at birth, male infants all carry their testes safely in their abdominal cavity, and the testes descend later, during infant maturation. But Candy’s never descended and never could, because there was no scrotum for them to descend into. And for another thing, there’s a strange excrescence of bone that would prevent their descent. So they’ve remained within his abdominal cavity. But I would guess they’ve functioned well, busily producing quite large amounts of testosterone, which is related to development of musculature and partly explains his formidable size.”

“So he’s incapable of having sex,” Bobby said.

“With his testicles undescended and no organ for copulation, I’d say he’s got a shot at being the most chaste man who ever lived.”

Bobby had come to loathe the old man’s laugh. “But with four gonads, he’s producing a flood of testosterone, and that does more than help build muscles—doesn’t it?”

Fogarty nodded. “To put it in the language of a medical journal: excess testosterone, over an extended period of time, alters normal brain function, sometimes radically, and is a causative factor of socially unacceptable levels of aggression. To put it in layman’s language: this guy is seriously stoked with sexual tension he can’t possibly release, he’s rechanneled that energy into other outlets, mainly acts of incredible violence, and he’s as dangerous as any monster any moviemaker ever dreamed up.”