Sins of the Flesh (22 page)

“How much home life did you have after Ivor died?” was her opening gambit, delivered over a cup of tea and little cakes.

Rha had lapsed into an anxious silence; very worried for Ivy, she guessed accurately. But Rufus, for some reason, wasn’t nearly as concerned; he had a kind of forethought Rha lacked, so why wasn’t he more upset?

His carefully painted eyes gleamed, their expression an odd mixture of contentment and—sorrow? “Good for the first eight years,” he said. “Fenella kept us at home, and while she wasn’t a motherly person, she cared a lot for us. We were looked after.”

“Then you were sent to boarding school?”

“Yes. A very good one. It was hell.”

“Why, Rufus?”

He laughed. “Oh, come, Delia! Look at us now, and imagine what we looked like at twelve.”

“Different.”

“That’s putting it mildly.”

“Were you preyed upon? Molested?”

“No. Oh, that was looming, but we scotched it by blatantly advertising our preference for each other, and increasing our eccentricities. Everyone from the headmaster down decided to leave us alone in our own little world,” Rufus said.

“Yes, yes,
yes!
” Delia cried, beaming. “I’m right!”

“I wondered where this atypical third-degree was going! Right about what, Delia?”

“You and Rha are brothers, not lovers. You’ve never been lovers, have you?”

Shocked out of his reverie, Rha stared; Rufus prolonged his laugh. “Bull’s eye!”

“I think I see your motives, but tell me anyway.”

“Gays are accepted in artistry, theater and fashion,” Rha said, breaking his silence. “As boys, Rufus was too pretty and I was too ugly-ungainly. School was a crucible that we survived by living on our wits. We never hinted that we were brothers, and never told anyone we had been raised together. Whatever our chromosomal inheritance is, sex was rather left out of the mix. Rufus and I are neither homo nor heterosexual. We’re asexual.” He heaved one of his huge sighs. “It’s so comfortable, Delia!”

“Indeed it is,” said Rufus.

“I think Captain Delmonico knows,” Delia said.

“He’s a very smart cop,” Rha said. “Oh, poor Ivy!”

All her theories confirmed, Delia led the conversation away from Ivy. Rha and Rufus had weathered all else; in time, they would also weather Ivy.

C
armine drove to Delia’s condo for dinner, even gladder of the company than the thought of good, home-cooked food; he had been promised potato pancakes for starters and a main course of Lancashire Hotpot, whatever that was. Nothing good for either arteries or figure, knowing Delia, but dining at Delia’s was a rare occurrence, and he was keeping fit. Frankie came with him; Winston preferred to lounge at home.

“Do you think we’ll ever get the Busquash Manor bunch to tell the same story twice in a row?” he asked, crunching his way through a delicious little pancake and washing it down with a gulp of icy beer.

“Rha and Rufus at least probably don’t even know the true story.” said Delia, looking out her huge plate-glass window at the pebbles of a suddenly deserted beach. Amazing, how summer literally packed up and departed on the last day of August! From now until November would be halcyon, with any luck they’d have a long and perfect Indian summer while the trees prepared themselves for winter hibernation in a blaze of colors.

“Harkening back to Abe’s description of how Rha and Rufus reacted when they first saw Hank’s paintings of the Does, I’m inclined to think that on that day, and previous to it, they had absolutely no idea what their sister had done and was still doing,” Carmine said, a part of his thoughts on the West Coast with his wife and children. “The sight of the paintings knocked them—uh—sideways.”

“For a row of shit-cans, you mean.”

“Well, okay, yes. They hadn’t known a thing, then Abe woke them up in a hurry, and they were caught in the usual family trap. I guess, especially given the age difference, that Ivy was as close as they ever got to a mother. They’re screwy genes whichever way you look at it, though. What’s the opposite of an Oedipus complex?”

“An Electra complex, though I can’t see it. Electra hounded her brother into killing her mother, she didn’t do it herself.”

Carmine grinned. “And ain’t that just like a woman?”

“If I didn’t know you were baiting me, Chief, I’d castrate you. Seriously, those two poor men are pure victims.”

“That’s what I meant by screwy genes. I don’t think I’ll ever forget Rha’s explaining how it felt to wake up every day knowing that half of his genes came from a sadistic murderer of the worst kind, then spend all day doing something good while still carrying the burden of knowledge.”

“I doubt they’ve ever harmed a fly,” Delia said gruffly.

“Nor ever will. It’s the sorrow, Deels! The children do inherit the sins of their fathers, metaphorically anyway.”

“I concede that, Carmine, but in the case of Rha and Rufus at any rate, one must say they’re heroes in the real sense.”

“Interesting, that they decided not to reproduce.”

“Inevitable, for heroes.”

“The media are going to have a field day.”

When the phone rang, Delia frowned—not Jess, oh, please, not Jess! Nothing had leaked to the media yet, so how—?

Carmine transferred his attention to the window, where the dusk was closing in; a few powerful lights on Long Island shone across the waters of the Sound—a night ball game of some kind?

“That was Corey Marshall,” she said, coming to sit down.

He stared, astonished. “What did he want?”

“He’s holding the fort for Fernando today. Ivy Ramsbottom managed to commit suicide this afternoon.”

“Jesus!” On his feet, Carmine had already started to walk to the door when he balked, stopped. “Oh, Jesus!”

“Sit down and have a real drink, Carmine,” Delia said, a glass in one hand, the bourbon bottle in the other. “There’s nothing you can do until tomorrow, Corey’s got it well in hand.”

Carmine took the drink, a stiffer one than he liked. “How did she manage it?”

“Said she was desperately tired and wanted to sleep. They had just found her a bed that fitted her—she’d passed an uncomfortable night on the one in the cell—so no one was surprised. Where she’d hidden the razor blade no one knows, because none was found on her at search, including full body. She changed into a nightgown, got under the covers, and asked to be tucked in. The woman uniform on duty obliged, turned off the overhead light, and sat in a corner with a table lamp, reading. Ivy cut both her wrists under the covers—the uniform never noticed any movement. Then she lay there and bled to death without a moan or a sigh—it must have been eerie. Apparently the uniform’s book was good, she didn’t go to the bed to investigate until she’d finished it some hours later. By then the mattress was soaked and the blood was dripping onto the floor. As you may imagine, all hell broke loose. The uniforms hate having women prisoners, they insist it means bad luck.”

“It sure did for Ivy,” Carmine said with a sigh. “She was bound to do it, wasn’t she?”

“Too proud not to,” Delia said.

“And no field day for the media.”

“For which, I’m sure, her brothers thank her.” Suddenly Delia looked inspired. “Her hair! I’ll bet the razor blade was tucked under a curl—she wears lacquer, so her hair feels stiff—who would notice? One looks for laces, sashes, belts.”

He went to dilute his drink with club soda. “Well, what’s done is done, I hope the poor soul is at peace.”

“I hope she’s in a kinder place than here,” Delia said.

I
t had fallen to Rufus to break the news about Ivy to Dr. Jess, but it hadn’t been high enough on his list of priorities to have happened before the news of Ivy’s suicide was relayed to him and Rha. When Anthony Bera called not ten minutes after Abe had come in person to tell the brothers, offering his services in a law suit against Holloman County for criminal negligence, Rufus had taken the call.

“Mr. Bera,” he said in a tired voice, “go fuck yourself,” and hung up quietly.

A retort that Abe was able to pass on to the Commissioner, as he was still present when Bera phoned.

It had puzzled Jess that Rufus Ingham, of all people, wanted to see her, but she wasn’t particularly busy, and told him that he was welcome anytime. Her surprise increased when he arrived shortly thereafter, conducted down from the wall office by Walter Jenkins, who had difficulty finding a slot to fit the guy in, between the make-up, the grace of movement and the unconscious air of aristocracy. When the guy insisted on privacy with Jess, his hackles rose, but clearly she knew him well and liked him; Walter retired to his suite and thought of other things.

Jess wept bitterly, facing a lonelier life.

Having shed all his tears, Rufus comforted her as best he could, then waited for the first paroxysm of grief to pass, as it had to. With Jess, not such a long wait; she was controlled, her head would always rule her heart.

“It was by far the best solution,” he said.

“Oh, yes. I suppose I’m crying for her pain.”

“As have all of us who know. How much did she tell you?”

“Enough. But I do think her death is a way of sending you and Rha a message.”

His face brightened, he sat straighter. “Tell me, please!”

“That she’s expiated the guilt. That the pair of you should stop thinking about who and what your father was—yes, she knew Ivor fathered both of you! The only way you can betray her now is to continue living in guilt because your father was an evil man. In November you’re forty years old—that’s enough years, Rufus. Wake up each day shriven, not befouled. That’s her most important message.”

“She
did
tell you everything!”

“I think for a while, many years ago when we first met, Ivy hoped that I’d find a little scrap of brain tissue and label it FATHER’S GENETIC INHERITANCE, but I had to disillusion her by telling her that the code is in every single cell of the body, and cannot be extirpated after the egg is fertilized. It was a blow—she loved the pair of you so much!”

“Yes, that we do know.” Rufus blinked hard.

“So this is how she finally decided to extirpate the genes. Not by any process of reason, or even of fantasy. I believe Ivy took all the old sins on her shoulders and tried to negate them, ultimately by destroying them along with her life. You and Rha have to live on as innocents,” Jess said.

“There’s no sense in it!” Rufus cried.

“There doesn’t have to be. What is, is.”

After Rufus left Jess didn’t buzz Walter’s room; she didn’t feel up to coping with Walter until her own emotions were under better command—oh, Ivy! It wasn’t difficult to understand why Ivy had chosen to kill in that manner; it inflicted great suffering over a long period of time without shedding a drop of blood. Even the castrations were relatively bloodless. Like all large people, she had grown in rapid spurts that demanded big quantities of food, which her father had denied her. Ivy’s childhood had been one of perpetual hunger; the only substance Ivor didn’t ration was water. One day, thought Jess Wainfleet, I will write a paper about Ivy Ramsbottom. It will contain facts neither her brothers nor the Holloman PD know, because it was to
me
that Ivy confided her life, her loves, her hates and her murders. She gave a sour grin. Fancy those ridiculous cops thinking she, Jessica Wainfleet, would ever betray a professional confidance! They’d have to rack her first, and no one in law enforcement did that anymore, though there were two inmates of HI who had.

“The theory of torturing a suspect to get a confession is so ludicrous it’s comedic material,” she said to Walter with a smile when he brought her a mug of coffee.

“Is it?” he asked, sitting. “Tell me more.”

“In other times, suspects were submitted to ordeals of pain to wring confessions out of them,” she said. “It didn’t seem to occur to those inflicting the torture that physical agony produces more lies than truth, though my own theory is that they knew that already. They just liked to inflict torture. People confessed just to stop the pain.” She smiled. “The rulers knew that all they were doing was encouraging the growth of vermin who mentally and physically enjoyed the act of torture. It’s only recently that torture has fallen into disrepute.”

“Is there any reason why torture could be good?” he asked.

“Absolutely none, Walter. To enjoy torture is one of the primary signs of psychopathia.”

“Is that why anesthetic is given before an operation?”

Jess snorted. “You know that perfectly well. Where are you going, Walter?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said vaguely. “I just wondered.”

“The answer lies in human kindness, and in education.”

“You believe in education?” he asked.

“Completely, no holds barred.”

“Because of God?”

She wanted to laugh, but kept a straight face. “God is a comfort-myth, my friend. If there is a God, it’s the Universe. Reward and punishment are human concepts, they’re not divine.”

“That’s why Rose hates you.”

“How interesting! I didn’t realize she did.”

“There’s lots you don’t realize, Jess. That’s why I try to join the wardroom coffee breaks. Except for Dr. Melos, they all think I’m just a wacko, and speak freely.”

“Clever Walter!” she said admiringly. “When I have more time, you can fill me in on your impressions.”

His face lit up. “That would be good, Jess.”

A stab of guilt smote her; she smiled at him ruefully. “Oh, my dear, dear friend, I
am
neglecting you! I wish you were my only patient, but there are around a hundred others, none of whom carries your importance or interest for me.”

Then he did it—Walter smiled! A broad, unmistakably wide grin. Stiffening in her chair, Jess grinned back.

Walter smiled!
The floodgates were open, thundering a deluge down what had been an utterly dry and useless gulch; not only thoughts but emotions were cascading out, intermingled exactly as they should—how did triumph acquire a superlative? Because she had regarded Walter as a triumph for over thirty months by now, thinking that he had attained his peak, would grind to a stop. The smile said he hadn’t stopped, and the sophistication of some of his recent actions said he might even be exponentially evolving.

“You’re happy now,” Walter said.

“If I am, Walter, it’s entirely thanks to you.”

Ivy Ramsbottom’s cellar hadn’t been an air-conditioned surgical paradise; that it had sufficed was astonishing in one way, but logical in another. It didn’t gel with Ivy’s fastidiousness, yet she had enough Ivor in her to construct a workable crypt.

Paul Bachman thought that Ivy, a skilled seamstress, had had it connected to the water and sewer, then padded it with her own hands. The vent was as old as the cellar. She had also changed the tiny elevator into an oversized chair, apparently so that she could descend and sit watching her victim suffer. From the contents of a bathroom that contained the chair just off the kitchen, the forensics team had deduced that Ivy regularly had put her victim to sleep, brought him up to the bathroom, then cleaned, bathed and shaved him, even to touching up the roots of his hair. Once the victim grew too weak to cooperate at all she abandoned her ministrations. Finally she transported the body to a site where trash was being illegally dumped, and threw him away like a dead animal.

“The cottage was isolated enough that no one ever heard the screams,” Abe said to the Commissioner, “even though there was an open vent under the hedge line. I had Tony stand in the cellar and screech his loudest, but surprisingly little noise escaped. We think the acoustic dampening is due to the fact that the cellar and bathroom upstairs are not underneath the main house. They’re off to one side, the bathroom area is small, and the cellar covered by two feet of soil and turf on top of a concrete lid. No echo chamber effect. The only way in or out is the elevator chair.”

“How is her last victim?” Silvestri asked.

“Hanging in there, sir,” Carmine said. “He has a very long road to recovery, but I’m assured he won’t die. The worst is that he’s burned up most of his muscle fiber in staying alive, so there’s more involved than merely feeding him. He’ll need phsical therapy and psychotherapy.”

“How’s his dog?” Liam asked.

“Pedro is taken up from Animal Care on frequent visits,” said Carmine. “Rha and Rufus are picking up the hospital and treatment tabs, and I understand will send him home funded with a pension.”

“Moving on, what’s happening about the guy who raided your house and shot up young Hank?” the Commissioner asked. “Will Hank be okay?”

“He’ll walk normally by the end of a year, sir, so I’m told. The spinal damage was virtually nonexistent, though part of the pelvis had to be reconstructed. It’s muscle and skin grafts will keep him in the hospital a good while yet.” He drew a deep breath. “As for the guy who did the shooting—zilch, sir. Nothing. We’ve found no trace of him anywhere. In fact, we don’t even know if he drives a car or rides a motorcycle, though instincts say it’s a big, powerful bike. He dresses in black, that much we got from Hank, who thought they were leather, but won’t swear to it. Except that Hank is sure his face skin was white. The guy wore some kind of helmet, but neither a brain-bucket nor a
Wehrmacht
style. Pointed, according to Hank, whose eye is more for unusual than ordinary detail. I don’t think he belongs to a biker gang.”

“A maverick, then?” Silvestri asked.

“It’s my hunch that he’s always been a maverick.”

“Not to mention a monster.”

Everyone nodded.

The Commissioner pronounced. “A nun killer is beyond anything,” he said, voice harsh. “We have to catch this evil bastard, and soon. No one in Holloman is safe, even the most innocent, until he’s behind bars. Fernando, I want your uniforms on the qui vive day and night. If he does ride a bike, patrols stand a good chance of spotting him.”

“Yes, sir,” Fernando said.

“Good,” said Silvestri, then, whispering,
“A nun!”