Forty Words for Sorrow

He tried to move, but his arms were strapped tightly to his sides and to the table. The only thing he could move was his head. Eric was concentrating on leveling the camera, bending down to adjust first one leg of the tripod, then another. Try to reason with him, reach him before he goes into a frenzy like he did on that videotape. "Listen, Eric," Keith said quietly. "My girlfriend will be missing me by now. I told her where I am, who I was staying with. It was in the letter I wrote."

This was ignored. Eric Fraser adjusted yet another leg of the tripod, humming to himself, and then, apparently satisfied, began pulling objects out of a duffel bag- Keith's duffel bag- and laying them out on a wooden counter.

Keith tried not to look. He concentrated on controlling his voice. "Eric, I could get you money. I'm not rich, but I could get you money from somewhere. My family is quite well off. So is my girlfriend's. They would pay you something, I'm sure they would."

It was as if Eric Fraser heard nothing of this. He pulled something from the bag- a pair of needlenose pliers, and then he stood over Keith for a moment with glistening ferret's eyes, clicking the pliers open and shut just above his nose.

"We could arrange the payments so no one finds out who you are. It should be possible. It wouldn't have to be a single payment, necessarily. There's no reason why it couldn't go on for some time. Please, Eric. Will you listen, Eric? You could make thirty or forty thousand dollars. Maybe fifty. Think what that could buy over the years. Why don't you let me call them, Eric?"

Eric Fraser pulled a paper bag from the duffel bag and unwrapped a sandwich. There was a sudden smell of tunafish. He sat in the darkness, blocking the glow from the space heater. A bone in his jaw clicked every time he chewed. After a while he said, "I wish Edie would get here with the lights." He tapped a large battery on the floor with the toe of his boot. "Lighting will be better in this one. Hate it when you can't see what's going on."

"Think about it, Eric. You could be quite well off. You wouldn't have to work. You could buy things. You could travel. You could go where you want, do what you want. What's the use in just killing me? It won't get you anywhere. You'll get caught sooner or later. Why don't you get some money out of this at least? Wouldn't that be better than just killing me?"

Eric finished his sandwich and threw the wrapping on the floor. "I wish Edie would get here with the lights," he said again.

"Eric, I'm begging you, all right? If you want me on my knees, I'll get on my knees. Just tell me what I have to do. Eric? Eric, are you listening? I'm begging for my life. I'll do anything you want. Anything. Just let me live."

This got no response whatever.

"Eric, I'll get more. I promise. I'll steal it. I'll rob a store. I'll do anything, Eric. Just let me go."

Eric slid down off his stool and selected a pair of scissors. He stood over Keith and snicked the blades open and shut. Then, taking hold of Keith's hair just above the ear, he cut away a small lock and held it up in a dim shaft of daylight. "I wish Edie would get here with the lights."

53

BEYOND the railroad tracks, the old house leaned against the storm. A piece of the eaves trough hung slackly from the porch, weighed down by melting icicles. At one corner of the roof, a piece of tar paper flapped like a shot bird. Horns from traffic on the overpass honked in the distance.

McLeod remembered the place from his days in uniform. "Had to boom their door in practically every Saturday. Old Stanley Markham- Cardinal, you remember Stanley- old Stanley used to go on a toot and come home and tear the place to bits. Strong son of a bitch, too. Broke my arm in two places. That little maneuver cost him three years. Few years back, his liver finally killed him and, boy, do I ever not miss him. Goddam house always stank of cat piss."

Cardinal asked, "Who lives there now?" They were watching the house through flapping wipers as if it might at any moment hoist up its foundations like a tattered skirt and haul off into the freezing rain.

"Who lives there now? Sweet Celeste lives there now, Stanley's loyal widow and one of nature's true troglodytes. Three hundred pounds, voice that can peel paint, and tough as her bastard of a husband, too. If her IQ was any lower you'd have to water the bitch."

"Fraser drives a Ford Windstar," Delorme said quietly. "I don't see it in the driveway."

"Fraser also has a hostage. I'm not going to wait around to find out if he's home or not."

"Hold on, now. How about a little backup before we waltz in there?" McLeod said. "We ain't exactly a SWAT team, here." He didn't say so, but the implication was, We're lumbered with a woman and a scene guy- we're asking for it.

A brown UPS truck was lumbering to a stop behind them. Ancient brakes howled in protest.