Bibi found it to be a depressing story, if the author would even have wished that it be called a story, a kind of nihilism that would deny its nihilism.
As his dying words, the would-be rapist had said, You’ll never get out of this alive. It’s the Library of Babel. An infinite number of rooms. No way out. He could have had only one intention: to break her spirit, which was the desire of his boss, Terezin.
If such a learned reference was out of character for this thug, he must have been told to memorize those lines. And if he memorized them, he had intended to speak them to her face after he raped her and just before he slit her throat, to be sure that in the end she was robbed of all hope. When it happened that the death of the night would be his, not hers, he still performed according to his program.
If sentinels had been stationed at other places where she might have gone, as the brute claimed, all of them must have memorized the same lines about the Library of Babel. Terezin’s search for her was evidently even a bigger operation than she’d imagined. His obsession with her suggested that she posed a serious threat to him.
Bibi tried to think if she had left fingerprints on anything. The knob on the back door. She’d wipe it when she left. She would take the pistol and the switchblade with her. The filthy floor and the scaling plaster walls weren’t surfaces from which a police-lab technician could lift anything useful. Her prints on the dead man’s skin? Possible? Yes, but not likely. She sure wasn’t going to wipe him down, no way.
Besides, she would have left a few hairs. A few drops of blood. If the police technicians were as omniscient and brilliant as those on the CSI television shows, she was doomed. But of course the TV version was more fantasy than reality.
Although there was no one to hear, she refused to groan when she got to her feet. Not just to the dead man but also to Terezin and all the rest of them, she said, “Go to Hell.”
Seaside, from high white cliffs, the fog came down in slow avalanches, burying the peninsula and the harbor beyond it and the shore beyond the harbor. Each traffic light stood like a cyclops, peering through the mist in red rage or green jealousy or cowardice. For all that was revealed of them, the passing vehicles might have been lantern-eyed beasts that had journeyed out of one mythology or another into Newport.
Accustomed to parking a couple of blocks from her destination, the better to keep Pogo’s Honda a secret from those who would track her if they could, Bibi left the car on Via Lido. She walked west to the corner and a few blocks south on the boulevard. She’d never before visited the place toward which she was headed, had just noticed it in passing. Terezin’s people could not be expecting her to show up there. She was cautious, anyway.
On the mainland, a far-away siren grew nearer as perhaps an ambulance made its way toward Hoag Hospital. The periodic bleat of the foghorn at the distant mouth of the harbor. The muffled music of a live band performing in a club.
She encountered a dozen or more pedestrians. They emerged from the murk as if born in that moment, sometimes with a dog on a leash. The canines were always grinning, elated by the cool wet night, the people not so much. Although it was a King Charles spaniel, the first dog reminded her of the morning pursuit through the park in Laguna. After that she half expected to be confronted by someone in a hoodie with a golden retriever, but she saw neither.
The electric-blue neon was at first a meaningless scrawl in the mist, floating like a balloon animal representing a species unknown on Earth. As she approached, the blue resolved into glowing glass script that spelled the words body art.
The tattoo parlor aimed to be a bit more upscale than most, although not to an extent that bled away its air of counterculture and rebellion. Striking images hung in the window—a winged horse, a leering death’s head, Rocket Raccoon, a busty Vampira, a serpent with jeweled scales, a heart twisted around with brambles and pierced by thorns—implying that the artist-in-residence could make of your skin a first-rate gallery of pop art.