Archie lets his eyes fall on the corpse on the floor. He can’t see the head from his vantage point, only a hand, and he has watched the flesh darken and swell until it is unrecognizable, a dead bird at the end of a sleeve. “Who’s on the floor?” Archie asks.
She gives the corpse a disinterested glance. “Daniel. I found him on-line.”
“Why did you kill him?”
“I didn’t need him anymore,” she says, running a delicate finger over the skin of his forearm. “I had you. You’re special, darling. Don’t you understand that?”
“Number two hundred. The bicentennial.”
“It’s more than that.”
He is beginning to think he understands her. As if the further he gets from his life, the more she becomes clear to him. Had she been born? Or made? “Who made you drink drain cleaner, Gretchen?”
She laughs, but the amusement is unconvincing. “My father? Is that the answer?”
“Do I remind you of him?” Archie asks.
He thinks he sees her flinch. “Yes.”
“End this,” he says, fruitlessly. “Get some help.”
Her hand flutters in the air for a moment. “I’m not the way I am because of him. I’m not a violent person.”
“I know,” Archie says. “You need help.”
She picks up the scalpel, still stained with his blood, from the tray and holds it against his chest. Then she begins to carve. He can barely feel it. The blade is sharp and she is not cutting deeply. He watches as his ugly bruised skin splits beneath the blade, the blood holding for a moment, oxygenating, before it flows bright red from the wound. That’s the main sensation: the blood running down his sides, leaving trails of crimson that pool under his torso on the sweat-soaked white sheet. He watches her, her small brow furrowed with concentration, doodle on his flesh. “There,” she says finally. “It’s a heart.”
“Who’s it for?” he asks. “I thought we were going to bury the body. Keep them guessing.”
“It’s for you,” Gretchen says brightly. “It’s for you, darling. It’s my heart.” She glances sadly down at Archie’s swollen abdomen. “Of course it will get infected. It’s Daniel. His corpse has desterilized everything. I don’t have the proper antibiotics for a staph infection. The antibiotics I’m giving you will slow it down. But I don’t have anything strong enough to kill it.”
Archie smiles. “You worried about me?”
She nods. “You have to fight it. You have to stay alive.”
“So you can kill me with drain cleaner?”
“Yes.”
“You’re crazy.”
“I’m not crazy,” she insists, her voice a thin reed of desperation. “I’m very sane. And if you die before I let you, I will kill your children, darling. Ben and Sara.” She holds the scalpel easily, as if it is an extension of her body, another finger. “Ben is in kindergarten at Clark Elementary School. I will slice him up. You will do what I say. You will stay alive until I tell you. Understand?”
He nods.
“Say it.”
“Yes.”
“I’m not trying to be mean,” she says, her face softening. “It’s just that I’m worried.”
“Okay,” he says.
“Ask me anything. I’ll tell you anything you want to know about the murders.”
His throat and abdomen throb. Swallowing has become excruciating. “I don’t care anymore, Gretchen.”
Her mouth falters. She almost looks a little hurt. “You’re the head of my task force. You don’t want to take my confession?”
He stares past her, at the ceiling: the pipes, the ducts, the fluorescent light panels. “I’m trying to fight my staph infection.”
“Do you want to watch the news? I could bring a TV down.”
“No.” The thought of seeing his widow on the television news fills him with dread.
“Come on. There’s a vigil for you today. It will cheer you up.”
“No.” His mind searches for something to distract her with. “Let me drink the drain cleaner.” He gives her a pleading look. It isn’t faked. “Come on.” He is so tired. “I want to.”
“You want to?” She smiles with satisfaction.
“I want to drink the drain cleaner,” Archie says emphatically. “Feed it to me.”
She rises and makes the preparations, humming softly under her breath. In the codeine haze, he is unattached to any of it. It is like watching it all happen in a rearview mirror. When she returns, they repeat the exercise from the previous day. This time, the pain is more intense, and Archie vomits onto the bed.
“It’s blood,” Gretchen observes, pleased. “The poison is eating through your esophagus.”
Good, thinks Archie. Good.