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  The razor slit deep into his arm…She cut a square, and began to slice deep, cutting away the tattoo, but then fell back. As she sliced the artery his blood spurted over her face, her chest. Kellerman was not dead. Her rage went out of control.

  She wanted to be sick, could feel the bile rising from her stomach. But she had to stay calm. She picked up the ashtray and hit him again, and again, her teeth clenched as she used all her strength. Then she waited, knew this time he had to be dead, and she carried the heavy marble ashtray into the bathroom, washed it, dried it, left it wrapped in the stained bloody towel, sure it was clean of prints. Then she washed around the sink, the taps. Suddenly she caught sight of her reflection again. Her eyes were crazy, her face white, blood rivulets now running like tears down her face. She backed out of the bathroom, rubbing frantically at her skin.

  She had to face Kellerman again. The force of the last blow had made his head jerk sideways. His top set of dentures had fallen out.

  As she tried to drag and push his body under the bed, the heel of her boot ground the dentures into the carpet. She was panting now, but she kept on working. She cleaned the room, the door handles, anything she might have touched. Then she found Kellerman’s hat, was about to tuck it into his case, but changed her mind. She turned over the blood-soaked rug he had been lying on, tucking the stained area beneath the bed. She then fetched the do not disturb sign and hung it on the door. Carrying Kellerman’s belongings in his case, wearing his hat, she slipped down the stairs. There was still no one in reception; she grabbed the book, and tore out the pages with Kellerman’s name.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Ruda was back at her trailer by midnight. She could hear Luis snoring loudly, his door ajar. She slipped out as silently as she had crept in and went over to the freezer trailer. Knowing she wouldn’t sleep, Ruda needed to keep herself busy, and she began to prepare the morning’s feed for the cats. She was so intent on her work that she didn’t hear the door open. When Luis spoke she sprang back in shocked surprise.

  “Jesus Christ, what are you doing? Do you know what time it is?”

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “I saw the lights on, I thought someone was breaking in. What are you doing, it’s after midnight…”

  Ruda continued cutting the meat. “I couldn’t sleep because of your snoring! You left your door open, I’ve told you to keep it shut!”

  Luis grinned sheepishly, and offered to give her a hand. She refused, and he came to her side, “I’m sorry, I know what I did this afternoon was unforgivable…”

  He backed away from her then, a look of horror on his face. Her blouse was covered with blood.

  “Why haven’t you got one of the rubber aprons on? Have you seen your shirt?”

  Ruda looked at her shirt covered with Kellerman’s blood.

  “It doesn’t matter, it was falling apart. I’ll chuck it out in the morning. You go back to bed, I’ll be a while yet.”

  Again Luis offered to help her, but she ignored him, and after a moment he left. Ruda washed down the tables and cleaned the knives, hammer, and hatchets before she scrubbed her own arms with a wooden brush, paying particular attention to her nails.

  She stared at her left wrist, and once more the full impact of what she had done that night dawned on her. But she would not give in to it, she pressed it down further and further inside her, locking it out of sight of her mind.

  She took off her blouse and stuffed it into Kellerman’s case. When she saw that the inside of her raincoat was stained, she knew she would have to destroy it along with the rest of his belongings.

  Ruda returned to her trailer and changed into an old sweater, and an old pair of Luis’s trousers. She then carried Kellerman’s suitcase, her raincoat, shirt, and trousers to the big garbage barrels. She tossed his case into the huge bins which were waiting for the morning collection. She then carried Kellerman’s papers and her marriage license to the main incinerators and eased back the burning-hot lid. She stuffed the papers inside, one by one, making sure each caught fire. She watched the flames slowly lick and eat his treasured green passport, watched the black letters disintegrate. The charred black smoke made her so desperate to replace the lid that she forgot to use the holder, but picked up the red-hot lid of the incinerator in her bare hand. Her burning skin hissed, but she didn’t even feel the pain.

  There was a low rumble of thunder and the rain became heavier. The ground was still muddy underfoot, and she stumbled over the gangplanks in her haste to get inside. In the vast arena, all the animals were sleeping. The heaters were on full blast, and three night lights gave off a soft pink light. Ruda headed toward her cages as there was a second rumble of thunder. The animals loathed thunder, and lightning made it even worse.

  Ruda passed the tigers, who were huddled together; a few raised their heads as they recognized her smell, then returned to sleeping. Only Mamon was awake, his amber eyes bright. Ruda pressed close to the cage and called to him; he crawled on his belly toward the bars and rubbed them with his head. She stayed with Mamon for a while, comforted by him.

  By the time she got into bed she was exhausted. She drew the sheet to her naked body, tired but relieved it was over. Kellerman’s passport, their marriage license, the hotel guest register sheet, all were charred to a cinder, gone. It was over at last, and there was no witness, no one to threaten her newfound security.

  Ruda concentrated hard, just as she had done as a child, waited until she felt the leaden weight creep upward from her toes, to her knees, to her arms, to her heart. She breathed deeply, willing her mind to lose consciousness. Gradually she allowed the weight to cover and spread, from her lungs to her mouth. She slept in a deep, dreamless whiteness, protected, peaceful; no one could break through that whiteness.

  Chapter 2

  The night that Tommy Kellerman died was the night Baroness Marechal tried to kill herself, it was the night she experienced the horror of a living death, the terrible white weight she was powerless to control or stop. The attack had left her so exhausted she remained sedated the next day.

  Vebekka had no memory of Dr. Franks’s visit, or of how many people monitored her slow recovery to consciousness.

  Dr. Franks asked that Anne Marie be allowed to visit him at his office. He also wanted another interview with the baron and Helen Masters, to find more clues to Vebekka’s mental disorder.

  It was agreed that Hilda be brought in to sit with the baroness during Anne Marie’s absence.

  When Hilda reached the suite, the baroness was in a deep sleep. Hilda sat down in a chair by the bed. Soon, all that could be heard in the vast silent bedroom was the clicking of her knitting needles.

  Vebekka slept peacefully, her hands folded on the starched white linen sheet. She was wearing a white frilly negligee that couldn’t disguise the sharp bones of her neck and shoulders, the thinness of her arms. Her face was drawn. There were deep dark circles beneath her closed eyes.

  Saline and glucose drips were still hooked to Vebekka’s hands. The tubes and needles had left dark black bruises. A thick bandage covered her left wrist. The room was filled with flowers and baskets of fruit, and their scent was very heavy. Hilda would have liked to open the window, but it was raining.

  Finally, Vebekka stirred and turned her head to face the maid. “Would you be so kind as to take the drips out of my hand? It hurts me.”

  “I don’t think I can, Baroness, Anne Marie is not here, and the baron and Dr. Masters are also out.”

  Vebekka sighed and Hilda returned to her knitting. Suddenly Vebekka ripped off the adhesive, pulled out the needles and tossed them aside.

  Vebekka smiled coyly at Hilda, and curled up on her side. Hilda could do nothing but pick up the adhesive from the floor, and hang up the drips, switching them off.

  “Hilda, will you call room service? I want some vanilla ice cream, with chocolate sauce and nuts, and those chocolate biscuits.”

  Hilda obliged, and
in due course a trolley was sent up with some chocolate biscuits and the ice cream. She helped Vebekka sit up, and watched in amazement as the baroness slowly began to eat. Like a squirrel she nibbled and sucked at the spoon with such childish delight that Hilda felt even more motherly toward her than before; she tried to hint that perhaps eating so much sweet food was not good for her, but her words were ignored. Slowly, Vebekka demolished the entire tray of sweets.

  Vebekka snuggled down in bed, dark chocolate stains around her mouth and on her fingertips. The clicking of Hilda’s knitting needles was soothing, and she slept again. When a roll of thunder was heard, her hand slipped from the warmth of the covers to hold Hilda’s, and the knitting was quietly put aside.

  Anne Marie inched open the door, and crept into the room; she put her fingers to her lips and looked at the dressing table. She began to take all the bottles of medicine and pills and then she rifled the vanity cases. Her arms full of bottles, she came to Hilda’s side and whispered. “The doctor said she is to have no more medication, no more sedation, unless from him!”

  Anne Marie hurried from the room and returned with a large packet, unwrapped it, and held it out to show Hilda.

  “You know what this is?”

  Hilda shook her head, and put her fingers to her lips for Anne Marie to lower her voice.

  “It’s a straitjacket! I don’t know about this great doctor, if you ask me he’s yet another quack…so I got this just in case.”

  Anne Marie put the jacket down, was about to leave when she saw that the drips were not attached. “Who took those out?”

  Hilda gripped Vebekka’s hand and whispered, “I did, they were causing her pain; let her sleep.”

  Anne Marie pursed her lips. “She needs glucose, she’s got to keep up her strength. I’ll have to redo them.”

  Hilda felt the baroness’s fingers tighten, her grip was so tight it hurt her. Hilda knew she was awake, but she didn’t give her away.

  “When she wakes, I’ll call you, but she has just eaten, and I think it is better she sleep.”

  Anne Marie hesitated and then walked to the door. “But I have not seen them, and I will not take any responsibility…”

  The grip relaxed, and Hilda gently patted Vebekka’s hand. She straightened the bedcovers, and was touched when the sick woman slipped her arms around Hilda’s neck and kissed her in gratitude.

  “I have a terrible fear of needles—of things in my body—she knows, but she hates me. Thank you.”

  Hilda smiled, returned to her chair. She picked up her knitting, and Vebekka laughed softly. “Not knitting needles, though!”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Dr. Franks swiveled in his chair. “Your nurse, Anne Marie, says your wife has some kind of, well, not exactly an obsession, but boxes, vanity boxes…she always travels with three, sometimes four, yes?”

  The baron looked puzzled. “Yes, they are part of her luggage, one is for her jewelry, one for makeup, one for medical and…I suppose it seems excessive, but not out of the ordinary. I can’t understand why on earth the girl would even discuss my wife’s traveling accessories with you!”

  Franks leaned on his elbows. “Because I asked. You and your wife travel extensively? And these boxes always accompany her?”

  “Yes, so do our cases, and trunks. Perhaps you will find some ulterior motive in the fact I always have more…”

  Franks interrupted. “I am interested only in your wife at the moment, Baron, and the fact she always travels with an extensive wardrobe, but rarely if ever wears three quarters of the contents. According to Anne Marie many items your wife insists on traveling with have never been worn, yes? What I am trying to determine is, does your wife appear, in your personal opinion, to have items of clothing in very different styles? Does she, perhaps, appear to you as different characters, or seem different to you at times?”

  “That is the entire reason I am here. My wife has periods of sanity and insanity.”

  Franks wandered around the room. “Has anyone ever suggested to you that your wife may have a personality disorder? Could she possibly be a multiple personality?”

  The baron shook his head and glared at Helen Masters.

  Franks turned his attention to her. “What do you think?”

  “No, I don’t think she is, or I didn’t, but she said something that’ll interest you. I wrote it down actually.”

  Helen opened her bag and took out a small notebook. “When I found her last night, she said, ‘We have done something terrible.’ Not I, but we.”

  The telephone rang. Franks snatched it up, but spoke only a second before he handed it to the baron.

  “It’s for you, long distance. If you need privacy, I am sure Dr. Masters and I can…”

  The baron gestured with his hand for them to stay, as he listened to the caller. He then covered the mouthpiece. “It’s all right, it’s Franchise, my secretary, from Paris.”

  The call went on for some time, the baron saying little but making notes. Helen whispered to Franks. “She is very particular about her clothes, but I have never noticed a marked difference in styles—say, little girl to tart. I would simply say that the baroness has a wardrobe any woman would be envious of. However, she does seem to be very obsessive about the vanity cases.”

  Helen was interrupted as the baron dropped the phone back on the hook and sighed. “Gerard, my man in New York, has been having great difficulty tracing my wife’s family. He started at her old modeling agency. They had no record of Vebekka ever having signed with them. They then passed him on to someone who had run the agency before them. He said that he never had anyone by the name of Vebekka, but later that evening he called back to say he had made a mistake, that in fact he had represented a girl called Rebecca Lynsey; he recalled she later changed her name to Vebekka, using just her Christian name for work. He had no records on hand but would see if he could find his ex-wife, who ran the business with him. But one thing he was sure about, or as sure as he could be.”

  The baron seemed very disturbed as he continued: “He said that my wife’s maiden name, Lynsey, was not her real name, but one used for modeling. He could not recall ever having heard her real last name. Why would she have lied to me? I don’t understand it!”

  Franks rubbed his head. “But when her father died, didn’t you see a name, something to indicate Lynsey wasn’t her family name?”

  The baron shook his head. “Gerard’ll call again as soon as he has anything else. He’s going to Philadelphia tonight. I don’t understand. Lynsey was the name on her passport, I’m sure of it. I’ve asked him to fax any new information to the hotel.”

  Franks raised an eyebrow to Helen. “She has never referred to herself as Rebecca?”

  The baron shook his head. “No, never. I have always known her as Vebekka Lynsey.”

  “When she was in New York, did she meet anyone there, have friends there?”

  “No, we have mutual friends, or family friends, but I have never seen anyone walk up to her and call her Rebecca, if that is what you mean. I have never seen her birth certificate. There never seemed to be a reason before now, that is, if there is a valid reason now!”

  Franks’s eyes turned flinty as he said, “I am simply trying to find clues to your wife’s mental problems because I want to begin my treatment as soon as she is physically capable of walking into this place unaided.”

  The baron’s antagonism irritated Franks, but he didn’t show it. Pleasantly he asked:

  “Yesterday—Baron? are you listening to me?—you recalled the first time you witnessed your wife’s mental instability, yes?”

  The baron nodded. Franks asked if he could recall any other instances. The baron sighed, crossing his legs, staring at his highly polished shoes.

  “I mentioned the circus. To be quite honest there have been so many, over so many years and…”

  He paused, and Franks knew the baron had just remembered something; he could see it in the w
ay the baron frowned, then hesitated, as if recalling the moment and then dismissing it. Franks leaned forward. “Yes? What is it?”

  The baron shrugged. “It was in the late seventies; this episode had no connection to any of the children. We were in New York. We were at my apartment, reading The New York Times. She was reading the real estate section, while I had the rest of it. Suddenly she snatched the paper from my hands; as she did, it fell onto the table and the coffee pot tipped over me. I don’t think she intended to spill the coffee, though I believed she had taken my paper for some perverse reason—perhaps because I wasn’t paying enough attention to her. I don’t know. Sometimes she is incredibly childish. I suppose I was silly too, because I insisted she give me back the paper. She refused. We had an argument, not a very pleasant one, and…”

  The baron shrugged his shoulders, as if he suddenly felt the episode not worth pursuing. Franks pressed him. “Go on…she took the rest of the paper, and then what?”

  “Well, as I recall, I went into my bathroom, showered, and was dressing when the maid said there seemed to be some fracas in the foyer. Next door to the building is a small newsstand. My wife, still in her dressing gown, was, so I was told, in the foyer, her arms full of newspapers. When I went down I found her sitting on the foyer floor, ripping the newspapers apart, throwing pages aside. She was on her hands and knees, scouring each page, but to this day, I have no idea what she was looking for. All I know is it was very embarrassing, and it took a great deal of cajoling to get her to return to the apartment.”

  Franks waited, expecting more, but the baron gestured with his hands. “That’s it, really.”

  “Did you ever ask her why she wanted the papers?”

  “Of course.”

  “Did she give you an explanation?”

  “No, she actually didn’t speak for over a week. She seemed very elated, slightly hysterical at that time, but I couldn’t get a word out of her as to why she was behaving in such a way, or what on earth had sparked the breakdown.”