Vilenov

Chapter 7 of the science fiction crime thriller Freak

Freak

Chapter Seven

Vilenov

“The state’s inspired criminal psychologist,” Vilenov said icily, “is casually rewriting my personal history; picking and choosing points that work for him, spinning the facts so my life sounds like a joke. It isn’t a joke. I’m going to tell you all exactly what happened, and I won’t fabricate a thing. And then, just in case you think you’ve got me up against the wall here, I’m gonna redefine for you the phrase ‘captive audience’.”

His eyes were now the center of gravity for over a hundred slack faces. Vilenov began his story in a monotone, as though speaking into a machine, giving attention to descriptive detail over feeling. Gradually the color returned to his cheeks. His speech grew more buoyant when he relived certain events, but quickly bottomed out from associated headaches. Vilenov compensated with self-control, always aiming for the mean. Except for an occasional wince during a particularly troubling memory, his expression remained even and his voice cold, though at times his desire to paint an accurate picture lent his account an ascendant, almost poetic quality. There were moments of struggle with graphic imagery, and instances of calm wholly inappropriate to the violent pulse of his story. But overall, the tenor of Vilenov’s narrative most closely resembled a confession, yet one without guilt or shame. His manacled hands now and then pulled at the thick oak rail before him, and, though his head intermittently rocked with pain, his eyes never lost their sway.

“What that moron told you about my European roots is accurate, but all the stuff about ‘acts,’ and ‘buffaloing,’ was just a bunch of crap he made up to impress you. He wasn’t there; I was.” He took a deep breath.

“Yes, my parents were performers in a Romanian circus; yes, I emigrated illegally; yes, I’ve spent my entire adult life haunting the mean streets of Surf City, U.S.A. My mother died in Lodz; Father went up in smoke right here in Venice. Grandmother, Dimitri--the whole family’s in the ground.

“Well, let’s see now...the old man was a cold son of a b***h, known in the business as...how do I anglicize it...we didn’t have a word for mesmerist--let’s just call him ‘The Great Mikhail,’ and leave it at that. A human magnet, able to attract a crowd anywhere. But not by trying to, mind you, just by being nearby. Mikhail was the show’s feature attraction when he met my mother, Marta, in a village outside Brasov. He was so impressed with her bang-up telekinesis act that he married her on the spot, and induced the owner to hire her on. From then on he was her personal manager and barker.

“If ever there was a union made in Hell--to hear Grandmother tell it, things got ugly right off the bat with those two. Any place the coaches stopped there’d be trouble. Customers took to brawling under the moon, women broke out in catfights and lewd displays. The emotion passed, back and forth, between my parents and the crowd, gaining in steam as the performances wore on. Mother grew able to topple distant objects with great violence. Father became the epicenter of the whole countryside’s rage. People hated them. They feared them. But they kept coming back. And all the while Mikhail’s hold was increasing dramatically. Especially his hold on women.

“You see, my old man had this absolutely ferocious sexual appetite; he must have spent half his life dodging angry husbands and fathers. His method was crude, but effective: he’d simply approach women out of the blue, bump right up on them, and envelop them in what good ol’ Doctor Reis rightly termed ‘his presence.’ Father went on like this, brazenly, even after he’d married Marta. She gave him two sons, Dimitri and Constantine, and a daughter, Elena. When things got too close he influenced the show’s owner to outfit him with a larger, finer living coach, and for a number of years they all traveled like royalty, relatively speaking.

“In time Mikhail grew so influential he didn’t need to perform. All he had to do was hold a customer in his sway and the guy would gladly turn over the deed to his farm. A great deal of riches rolled in over the years; gold and silver, precious stones and jewelry--all stashed beneath the floorboards of that splendid coach. By then Father and Mother could easily have made it on their own, but they elected to stay with the troupe. Circus crowds were still the best bet.

“Fame was honey to Father’s ego. Success made him brasher and brasher; soon he was taking the peasant girls in plain sight. Who knows how many poor b******s that monster produced. The man was insatiable.

“Anyway, I was born sometime in the mid-Sixties. Father and Mother were both in their fifties, and still going strong. Dimitri had taken a wife; a fourteen year-old farm girl named Kirin. Mikhail was regularly violating his own daughter Elena, so she and Constantine flew the coop, deciding they’d rather live with the wolves than with the devil. That left Father, Mother, Dimitri, and Kirin; a family quickly rearranged upon my birth, for Mother, tough and fertile as she was, couldn’t handle the strain of childbirth at her age. Her death was a crushing blow to gentle Dimitri, but it wasn’t any skin off Father. Before she was even in the ground he was working on Kirin.

“Dimitri freaked. One black night, with wine in his belly, he caught them in the act and took a saber to the old man. The next morning Dimitri was found in an open field; his guts cut out by that same saber, and by his own hand.

“Locals were spooked by the rumors. And now, with his dark name blackened even further, The Great Mikhail’s business was falling off correspondingly. He grew increasingly distant and restless, finally setting off upon the Carpathians in that magnificent coach, with only me and Kirin, to seek fresh meat. I still have vivid memories of clopping along in the darkness, bundled up between that silent oak of a man and his shell-shocked plaything. Before I was nine years old I was a total mess.

“It was in the vicinity of Cluj-Napoca that Father, having just influenced a group of American tourists out of their luggage and cash, had an experience that radically changed his life, and indirectly led to all you lovely, law-abiding ladies and gentlemen, sitting with me so patiently in this wonderful room. But it will seem such a trivial event.

“What Father found at the bottom of a pinched suitcase was a single postcard, posted from Venice Beach, right here in sunny Southern California. I distinctly recall my first-and-only glimpse, and remember understanding, subliminally, that no human being other than he was ever to view it again.

“The postcard’s face was a glossy, full-color photograph of six bronzed, nearly nude beach bunnies frolicking in the surf with a bright red Frisbee. This card just blew my father’s mind. For weeks he was severely depressed and withdrawn; couldn’t speak, couldn’t eat, couldn’t screw. The peasant girls became slime to him, and Kirin just another homely pig. He never spoke of it, but I felt his resolve as he hurried our horses west. Mikhail was a man on a mission.

“He sold the horses and coach in Hungary, and we took a train for Portugal. Father didn’t trust currency, so he made us drag satchels stuffed with gold wherever we went. He didn’t need it; he could take what he wanted. But he wasn’t letting go of his hoard. The Great Mikhail answered only to the Grim Reaper. Also, he was dead-on in his assessment of humanity. The flash of gold moved men far quicker than the application of his will.

“In Lisbon we boarded an enormous steamer. For two weeks Father was a walking time bomb; seasick one day, unbearably restless the next. The endless ocean was a terrible blow to his ego. He lost all sexual appetite, and, strange now that I think about it, it was the only time I’ve seen women repelled by him. When he got cabin fever he’d storm on deck, scattering passengers and coalescing the crew. Everybody would watch in dead silence while he stood at the bow; his tall, wind-blown shape standing out against the horizon like a gnarly prow. Finally he’d stomp back down to our cabin and lose himself in that damned postcard.

“Soon as we disembarked in New York the tiger was out of his cage. Reinvigorated by all the hookers and strip clubs, Father sold pounds of gold and jewelry for quick American cash, but his manners and appearance were just too profane. In Albuquerque the law came down on us. We were run out of town on a rail, so to speak; Father bundled us onto a train and we began our long, eye-popping journey across this beautiful country.

“He’d learned from his New York experiences. When we reached Los Angeles he managed to control his urges, though the sight of bikinis, the smell of suntan oil, and the sudden feel of a bright baking sun just tore him up. He bought a gothic, two-storied house in Old Venice, halfway down Wave Crest between Speedway and Pacific. Not two blocks from the beach, only half a mile from the Canals. He was drawn to this sagging old place, I suppose, because it reminded him of the rambling structures back home.

“He really fell in love with that old Ocean Front Walk in Venice; you could tell the carnival-like atmosphere brought back his showman’s memories. Father, with his huge graying beard and flowing black robes, blended right in. Street artists had a field day with him, and pretty soon his likeness was popping up everywhere; on silk-screened T-shirts, on posters, on canvases. Kids mimicked his long gliding gait, little schoolgirls ran screaming with their hands tucked between their legs. Father himself grew less and less anxious, though he’d never allow his picture taken, or engage in any conversation beyond grunts and monosyllables. It wasn’t just that his grasp of English was so limited. He could have learned, in time. But he was too busy for distractions. He was looking, always looking.

“Mikhail began bringing home some of the loveliest, least-clad bunnies he could find, and introducing them into his stable. Initially there was this big confused outrage in our neighborhood, but when it came right down to it nobody really wanted a piece of him; a look from Father was like ice on your heart. This strange, brooding tension hung over Wave Crest. Neighbors went about their lives without humor or interest, letting their houses fall apart and their yards go to hell. Wave Crest is actually a walk, not a street, maybe ten feet wide. There are lots of trees. Those trees were allowed to grow together overhead, cutting out the sun. Inside this dreary tunnel, if you had the balls to peep through your blinds, you just might see my father silently gliding along with a clinging, shivering bunny. And then you’d turn away and forget what you saw, and the bogeyman and his bunny would disappear into the bowels of the huge dilapidated two-story.

“It was a suffocating atmosphere for an eleven year-old boy, a grim sex freeway. At any time there may have been eight or nine women living in our house, and Father, true to form, made no secret of his activities. I couldn’t pass a day without seeing him going at it like a dog.

“But it was during this period that he began to show a real paternal interest in me. Never spoke, never gestured; just made his points with looks of approval or disapproval. He commanded Grandmother to educate me, in our native tongue, on the manifold glories of his black career and filthy conquests. Soon he grew sick of her plodding, and, I think, sick of his own ignorance. He began coming home not only with bunnies, but with school teachers. These women were engaged in my education from the ground up, and they were totally devoted to my progress. The English language was drilled into my brain. I was kept prisoner in a book-lined room, schooled relentlessly by one after the other. I had literally hundreds of ‘mothers’ over those few years, hand-picked to educate me by leaps and bounds in the sciences, in literature, in philosophy. Once a ‘mother’s’ potential was exhausted, she was disposed of and never seen again, replaced by a new ‘mother’ able to school me at a higher level. I was force-fed a quality, rounded education, entirely against my will. But you, who’ve never experienced this man’s will, don’t know how effective his looks could be. His eyes impaled you, absorbed you, commanded you. And so I learned.

“One powerful lesson I took from this succession of ‘mothers’ didn’t come by way of books. When I hit puberty a change came in my studies. My ‘mothers’ rapidly became more physical, then seriously groping, then urgently sexual. At first I was bewildered by the unblinking passion of their advances, and thought only of hiding. But the constant cramming--the books, the commands, the encouragement--had taught me to think. Father’s influence, especially over women, became my whole focus. I got into some heavy studies at night, locked in that drafty room with a flashlight and a thousand books. I brooded over biochemical catalysts and adaptive functions, thought long and hard about the forces directing propagation, and ended up with an insider’s view of certain related phenomena which aren’t normally cross-referenced, simply because they seem so obviously unrelated. I walked the line between science and the occult; reading extensively on the natural and the supernatural, and cataloging rumors of the paranormal--rumors considered basic facts in the Old World for centuries. I discovered things, man; things you candy Christians will never know. Clairvoyance, mind reading, communication with animals...these aren’t magic powers! Freaks, I was fast catching on, are glandular superhighways.

“And I learned of peoples and cultures throughout history, noting the normal range of behavior and appetite. I’d had an epiphany, one of many: my studies on androgenic processes, and especially on pheromones, came at a point in my development when I was beginning to realize my father had to be the horniest man to ever live. You see, it’s all about procreation. That’s what the so-called ‘meaning of life’ is. It struck me, even then, that the ability to stimulate the opposite sex is one of the stronger forces in animal nature, and that those individuals possessing this procreative virtue in the greatest degree will produce more offspring, and so further their strain. I’m not stupid, man. I know it’s all just a great big stampede of hormones. The crux of reproduction is quantity, not quality. Evolution isn’t ‘survival of the fittest,’ for Christ’s sake. In the long run, linearly, it’s survival of the most prolific. They are the cream of the crop. I got this idea of a natural channel; like a sieve, if you can picture it, that singles out highly specialized individuals, bringing the most audacious creations to the fore, to a finer, less ‘polluted’ state. This notion might seem a little strange in this fine, upstanding courthouse--that the best specimen is the least democratic, that in raw nature lack of restraint is a tremendous asset.

“Trends are disseminated, okay? The herd passes them along in their offspring. Over many generations, they define the herd’s general behavior, general direction, general appetite. But in a single line, also after many generations, this same process can produce traits. Follow me here: a pack leader is not a pack leader because, out of all members in the pack, this leader just happens to be the specimen best suited for the position. A pack leader is an individual genetically groomed for the job, through innumerable generations of very specialized pack leaders. But the strain must be kept as pure as possible, through the ‘in-breeding,’ if you will, of exemplary specimens. Listen, you clueless Gumbies: in our own time a president, a general, or a CEO, is not a specimen ‘best suited for the job!’ In that super-achiever’s blood courses the rage, the lust, and the indomitable spirit of super-achievers long wed to the dust. The greatest genealogist on this planet might not be able to detect the lineal connection, but it’s there. And all these super-specimens may croak early because of their excesses, and not leave a trace.

“Except in their seed.

“And I recognized Father as the bearer of an antediluvian torch; perhaps the sole representative of some primitive stock that didn’t mutate for the good of the herd, or die out as a useless anomaly, but actually evolved--if I dare use the word--in virility, in herd-sway, generation by generation, along a very specialized, and very effective line. It made me curse all my studies, made me sweat in my dreams, because the next freak in line was Yours Truly! It totally scared the s**t out of me. You see, despite a healthy desire to love and be loved, I loathed that man from the bottom of my heart. No way did I want to become him.

“Like a physical blow, I saw my parents’ union as a perfectly inevitable coincidence. They were part of a collateral line. Both were highly specialized individuals. Both embodied primitive traits melded and focused to the n^th degree. And I was their product. Man, it was in my frigging genes! I tried telling myself that I’d been thinking too hard, that I’d got hold of what must seem, to all you glassy dummies, an absolutely silly idea. But this silly idea was made more and more believable by the increasingly wild advances of my ‘mothers’.

“I was my father’s son, no doubt about it. Mikhail’s women were paying ever closer attention, fondling me, tearing at me, while his jealousy simmered. Even Grandmother showed signs of affection that were not strictly ‘family’.

“You see, when I was younger, and especially during this string of ‘mothers’, it had been convenient for clarity’s sake that Mikhail instill in Kirin a penchant for calling herself ‘grandmother’, and myself ‘grandson’. These became our pet names for each other, and, in time, our general understanding. In the end nothing could have convinced me otherwise, for Kirin sure looked the part. She was only twenty-eight, but Father’s incessant sexual assaults made her appear sixty.

“And Kirin’s advances became less and less subtle with each passing day, until one summer morning I woke up flat on my back, straddled by this naked, burned-out hag. She was out of her mind with lust. Before I even knew what was doing, the door burst open to reveal Father’s hunched silhouette, trimmed in rose by the first rays of dawn.

“Mikhail bashed her over and over with a twisted old poker from the front room hearth. He struck her like a man laying into a snake, then chased her screaming and spurting around the room until she collapsed against the wall, half-buried in tumbled books. He turned on me slowly, raising the bloody poker high, but I instinctively threw a hand over my eyes, grabbed my pants, and blindly dashed from the room.

“I remember running along the beach...hiding in the handball courts at Muscle Beach...running crying through yards...trying to ditch him at the Canals. But it seemed I couldn’t turn without seeing him; all black robes and salt-and-pepper beard, gliding somberly in the morning fog while tapping that poker like a blind man. At times he would freeze in my direction, and I’d cringe as he stood there, feeling the area. But he was never able to locate me, and I became convinced he was only hip to my whereabouts when I was on the move. So I resolved to out-wait him. I pushed myself deeper into the embankment under a pretty little painted bridge and held my breath while ducks and tiny crabs cruised and clambered beside me.

“After a while Mikhail touched the poker to the ground, picking up vibrations. He moved left and right with infinite slowness, sensing all around. Slowly, slowly he turned to face the bridge, staring very hard. The poker rose almost imperceptibly, until it pointed directly between my eyes.

“But his concentration was broken by a jogger, puffing across a street-to-canal walkway between two old houses. When my father turned back he was rattled. He cursed, raised the poker high overhead, and shook it in silent rage. Instantly a small tethered rowboat writhed on the water, and a front room window erupted into a thousand shards.

“He began moving back toward home, the neighborhood dogs howling insanely at his approach, and whining like kittens once he’d passed. I continued watching him glide along, pausing every hundred yards or so to inspect the area, until at last he passed out of sight.

“That whole morning I walked the beach north, always keeping to the waterline. I was out of my mind with fear, because I knew Father would kill me when he found me. I knew it. You who’ve never been under his influence will never understand what I’m rapping about here. You’re chilled; chilled to the marrow. That man’s shadow weighed a ton. So I walked with my feet in the surf; I’d already resolved to throw myself under the waves and drown the instant I felt him near. I walked all the way to Malibu before I finally fell on the sand and cried like a baby. I spent the whole day there, hiding from the sun, thinking about my situation. And I realized my life was over. I’d never be able to sleep. I’d always be afraid I’d wake and find him looming over me, his eyes burning like coals. Not until late afternoon did I begin the long walk home.

“When I came within a mile of our house it was twilight. I found myself loitering around the open back door of a mom-and-pop hardware store, going through these little panic attacks. Then, without even thinking about it, I stepped inside and picked up a gallon can of kerosene. The huge shadow of the owner fell on me, and I remember wilting, and our eyes meeting.

“Now a really strange thing happened. This guy gently disengaged the can and placed it back on the shelf, took my little hand and led me a ways down the aisle. He picked out four cans of Coleman lantern fuel and set them by my feet, walked to the front counter and returned with an oversized brown paper bag, placed the fuel in the bag, and the bag in my arms. I then followed him around the store, stopping beside him whenever he paused to pick something off a shelf and deposit it in the bag. He dropped in a box of strike-anywhere matches and a carton of those long wooden fireplace matches, added a sparker for barbecues, a long-nosed butane lighter, Sterno cans, a propane canister, and a handful of emergency candles. When he reached for the charcoal I realized there was no logic to his actions, just a robotic compulsion that caused him to grab anything under the category of combustibles.

“I stood there in the aisle, blinking wonderingly at him. After a minute he seemed to feel my hesitation. He led me back out the rear entrance and gently closed the door.

“For a while I leaned against a trash bin with the stuffed bag in my arms, then slowly made my way home. I patiently squeezed through a break in the alley fence and crouched in the backyard bushes, as motionless as a lawn jockey. The lights were on, upstairs and down, and I knew Father was having his way with his stable. I didn’t move. At ten o’clock the lights went off and the house settled in for the night. I willed myself to stone; refusing to yawn, refusing even to blink.

“Around midnight the back screen door opened silently, and my father’s high black silhouette glided out onto the dilapidated rear porch, seemingly without moving a muscle. He gripped the sagging rail and waited. He must have stood there motionlessly for an hour or more, embroidered by bougainvillea and night blooming jasmine, utilizing God knows what senses. Finally his head began turning with extreme slowness. He was feeling the yard. As the plane of his gaze approached mine I took a chance and closed my eyes as gently as possible, lest the brushing of my lashes seize his attention.

“I’m not sure how long I crouched there. I remember cautiously opening my eyes to find the back porch vacated, but not until three a.m. did I find the courage to unbend my legs. Now, I knew Father was a very heavy sleeper. Even so, I spent another fifteen minutes creeping up to his bedroom window.

“Like most windows in Venice on hot summer nights, ours were wide open. I very carefully poured Coleman fuel all along the sill so that it trickled down the inner and outer walls. Then I moved around the house, soaking the sills and drenching the curtains. After splashing Coleman on the doors and porches, I crept around a second time, lighting curtains, sills and porches with those long fireplace matches.

“I torched the house.

“I didn’t give a damn about the old man’s innocent harem. All I know is I ran. I ran as if the Devil were after me, and didn’t stop until I heard distant sirens. A bright rage of flame was leaping over Wave Crest.

“I slept under Santa Monica Pier that night. When I woke, hungry and scared, I was amazed to find beachgoers offering me more food and money than I could handle, and without a word on my part.

“I’d come of age!

“Wherever I went, people bent to me. At first it wasn’t all that radical, but it developed. And once I was comfortable with it I slept in the plushest hotels, and ate gourmet meals until I was sick of ’em.

“Yet there were drawbacks. A moment of anger or fear, and weird crap would happen. If I got pissed at any little thing there’d be a physical consequence somewhere nearby. Maybe a clock would fall off a wall, maybe a chair would tip over. Or maybe some prying son of a b***h would suffer sudden stabbing pains. I began experimenting. Soon I was producing violent temporary changes in my immediate environment; I was literally walking around in a sphere of influence. When I first got into it, even when really concentrating, I could only slightly affect very small objects within a few yards. But I remember right now, as clearly as I remember breakfast, this intense little boy standing on the beach before sunrise...scattering gulls by desire alone...setting small fires in trash heaps, just by willing it so. And I see him growing into manhood, and I see him walking through the world taking anything he wanted, and I see him making life just a tad more miserable for all you recurrent a******s.

“And a******s...a******s--when I was fifteen, or maybe only fourteen--I began exploiting the tender, the succulent, the easy buffet of Woman. Are you listening? I did your wife, Mister Everyman, and I’ll do your mother, too. I’ll do your daughter, I’ll do your niece, I’ll do your goddamned f*****g b***h dog if I feel like it! Just like I did everybody I ever wanted, whether they wanted it or not. You trust me on this: my life has been one long plunge into p***y. And you know what? I didn’t care if they were married, or pregnant, or on the rag. Or whether they were on their way to grade school or the senior center. As long as they were packaged. You know what I mean? Every man knows what I mean. As long as they had the right stuff. In the right places.

“I’ve had thousands of women, man...tens of thousands. I spent my teens, my twenties, my thirties...doing whatever I wanted! Doing what every man wants. When I was broke I just walked into any store and had the clerk hand me some cash. When I got hungry or sleepy it was a simple matter of ordering. And when I got horny, man, when I saw a hefty pair jiggling and wiggling down the strand, I didn’t have to almost pass out with desire like you losers. I’d have that bikini off in no time, and be right back in paradise! Are you paying attention, a*sholes? Is any of this getting through to you? I can make any of your b*****s do whatever I want, just as I can make any of you do whatever I want. Just as I can make you see and remember what I want you to see and remember.

“You all think this is some kind of real-time drama going on here, don’t you? You think your homespun righteousness is just gonna come crashing down like a virtuous wall, and destroy me for indulging in the very activity you’ve spent half your lives fantasizing about. You think I’ll be punished for what I’ve done with my blind luck. Just like you believe your ship’s coming in, just like you believe your God’s so bored He’d give a crap about a pissant like you, just like you believe your half-assed Constitution proves all the freak products of existence gravitate into some lukewarm puddle where nobody gets any more than anybody else. But it doesn’t work like that. Life is a cruel crapshoot that favors the outrageous. And what’s really going to happen is this:

“I’m gonna walk out of here in triumph, the vindicated victim of your funky white witch hunt. I’ll be a free man again! Because your honor-my a*s is about to rule I’ve been hounded by the cops, unjustly incarcerated, and caged like a wild animal for the sake of public opinion. Not only that, he’s gonna apologize for all the trouble this state, and you people, have caused me, and he’s gonna mean it! Plus, he’ll make damn sure I get out of this pest hole without being screwed by that mob of geeks out there. And my self-serving counsel, before he tries to get out of Dodge with the shitload of cash he’s ripped from me, will take it doggy-style from my new buddy Orin here, in full view of this court. Then the DA, once I look him in the eyes, will get on his knees, kiss my hairy white a*s, and bow out of office permanently. And the rest of you meatballs? Book deals, movie contracts, speaking engagements? Is that what you’re all thinking? Well, you’d better dream while you can. Because as soon as I train one of your goons to get these chains off me, I’m gonna march right back in, and I’m gonna tear you all to pieces; slowly, exquisitely, as creatively as I can.

“Don’t mistake me here. You’re under my influence. The judgment of this court will be in my favor, and each and every one of you will sing my praises. And even as you’re singing I’ll be prodding you and probing you and carving you up like the turkeys you are. And you’ll like it. Because I’ll tell you to like it. You’re all sucking w****s and frauds.” Vilenov smacked his palm twice on the oak rail, imitating a gavel-rapping judge. “I rest my case. Your Majesty, you may proceed.”

And the huge yawn passed, allowing Hatch to just as nonchalantly remove his hand. “Apparently Mr. Vilenov,” he sighed, “is unwilling to communicate after all.” He took off his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose with forefinger and thumb. When he looked back up his expression was deadly. “This court finds no alternative to ordering the immediate release of defendant Nicolas Vilenov. The District Attorney’s office has been overzealous in this matter, and has allowed due process to take a back seat to public opinion. The defendant was unjustly incarcerated. From the outset the state’s case has relied on physical evidence that cannot be corroborated by eyewitness testimony, and circumstantial evidence that is dubious at best. Mr. Vilenov, his name sullied, was carted through the streets of L.A. like a caged wild animal. It is the prayer of this court that his release will in some measure be vindication for the victim of a modern witch hunt. For the State of California in general, and for the people of Los Angeles County in particular, I apologize from the bottom of my heart. Mr. Vilenov, your entry into this usually august chamber was an ignominious event, and a real danger to your physical and spiritual well-being. For your safety you will be escorted from the building through an alternate entrance.” He tapped his gavel twice. “This is now a civil matter. You are a free man again.”

“Get up,” said the officer behind Vilenov. “Get up, very quietly, and march your a*s to the door.”

Vilenov rose unsteadily, his chains clanking about him. The officer, spooning right up, grabbed him by the nape and a bicep. “I thought I said ‘quietly’!”

“Can do,” Vilenov grunted. “Sir. But let’s waltz out of here like a couple of winners, shall we? We can discuss our differences in the corridor.” He tried to look back as he was shoved from the room, but could only make out the badge and name tag. “Welcome to Manners 101, officer...Welle, is it? Well, Welle, pay real close attention here. Professor Vilenov’s in the house.”

“Now,” said Hatch, staring coldly at Abram, “I think it’s time we cleared up a little smoke. Generally speaking, a defendant in my court is acquitted on the strength of the evidence and his counsel’s arguments. Rarely have I seen a client less ably served. Mr. Abram, in your many years as an extremely successful defense attorney you have, to my knowledge, never compromised your integrity. But you sure seem to have gone out of your way today. As I mentioned earlier, I view the courtroom as a solemn and virtuous place. It is not a forum for well-heeled sophists. When Mr. Vilenov took the stand, desperate to interject a clear voice yet unable to utter a word, I couldn’t help but feel he was tongue-tied because of the confusion you’d sown.”

“Your honor,” Abram managed, “I am no less confused. I’ve spent endless hours preparing Mr. Vilenov to speak in his own be--”

“Counsel, you’ll hold your tongue!”

Abram dropped his head as though facing a firing squad. Hatch went on with mounting fury, pounding his gavel like an overseer beating time in a slave galley. “In case you haven’t noticed, Mr. Abram, you are being admonished here. You have embarrassed this court and made a mockery of the Bar!” He caught his breath and dropped the gavel. His face was quite red. “Now go on. Get out of my courtroom before I forget who and where I am. Be advised that you will not humiliate the legal profession before me again.” He pushed himself to his feet, and without another word stormed from the room.

In dead silence the bailiff mumbled, “Everybody rise.”

Lawrence Abram snapped shut his briefcase, the reports resonating like the double-slam of a paramedic’s van. He marched through the doors and out the building, his briefcase in front of his head, his face down. To the army of reporters he had only one comment, which was “No comment.” For a crazy minute he was flailing; drowning in a sea of pleading humanity. But there was a sound beacon: he heard the dot dash dot dot, dot dash of a car’s horn, Morse for LA: Larry Abram. He worked in the sound’s direction until he found Dottie waiting, the door open and the Lexus humming. Abram jumped in and slammed the door. He sank low in the seat, burying his face in court papers as the car slowly pressed back the crowd.

* * *

That bright white light was going to burn right through his eyelids if he didn’t turn his head. Vilenov moved only a millimeter and his temple screamed with pain. He froze, closing his eyes even tighter. He could survive the light. But at that moment he’d have rather died than repeat the agony.

There was a stirring near his feet. Low voices. A narrow head eclipsed the light.

“Good morning, a*****e,” the head said pleasantly. The light, a high-watt bulb centered in an inverted stainless steel bowl, was swung aside to reveal the sneering face of Vincent Beasely.

Vilenov’s eyes desperately sought reference.

He was flat on his back, strapped to a table in an oblong storeroom for medical equipment. Along the wall to his left, a stainless steel counter held tagged syringes, gauze wraps, and scalpels folded in sterilized towels. The room reeked of antiseptics. A man wearing a white smock was leaning against the closed door, his hairy arms folded across his chest. Heavy black eyeglasses perched halfway down his nose as he peered at the waking confrontation. Beasely was stepping back and forth behind Vilenov’s head with all the fire of a Rottweiler taunted by a trespasser.

“That was a really pretty speech you gave in the courtroom, pigface. I know, because I was standing in the transfer corridor with my ear against the door the whole time. And when you were brought out I gave you such a whack on the temple, man--man, I hit you so hard you’re not gonna be able to screw anybody for a long, long time. I did it right, too. Just before the trial the gallant Doctor Reis showed me exactly where to strike the temple, and exactly how hard, using only a trusty nightstick. A little too hard and I could have killed you. But that would’ve spoiled all the fun. Besides, you’re already a dead man. But not walking.” Beasely reached to his left and rocked a gurney back and forth. “You’re a dead man rolling.” He leaned forward, his garlicky breath suffocating.

“Now it’s time to give you the lowdown on some radical news I just know you’re gonna find real interesting. Dig: you were never slated to go roamin’ again, horn-dog! Never! You’re back in the criminal ward of Western State Hospital, where you were rushed by ambulance immediately following your unfortunate accident in the corridor. We’ll get those steps fixed yet.

“I don’t know if you realize just how fascinating you are to a whole lot of people, punk; some who want to see you dead right away, some who aren’t in such a hurry. There’s a big team of specialists on this ward who aren’t at all satisfied with your pre-trial results, and these guys have put their heads together. They’ve decided to do a little experimenting. On the side, if you know what I mean.” He winked. “And guess what? These guys don’t like you either!”

At the bottom of his vision, Vilenov saw the police surgeon slowly shake his head. The signal was unnecessary; he wasn’t so messed up he’d believe in an underground conspiracy of mad doctors. The only genuine lunatic was right in his face.

“Look, we’re not gonna off you first, okay? That’s way too good for the likes of you. And it’s way too traumatic an event for the organs. Gas, juice, rope, or injection--any of these procedures could end up damaging whatever bizarre biological factor makes you tick, and above all else the medical community is passionately interested in slowly, thoroughly checking you out, piece by piece. They don’t want any overwhelming shock to the system, see? And no jolt to the brain.” He rubbed his palms together. “So what’s gonna happen is this. You’re gonna be kept alive artificially, and your heart, if we can find one, is gonna be very carefully extracted for study. But before that the surgeons are gonna slice you open like a ripe cantaloupe, man, and carefully, methodically remove your organs one by one for analysis while the equipment keeps you alive. This can be done! Oh yeah; make no mistake about it. Pumps, respirators, dialysis, transfusions--a man minus almost all his organs can be kept alive, and conscious, and suffering, for the longest time, depending on the quality of the facilities and specialists. And we’ll have only the best: we’re gonna keep you going forever, freak! We’re gonna violate you just like you violated all those poor, helpless, beautiful young women. Only you’re gonna be alert while it happens. Kidneys, stomach, pancreas, lungs--all cut out of the mute, horrified monster and transferred to Hotel Formaldehyde.” He shivered with delicious anticipation. “But first they’re gonna cut off your balls, creep. I’ve got a front row seat for that one. Reason is they think androgens may be responsible. I heard your rap about pheromones and what-not, muskrat, and you may be right. The brainiacs’ll find out, sooner or later. Pituitary is a big draw here too, along with the hypothalamus, but they can’t dig into your gray matter until your body’s dead and your filthy soul’s been consigned to whatever level of Hell the lowest form of prick is shoveled into. And when you get there, shitpile, say ‘hi’ to Adolf, Charlie, and Kenny B. for me. You’ll be in illustrious company.”

The surgeon took a step forward and placed a pacifying hand on Beasely’s shoulder. Beasely shook it off.

“And I’m gonna be a real bad boy, dickhead; the worst I can be. I’m gonna make sure I go to Hell, just so’s I can come looking for you!”

The surgeon moved behind Beasely and clamped his hands on the man’s biceps. “All right, Vince, he’s got the picture.”

But Beasely went on, straining against the hold until his face and Vilenov’s were inches apart. The veins on Beasely’s forehead stood out like snakes. Vilenov’s raging gray eyes bulged in their sockets.

“I’ll cut you to pieces!” Beasely screamed, dragging the police surgeon right down on top of them. “I’ll bend you over a sink and screw your lights out with a baseball bat! I’ll bash you into the grave! I’ll bash you into eternity!” Beasely completely ignored the surgeon straddling his back, even though the man was yelling straight into his ear: “I said that’s enough, Vinnie, that’s enough!”

Vilenov’s eyes broke from his tormentor’s and locked with the straining surgeon’s. The man, heroically fighting Vilenov’s influence, nevertheless drew his clasped arms up Beasely’s chest until he had him by the throat. There was a moment when everything seemed to freeze. Beasely’s eyes rolled back in his skull and he squealed like a hare in a gray wolf’s fangs. Suddenly the police surgeon lunged off the locked bodies and leaped to the polished counter against the wall. He spun around with a fistful of scalpels, jumped on Beasely and began plunging the blades into the shrieking man’s back.

Even when the mob of security and medical personnel came stomping in, the police surgeon continued to hack and slice. They tore him off the pressed bodies and wrestled him out into the hall. Two security men and a nurse, badly cut, had to be rushed to the emergency room.

And even after Beasely’s all but eviscerated body was covered, and the purple, writhing prisoner had been wheeled out of the trashed and bespattered room, it still took two interns, a third security officer, and the near-hysterical admissions nurse to restrain the blood-soaked, jerking right arm of the spewing police surgeon.