Dark Eye

And then I got an idea. “Is the first crime scene still restricted?”

“Sure. We’ve got men posted.”

“Good. I want to go back out there tomorrow morning.”

“Okay.”

“Would it be all right if I bring Darcy?”

Darcy’s eyes lit.

O’Ba

“He might be useful. He sure as hell was tonight. There might be more Poe clues lying about. Stuff only he would spot.”

“Susan.” He sidled closer to me and lowered his voice. “Darcy may look like a man, but inside, he’s a little boy. You saw him with that spider. What’s he going to do at a crime scene?”

“The body has been removed.”

“But still-”

I hated this business of talking about Darcy as if he weren’t present, when he was standing barely two feet away. But I had a strong feeling that I was right about this. I couldn’t even explain why, not coherently. But when you’re Empathy Girl, you learn to trust your instincts. “You said you wished he could learn to do something productive. Hold a real job. So humor me here. Maybe you’ve got a budding detective on your hands.”

“Susan…”

“As I recall, Sherlock Holmes was pretty odd himself.”

“Susan!” I was not prepared for his anger. “You’ve known Darcy for what? Ten minutes? I’ve been living with him for twenty-six years.” His voice dropped. “There’s no way in hell he could cut it as a cop.”

“I’m not asking you to give him a badge. Just let him tag along. Humor me.”

Darcy jumped in. “C-C-C-Can I go, Dad? I would like, would you, I could, I could be good. Can I go with that one?”

He gave me a long look. “Don’t make me regret bringing you in on this case, Pulaski.”

“I won’t. Darcy-pick you up at nine in the morning.” I winked. “Don’t be late.”

See I knew I could help I knew I could help if only he would let me but he wouldn’t but the girl did and the girl’s name is Susan I heard that was her name and she was nice to me just like she was before. There was a girl at the clinic who was nice to me like that and she was pretty too but not as pretty as Susan and she told me to read one of her music books so whenever she forgot the words I could tell her and she was nice but I think maybe Susan is nicer and smells better. She has something fu

Mostly I want to go because I’ll go with Susan. I like Susan. Susan is pretty even though she has a cigarette burn on the back of her right pant leg and she bites her fingernails so much two of them have been bleeding. Susan is babies and sugary and I like the way she flips her hair back when she’s being fu

9

He felt such intense revulsion that it became difficult for him to breathe. He was physically ill. He knew his face was ashen, and he feared he might soon relinquish custody over his lunch. It was so disturbing, so depraved.

Certainly he had expected to be offended. But he had no idea how bad it could be. Sexual relations were a gift given us for the perpetuation of the species, not, he thought, a commodity to be bought and sold. But here, in this Haunted Palace of a sort Poe never imagined in his most fevered dream, it was all garishly on display, everywhere he turned. He had never seen so much unclothed flesh in his entire life-and it sickened him. Everything here sickened him.

From the start he had understood that his visit to Nighthawks was one of duty, not pleasure. Vegas sex clubs were notorious, and this one had a reputation worse than most. Its dark ambience, the decorative whips and chains, bespoke a debased sensibility with a strong sadomasochistic bent, inimical to all standards of decency. Not a place for the avatar of the prophet. To begin with, there was the music-which was not at all musical. How could this electronic rap dissonance be music, which by definition is a melody played in rhythm and in counterpoint to a harmony? Where was the melody in this hip-hop mishmash? It was just sound, mindless decibels, played blaringly, unbearably loudly. And the light was blinding-silver shards glittering all about him, reflecting off the mirrored walls and the discothèque balls on the ceiling. It was a grotesque de Sade bacchanalia, all justified by suggestions that indulgence and degenerate fantasy fulfillment were salubrious for the psyche. Well, he did gainsay it, as would any decent soul with an eye on Dream-Land.

“Good evening,” said the woman at the door, who was wearing a skintight black leather bodice exposing extraordinary mammarial engineering. “I am the mistress of pain.”

“Good evening to you, madam,” he replied in his most elegant southern accent.

She rammed a riding crop under his chin. “Your heart’s desire can be yours. All you need do is ask.”

“Most obliging.” He removed the crop and stepped inside. The décor reminded him of those hideous films of the 1960s purportedly based upon the prophet’s stories. Victorian furnishings, faux marble pillars, red curtains, padded sofas and love seats. A throne at each table, such as it was. Waiters dressed in silk Italianate tunics. He almost expected to see Vincent Price emerge from behind the drapes. But in fact, the most noteworthy figures inside were women, naked or all but. He didn’t object to nudity in and of itself. But it was never meant to be distorted and turned into a weapon, much less an industry. He was surrounded by unclad women, more than a hundred of them in bikinis, G-strings, negligees, all ma

He staggered through the narrow corridors, his mouth dry, searching for a spot with an open seat and a modicum of oxygen. The music, the smoke, the cachi

He was tempted to run outside, retrieve the axe from his truck, and bring them all to account for their crimes against decency.

But that was not the plan. He pressed his hand against his forehead, forcing himself to maintain focus. He had a destiny to fulfill, and he would not shirk it.

He found an empty chair wedged between two young men in matching shirts, both in the throes of lap dances. He tried to make himself comfortable, but the girls on either side constantly poked him with their stiletto heels or other protuberances. They giggled, smiled, then returned to their business. Their business.