Part 12 (1/2)

”Some of them border on the mystical.”

”I thought they were historicals.”

”They are. But they still have qualities of mysticism in them. It's not at all odd that he should get hung up on this particular local legend, especially since he has been working on a novel that deals with the history of the Darmanian race.”

”He never told me about that.”

She made a bold stroke of blue, then edged it with more care. ”He's secretive about his work.”

”Did he ever mention a man named Salardi?”

”The archaeologist? Oh, he's spent a hundred hours interviewing him, gathering background for the novel.” She was perched upon a high stool. She crossed her slim, brown legs, suddenly seemed to realize that she only made herself more attractive that way, uncrossed them and hunched closer to the canvas.

”We saw Salardi the other day, when we were up at the gypsy camp. Dane never mentioned that he had spent that much time with the man.”

”Did you ask him?”

”No, but-”

She put down her brush and interrupted him. ”Do you think Dane's the killer?”

”I suspect everyone.”

”I guess that's the logical logical way to handle the situation.” She was clearly scornful of him, and especially of the other half of his symbiote. way to handle the situation.” She was clearly scornful of him, and especially of the other half of his symbiote.

He got out of the shape-changing chair and walked to her stool, stood beside her. ”Logic hasn't failed me yet.”

”What logic is there in Dane's being the killer?”

”He could be psychopathic.” He stepped behind her and, without her permission, put his hands on her shoulders. They both stared forward at the painting in progress, as if it were a mirror in which they could see each other. ”But let's not talk about Dane anymore.”

”What shall we talk about?”

”You.”

”I'm not interesting.”

”To me you are.”

She turned around on the stool and faced him, raised a hand and pushed the long black hair away from her face. She said, ”Take off that G.o.dd.a.m.ned sh.e.l.l and go to bed with me.” Her face was slightly lined about the mouth, though that was the only indication that she felt under any sort of strain. She was absolutely beautiful.

”Now? ”he asked.

He did not know why he felt threatened by her proposal, especially since it was one that he had wanted to make to her for some days now, but he found it almost impossible to respond beyond the single adverb.

”Now,” she said.

He hesitated, looked at the windows.

He said, ”It's dark.”

She said nothing.

He was sure that she was naked beneath the smock; and he was also certain that she had expected him tonight.

He said, ”I've been here so long-to have accomplished so little. I've got to keep the symbiosis active; I have to come up with something soon.”

She said, ”Of course.”

”No, look, Tina, I-”

The house computer interrupted him. ”Mr. St. Cyr, you are wanted in the entrance foyer on the second floor. Urgent. Mr. St. Cyr, you are wanted-”

”What is it?” she asked.

”I don't know.”

He bent and kissed her, felt her lips open beneath his as she responded emotionally despite her apparent resolve to shut him out unless he came around to her way of thinking. Then he turned and walked swiftly from the room.

When St. Cyr entered the short, paneled hallway that led to the circular foyer-not at all regretful that the house computer had interrupted the scene with Tina- he saw that Jubal, Dane and Teddy had gotten there ahead of him. He felt, suddenly, that the answer to the whole affair was again close to him, almost within his grasp... Also, he had a nagging feeling that he should have driven into the port to pick up the data on Walter Dannery, even if the man were the least suspect of suspects. Nothing should be overlooked. He thought of Tina, alone in her studio, and now he did did regret leaving her there. More than he had wanted anything in years, he wanted to remove her smock and take her to bed, possess her and let her possess him. What had stopped him? regret leaving her there. More than he had wanted anything in years, he wanted to remove her smock and take her to bed, possess her and let her possess him. What had stopped him?

”What happened?” he asked Dane, who was nearest the entrance to the foyer.

When he stepped past the boy, he saw exactly what was the matter: Salardi lay dead in the center of the foyer floor.

ELEVEN: A Clever Enemy

St. Cyr bent over the corpse and examined it, then looked up at the others and said, ”His neck's been broken. Unless I'm less observant than I think, it was done with a single blow. There's only one bruise, anyway.” He looked back at the corpse and said, ”How long has he been lying here?”

Jubal said, ”I don't know.”

Teddy said, ”He must have entered with someone who had a key to the door, because the house computer does not have any record of his calling.”

”Perhaps he had a key of his own,” St. Cyr said. The corpse was lying face-down, and he turned it over so that he could feel inside of Salardi's pants pockets. ”No key,” he said.

”What would he be doing here?” Jubal asked.

”Perhaps he came to tell us something,” Dane said. ”Something that the killer didn't want us to know.” He looked at St, Cyr, blinked, said, ”Or does that sound too melodramatic?”

”Life is one big melodrama,” St. Cyr said. ”He might very well have had something I could use.” He stood up and wiped his hands on his slacks as if he were dusting off the taint of death, although he knew it was not that easy to be rid of. ”I understand he was a friend of yours, Dane.”

Surprisingly, the boy did not attempt to deny it, ”I spent days with him, recording interviews that would give me background on the Darmanian culture prior to man's settlement here.”

St. Cyr said, ”He could have come here with you.”