"Better?" de Gier asked when Grijpstra emerged from the shower. "Ready for lunch? Noodles? I made some noodles. You like mackerel? I have some scallops too that Lorraine got skindiving. Crabmeat? Your favorite cocktail sauce? For starters you do like seafood, don't you?"
"I could be goddamn seafood myself," Grijpstra said.
There were explanations of course, there always were. De Gier had been listening on the CB's open channel all morning except for two brief periods when he thought he heard Mr. Bear rummaging about the pagoda. Bears on the Maine coast don't care to show themselves much. Bear hunting is a sport, practiced diligently by experts such as SheriffHairy Harry and Deputy Billy Boy. De Gier wanted to photograph Mr. Bear with his new Nikon. He'd rigged up wires on the beach that Mr. Bear would touch if he showed up where he had climbed ashore before, at daybreak, a week ago, when de Gier happened to be awake, meditating on the clifis, without the Nikon.
Something touched the wires twice that morning, triggering the alarm. Must have been foxes.
"Don't you carry your radio?" Grijpstra asked.
It wasn't a battery-operated CB. You had to plug it into the wall. "See?" De Gier demonstrated.
"First the goddamn deputy called in to tell you I was here," Grijpstra said, "and then the goddamn restaurant called in that I was here, and you were looking for a bear?"
Chance, happenstance… things go wrong sometimes, this is earth, a planet beyond human understanding, de Gier was truly sorry. "Okay?"
Not okay.
De Gier was sorry Grijpstra felt that way. So how was El Al? Wasn't Ishmael a card? Katrien had written that the commissaris's inflamed leg joints were a trifle better. True? Would Grijpstra care for lobster for dinner?
Grijpstra shoveled down fried noodles and pickles. He felt a bit better, he could maybe imagine that he didn't dislike de Gier. This was like long ago, when he avoided Mrs. Grijpstra by staying over at de Gier's suburban apartment, which faced parks front and back. De Gier was a good cook, using herbs he grew on his balcony, serving choice dishes with a welcoming flourish.
Grijpstra's tone of voice was almost pleading, "So how come you said I could row the distance and when I tried I almost died?"
"From the Point," de Gier said, "it's only a quarter of a mile." He explained, "There's a peninsula south of Jameson and it bends this way." Hadn't Grijpstra seen the Point from Ishmael's plane? Ishmael lived at the Point. Didn't Ishmael show it to him from his airplane?
"I never got that," Grijpstra said. "There's the harbor just outside Beth's Diner, there are dories. Your island is visible from the harbor…"
"No," de Gier explained. From Jameson Harbor to Squid Island was quite a few miles. Nobody in his right mind would ever try it. Only the stupid maybe.
"Stu-pid?" Grijpstra asked, lowering his fork, pointing his fork.
Well, kind of silly, de Gier said. And then somebody at the diner, probably Aki, was supposed to… lovely Aki, Akiapola'au… named after the vulture finch of her native islands of Hawaii…
"Vulture finch." Grijpstra glared. "No such thing."
"Please," de Gier said. "Change your coordinates. We aren't at home. Mr. Bear visits this island, and there's such a thing as a vulture finch in Hawaii." De Gier smiled. "You liked the lady? Aren't you pleased you came? Something else, eh?"
Grijpstra had carried his bowl of noodles to the window and was looking at the peninsula shore, which was, indeed, close. He was eating again.
"You liked Akiapola'au?"
"The vulture finch is lesbian," Grijpstra said.
De Gier stared.
"Isn't she?" Grijpstra asked. "So is Beth. I saw it. I always do."
"So?"
Grijpstra shrugged.
"Are you a sexist now?" de Gier asked.
"Please," Grijpstra said. "We've gone through this before. I was New Age before the Age was New. Sexism means that one sex thinks it's superior to the other. That's negative. I'm definitive."
"You're negative," de Gier said. "I asked whether you like Aki and you say, 'She's lesbian.'"
"Not that way." Grijpstra stopped slurping noodles.
"I said,'She's lesbian.'"
"With that kind smile?"
Grijpstra stopped slurping again. He swallowed. "With that kind smile."
"So you like Akiapola'au?"
"I like Akiapola'au fine."
"And Beth?"
Grijpstra nodded. "I like Beth fine too." He pointed his fork at de Gier. "It's you I don't happen to care for right now."
"I care for you," de Gier said. "I hadmade arrangements. If I wasn't at the restaurant whenyou arrived-and I probably wouldn't be since I didn't know how long Ishmael would take to get you here from Boston-then Beth was to call the Kathy Three. If she couldn't raise Flash and Bad George, either Beth herself or Aki was supposed to drive you to the Point, and you could row yourself from there. Beth told you so. She was busy, she askedyou to wait a few minutes, but you wandered off, and then there you were rowing out into the bay, with a gale buildingupandlowtidesuckinglikecrazy. ShesentthesherifF after you, but he came back, saying you didn't want to be picked up, which she found hard to believe, so she eventually managed to raise the Kathy Three."
"So you're telling me I was in good hands?" Grijpstra reported on his meeting with the sheriffs powerboat.
De Gier was nodding.
"What are you nodding for?"
"Another complication I didn't foresee," de Gier said.
"There's drug traffic here. Maybe they think I'm interested.
Now maybe they think you're interested too."
"Who's they?"
"Probably everybody," de Gier said. "There's marijuana growing on all the islands and there's more coming in by boat, and there's probably hard stufftoo, being flown in all the time."
"And the sheriff is in on that?"
"Please," de Gier said.
"Please what?"
De Gier gestured. "Remember Amsterdam? Remember any possible drug being available at any possible time at any possible place and nearly four thousand policemen running around keeping the distribution going? You've heard of capitalism? Ofsupply and demand? If we don't do it someone else will? May as well be us? I mean, after all, who is in charge here?"
"Not all four thousand of them," Grijpstra said.
"Most all of them, some way or other."
"Not us."
"So the situation gets confusing," de Gier said. "If cops are supposedly against that sort of thing, but most of them are kind of all Hup Ho let's do it…"
"I almost got lost at sea because you told these killers here that you and I used to be cops?" Grijpstra asked. "That was brilliant. Were you trying to impress the ladies?"
"What should I tell the ladies?" de Gier asked. "That I was a needlecraft salesman? A former copper from Amsterdam chooses to live in the Twilight Zone. So what? What do Lorraine and Aki care? 'So where is Amsterdam? Amsterdam, Ohio?'"
"Where's Ohio?"
"Inland America," de Gier said. "They only know about their own country here. 'Europe? Europe where?"'
Grijpstra put down his bowl carefully, grabbed de Gier by the flaps of his neat bush jacket carefully, shook de Gier forcefully. "Why did you tell them you used to be a cop?"
There was an explanation, of course, wasn't there always. De Gier gently disengaged himself, served coffee, used his soothing voice, reminded Grijpstra that he, de Gier, had been to Jameson, Maine, before. To help out the commissaris to help out his sister, who, suddenly widowed, and being a helpless person, had to be repatriated forthwith. At the time de Gier had met some great people-the sheriff. .."
"Hairy Harry?" Grijpstra asked. "You knew Hairy Harry?"
Another sheriff. Sheriffs come, sheriffs go. "Do you mind?" de Gier asked. "Can I go on? Can I explain this to you? You're a private detective now, you've taken on the job, you've got to protect yourself, you need all the information you can get. You're out in the open. Remember what the holy man said."
"All holy men are frauds," Grijpstra said.
"Why?"
Grijpstra shrugged. "Because there's nothing holy."
"This fraudulent holy man I refer to," de Gier said, "saw God, and he came back to tell us that things are the way they are because God is not a nice man. He said God is not our uncle."
"Flash Farnsworth is nice," Grijpstra said, "and Bad George is nice. And that dumb dog is nice too." He paused so de Gier could serve dessert. He spoke through a mouth filled with ice cream. He ate. "Who is not nice here? The sheriff. Who else?" He pointed his spoon at de Gier. "Who came here to murder girlfriends?"
"During my previous visit here," de Gier said "I met the hermit Jeremy. I thought he knew what I wanted to know. I didn't come here to murder girlfriends."
"Jeremy lives on this island?" Grijpstra asked.
De Gier smiled sadly. "As I said, God, not being my uncle, cannot be helpful. The search has to be chaotic. There are thousands of islands here. This is not Jeremy's island and Jeremy is long dead. Maybe he got it, maybe he lost it. What's for sure is that he was getting old and feeble and the town voted to place him in a home, so to escape he did what you almost did this morning…"
Grijpstra lowered his spoon. "Hermit Jeremy rowed away never to be seen again?"
"That's correct."
"Planned?" Grijpstra asked.
"Planned."
"What would it be like if you planned it?" Grijpstra asked. "I didn't plan and I saw lots of stuff."
"Hallucinating?"
"Nellie in a hat, waves by Hokusai swamping the bicycle shed, a dog-faced woman paddling a canoe."
"Farnsworth's mother." De Gier began to clear the table. "I live here for months preparing for the breakthrough and see nothing; you've hardly arrived, and you see it all."
"Not that you sent Ishmael to meet me," Grijpstra said. "Because I didn't see that and because Ishmael pretended the meeting was accidental so he could ask some questions. About you, for instance. He doesn't trust you."
"Ishmael knows nothing about Lorraine disappearing," de Gier said.
"Who is the detective here?" Grijpstra asked. "Fill me in on Ishmael. How long have you known him?"
"Ishmael met me last time I was here."
"What did he do then?"
"Drunk preacher?" de Gier asked. "That was the impression I got at the time. He said so himself too. Addicted to God and liquor. We met in Jeremy's cabin. Ishmael said he was giving it all up."
"Alcohol?"
"The securities," de Gier said. "As Ishmael saw them. Jeremy had to help him out." De Gier cheered up. "I tell you, Henk, that's where the way out has to be. Away with it all." De Gier looked pensive. "Including the guru, the guide, kick them over the precipice. But.. ."
"But…?"
"The guide, the hermit has to show you where the precipice is."
Grijpstra looked stern. "So you can kick her off the cliffs? Lorraine was the guru?"
De Gier shook his head.
Grijpstra stared.
"Lorraine was a nice woman," de Gier said.
"Back to firmer ground," Grijpstra directed. "More about Ishmael. The man is too smart for his own good. Why his interest in what brings me here?"
"Ishmael?" de Gier asked. "Ishmael is okay."
"The plane was clean," Grijpstra said. "Since I quit BC smoking I can smell narcotics. Your sheriff also found nothing. Ishmael mentioned crossing borders. Bringing in aliens maybe?"
"You're accusing Ishmael of something?"
"You're being accused," Grijpstra said, "of murder. You're being blackmailed. Any connection with Ishmael perhaps?"
"You've got Flash and Bad George," de Gier said.
"They didn't ask me questions. They saved me."
"Ishmael," de Gier said, "flies his plane to see Mohawks in Canada and Mayas in Mexico, like Jeremy used to. Indians who practice shamanic wisdom."
"You visit Indians too?"
"I thought I no longer needed teachers."
"Organized shamanism," Grijpstra rubbed his thumb and index finger. "A profitable business these days."
"Ishmael doesn't care for money."
"Please," Grijpstra said. "Forget your nonsense for a moment. Do it for me, because we are friends. Pretend we're back in law enforcement. We study society's other side. We investigate those who profit by illegally taking from others. We concentrate on criminal untruth. Why didn't Ishmael tell me you sent him? Is he hiding a secret? What does he do for money?"
"Fixes marine diesel engines," de Gier said. "Does a good job, makes good money."
"Lots of kids?" Grijpstra asked. "A gambling habit? Uninsured ailments?"
"Healthy bachelor, lives alone," de Gier said.
"The past?" Grijpstra asked. "Molesting boys during Bible study?"
"He likes Aki."
"Who doesn't?" Grijpstra asked. "You two are pals? Ishmael visits here?"
"Yes. I visit him too. He plays piano."
"Expensive hobbies?"
"Collects valueless objects he displays in a four-story former cannery, an ancient building on the Point that he got for free somehow. I say…"
"You say?"
"You did understand," de Gier said, "that I sent him to Boston to collect you?"
"Right," Grijpstra said, looking around. "Nice place you have here."
De Gier agreed. The pagoda seemed to be the best choice for a well-funded seeker of truth, out of several vacation homes rented out by Bildah Farnsworth. This temple-like structure was the work of Goldy Yamamoto, a New York architect, designed along neo-Chinese lines. Yamamoto also believed in supplying all comforts: pumped spring water, air-conditioning and oil heat, fireplaces, automated kitchen. And Yamamoto had finished it off nicely. The inside wainscoting was orange-tinged pine, the beams were redwood, the floors western oak. Tall windows with wide windowsills offered views of seascapes and other islands. The apparently simple furniture was Quaker inspired, expensive, labor intensive. Coffee tables were made from varnished driftwood. The rugs were Oriental. A large abstract painting, obviously inspired by the local coast, calmed the mind with easy strokes of green on gray, pale blues for water, a white splash for a sail.
"Money buys good art," de Gier said. "The place was custom-built for an investment banker, a practicing Taoist, a man who, by losing his ego, became the flow of money himself."
"Bankrupt and out of a job now?" Grijpstra asked.
"Right."
"Nice," Grijpstra said. "How much are you paying?"
"Five hundred."
"A month?"
"A week."
"To who?"
"To Bildah," de Gier said. "Bildah Farnsworth picked it up when junk bonds crashed. He'll make a bundle when the present slump is over and property like this becomes marketable again."
"You know about Bildah building Hairy Harry a palace at half cost?"
De Gier laughed. "Ishmael told you. Sure. Harry had his drug profits laundered. Bildah is The Man here."
"Local business wizard?"
"Local everything," de Gier said. "Puppeteer in chief of the Twilight Zone. Checks on the game Hairy Harry and Billy Boy are playing, owns most of the ground Jameson is built on, holds the paper on the fishing fleet, cashes in on whatever is going."
Grijpstra shivered. "Bad guy, this Bildah?"
"You cold?" de Gier asked. He got up to make coffee. Grijpstra followed him to the open kitchen. They watched the coffee machine perform. "Bad guy?" de Gier repeated. "I don't think so."
"Marital status?"
"Not married. Housekeeper for half days, bookkeeper a few days a week."
"Sex?"
"Housekeeper is old, bookkeeper has a relationship with Big Max."
"Describe Bildah."
"Peaceful?" de Gier asked. "Likes to hike beaches and trails. Bildah feeds the birds. Keeps a pet raven, name of Croakie, that flies around him." De Gier thought. "Haven't seen Croakie for a while."
"He who finances local activity with good collateral can enjoy his hiking," Grijpstra said. "Interest flows day and night. Subject do any work himself?"
"Rakes his paths," de Gier said. "Chops his firewood. Picks up shells on the beach. Talks to his raven. Croakie flies upside down on request."
Grijpstra sat down, nursing his coffee. He looked serious. "You know, you and I think we got this thing licked now but don't you believe we're still too busy? I keep thinking I am. I saw a little farm for sale the other day, close to the city. Derelict building, might fix it up a bit. Could rake the path maybe, keep a chicken or two, do nothing much else."
"You'd have nothing to keep you from facing the riddle."
"I'd get depressed?"
"Sure," de Gier said.
"Bildah doesn't mind facing the riddle?"
De Gier didn't think so. "The superior man?" de Gier suggested. "Could be, you know."
"Figured out the riddle?"
"Why not?" de Gier said.
"You really think anyone has?"
"Wouldn't surprise me," de Gier said. "There must be some around. Think ofit. They would be sly, live alone, be well off, be quiet, smile a lot, enjoy simple pleasures. We can't all be stupid."
Grijpstra shook off the image. "Okay. Bildah Farnsworth, relative of Flash Farnsworth?"
"Distant relative. There are not too many families here, the local structure is kind of incestuous. They all have the same names. Beth is a Farnsworth too. There are a few Scottish names, McThis, McThat. Bad George is a Spade, lots of Spades around too."
"Living off the proceeds of evil," Grijpstra said.
"Bildah, I mean. A superior man does not live off evil."
"Define evil."
Grijpstra put his mug down. "Pushing women down cliffs. What other evil did you get yourself into? I've been sending you five thousand dollars monthly. You've been spending all that?"
"I pay the rent," de Gier said. "I keep a car at the Point, a nice Ford, rented. I bought the dinghy I use for crossing the channel. That was two thousand. Groceries don't come cheap here, say a hundred a week. There's the sound equipment and the records I've been sending away for. Akiapola'au comes out to do the housework, she wants twenty an hour."
"We're talking dollars," Grijpstra said.
"Sure."
Grijpstra sighed. "I didn't bring any dollars. The Luxembourg bank didn't send your check this month because the manager there who knows my voice is on holiday. I was going to write them a letter to authorize the transfer but then you phoned. Got any cash?"
"A few hundred."
"Not enough." Grijpstra shook his head. "I'll have to get some."
De Gier laughed. "We are out of cash?" He prodded Grijpstra's chest. "But that's crazy."
"No dollars," Grijpstra said. "I brought lots of guilders. Hairy Harry went through my wallet. He seemed surprised." He rubbed his chin. "Ah. I almost forgot. The stewardess on the plane showed me a paper that said you can only bring in five thousand dollars in any currency and I brought eleven."
"The sheriff saw that?" de Gier asked.
"Yes."
"That's okay," de Gier said. "Hairy Harry only works for the county; federal regulations don't bother him much."
"It would be another reason to lean on us."
De Gier agreed.
Grijpstra kept rubbing his chin. "I'm supposed to leave by bus tomorrow." He reported on the Jameson Bay confrontation.
"You're right," de Gier said. "I should have kept a low profile here. I'll never learn. Drawing attention to myself and to you too. And now there's Lorraine."
"Now there isn't Lorraine," Grijpstra said. "Does Ish-mael know about that?"
De Gier didn't think so. "It's too early yet. Lorraine was a recluse herself, it'll be a while before she's missed. Want to do some site work?"
Grijpstra, wrapped in a towel, wearing a straw hat that belonged to de Gier and the slippers that Nellie had tucked in his bag, followed his host.
De Gier showed him the scene of the crime, a large granite cliff next to stone steps leading down to his dock.
De Gier was Lorraine, Grijpstra was de Gier. Grijpstra came, reeling and staggering, out ofthe pagoda's front door. De Gier stood, one foot on the highest step of the path, one foot on the cliff next to the path. De Gier, hungry for love, wanted to embrace Grijpstra. Grijpstra pushed de Gier away. De Gier fell over backwards.
De Gier held a black belt injudo. He rolled, jumped up lightly.
"But Lorraine hurt herself?" Grijpstra asked. He knelt near the spot where Lorraine, having been allegedly pushed, fell, and where, afterward, she had been allegedly kicked in the belly.
He did find a stain, not too clearly visible, a dried-up spot ofa different, deeper red than the granite's natural pink-and-red shades.
"Has it rained since this happened?"
It hadn't.
Grijpstta leaned against the pagoda's balustrade. "Now then, show me what you did after Lorraine disappeared from your view."
De Gier stood on the veranda. "I was here." He pointed at the top stone step. "Lorraine stood there. I do recall shoving her. Next thing she wasn't there. I didn't hear her scream. Maybe she groaned. I recall some sound but I might have thought she was talking while walking down the steps."
"Not a lot of blood," Grijpstra said. "Maybe her clothes soaked it up." He coughed. "Vaginal? Possibly."
De Gier coughed too.
De Gier's cough irritated Grijpstra. "Irresponsible movie sheik on the rampage, even here." He glared. "You have a nasty habit there, my boy. And it isn't getting any better."
De Gier looked away. "Bad George claims she miscarried," he admitted. De Gier sat on the steps, jerking the ends of his mustache, baring his teeth that way. His voice seemed higher than normal. "I didn't ask him to produce proof either. Didn't want to know. That would have been in the boat, and they would have thrown it overboard, yes?"
"Baby could be yours?"
"I used condoms."
"Any breaks?"
"Yes," de Gier said.
"You've been here four months," Grijpstra said. "You were intimate straightaway? When did you meet Lorraine?"
"First day," de Gier said. "That answers both questions."
Grijpstra was shaking his head. "Lorraine was around forty? Did she mention pregnancy?"
"Irregularity," de Gier said. "She said it was normal, she'd been like that for a while. It seemed to bother her, though."
"So it's Flash and Bad George, who're trying extortion, who assert subject was pregnant."
"Who's subject?" de Gier asked. "This is Lorraine."
"Subject." Grijpstra slapped de Gier's shoulder. "Nothing is personal to me here. You're nothing but my client. If I cared I would be useless." He poked de Gier's chest. "We continue. The extortionists brought the body back. Let's see how they did that."
De Gier became Bad George, coming up the steep path from the little harbor below, carrying Lorraine's body lightly across his arms.
"Hmmm," Grijpstra said. "Not a heavy woman, I see."
"Slender," de Gier said. "Lovely body. Bit of a monkey face, though, wrinkled up, because of a bad marriage, divorce. She lived with her parents for a while, in a trailer park in Arizona. Parents own Bar Island over there, bought it as an investment when they were young, thought it would appreciate in value, which it didn't."
"Subject had money?"
"She was a biologist. Her university provided income.
Subject had a grant to study birds here, and planned to teach in Boston later on. Bar Island is a sanctuary for terns, but there are fewer each year. She had to find out why."
"Why?"
"Sea gulls," de Gier said. "They're bigger than the terns and they keep taking the eggs or the young. Lorraine had statistics. She knew where the gulls breed and was proposing that she and Aki take their eggs."
"Aki is a biologist too?"
"Not as well-qualified as Lorraine."
"Sanctuary," Grijpstra said. "Subject thought she'd get a break from her divorce mess here." He looked at the island to the east, Bar Island. "Nice. So she wasn't really from around here?"
"New York, originally. This was the family's summer place, they used to camp out here, built a nice cabin. Her parents thought they might winterize the place and retire here but the mother got emphysema and Arizona has dry air."
"Smoker?"
"So subject said. The mother sucks cigarettes and oxygen at the same time from a cylinder she carries around. A cripple."
Grijpstra coughed painfully.
"How's your affliction?" de Gier asked.
"Doctor says I stopped just in time," Grijpstra said. "So subject really was a nature woman?"
"Sure." De Gier gestured. "Paddled a kayak to stay happy. Lived on health food. Lots of energy. The terns got boring and she started a paper on loons. She and Aki were out most mornings. Loons like daybreak."
"Loons?"
"Birds, water birds, fairly big," de Gier said. "You'll love them. Impressive patterns of black and white, with piercing red eyes. Endangered species but still abundant on Maine bays and lakes. Make unbelievable sounds, like opera singers who have gone beautifully crazy."
"Male opera singers?"
"Female opera singers."
"So what we have here is a lonely and sensitive fairly attractive female subject," Grijpstra said. "I'm familiar with your case history and profile." He clasped his hands in back of him and studied de Gier sternly. "Your modus operandi is that you make yourself available but you don't actively seduce. So subject came on to you. You told her okay, but nothing serious please; the human race is a mistake, you don't want to add to its numbers. You're in principle against homo sapiens but as you find yourself in human shape you'll go along with that for as long as the condition doesn't get too uncomfortable. You don't believe in relationships either but short-time lust can be exciting. If, on those conditions, subject is interested… And so on. Yes?"
De Gier sighed affirmatively.
Grijpstra looked fatherly. "Rinus?"
"Henk?"
"Your attitude, does it ever make you feel guilty?" De Gier looked away.
"You look guilty now."
"Lorraine is a nice woman," de Gier said.
"You don't believe subject is dead?"
De Gier got up, walked a few steps down, came up again. "Sure, she's dead. I saw her corpse."
"Now," Grijpstra said, "I'm only trying to ascertain whether you were out of your mind and in that state murdered Lorraine. Tell me, is this whole thing of yours here"- Grijpstra pointed at the pagoda, at heads of seals popping up out of the sea, at pine trees on cliffs, at de Gier himself-"a continuation of what you tried to do in New Guinea?"
De Gier nodded. "The shaman reminded me ofjeremy here."
"Shaman," Grijpstra said. "Sorcerer. Witch doctor. Did the medicine man suggest you should do drug-induced vigils?"
"He did," de Gier said. "There was an island there he would go to. He told me he would use music, dance, sing, take his preferred drugs, seek out animals, birds. Collect rocks, shells, driftwood. Make shapes."
"Exactly," Grijpstra said, "and your preferred drugs are bourbon and marijuana, which are easily available here, and this is an island, and your favorite music is Miles Davis's funk-jazz now and you have your own mini-trumpet, and everywhere in the pagoda I see your compositions of rocks and shells laid out, and you're trying to meet Mr. Bear, and the loons are singing."
"You can't quite call it singing," de Gier said.
"Something unique," Grijpstra said. "You mixed that in with all your other ingredients, and you finally work up to the final pitch.. .."
"Maybe alcohol is not such a good idea," de Gier said. "The New Guinea shamans don't care for it but as I'd been using alcohol more or less successfully before I thought I might try…"
Grijpstra was reverting to his police mode, being pleasant but firm. "After Lorraine fell, did you go after her and do some kicking?"
"So Farnsworth says."
"But he wasn't there."
"He and Bad George watched her die on the Kathy Three."
"And she said you had kicked her? Again and again? In her belly, so that she lost her baby?"
"Not in so many words."
Grijpstra nodded, as if all this were only too clear. "How about this theory to explain your motivation: Lorraine's interference with your experiment, with all that effort, first in New Guinea on the other side of the world and now here, to reach the fourth, the spiritual dimension, enraged you. The bourgeoisie, unwilling to see you escape, tries to pull you back to your original level. You fight back." Grijpstra patted de Gier's shoulder. "What do you think?"
De Gier mumbled.
Grijpstra kept a hand behind an ear.
"Could be, Henk."
"Now," Grijpstra said. "What about this theory? Would you admit to being bourgeois yourself, an ordinary, limited, petty true Dutchman? No? Bear with me a little longer. I say you're ordinary enough but you don't like that. You try to free yourself, be on your own, the lone cowboy. You can't do it, though. You submit to subterfuge, you replace your ordinary parents by a little less ordinary, but still quite ordinary folks, Katrien and the commissaris. You appoint me to replace your moralizing born-again Catholic sister as the older sibling. Meanwhile you stay what you always were, a self-seeking little boy reluctantly growing up as an emotionally retarded adult. Think of all those faxes from New Guinea-letters from summer camp, right? Trying to impress your parents and outdo your older sibling, me. It's all so obvious, Rinus. Remember that snapshot of you and the exotic girl on your moped?"
De Gier stood over Grijpstra, swinging his fists through the air. "Outrageous, Henk… what the hell… where do you get that bull? That was a Kawasaki 2000, and the lady was Lieutenant Jennifer Jones of the Tobriands… a colleague at the time…"
"But," Grijpstra said triumphantly, "but what happens here? You can't fool the subconscious, my boy. You always knew you were being silly. You dislike that. Now, by happenstance, you manage to impregnate Lorraine, and you're about to double your bourgeois aspect. You can't handle one of you and now there'll be two. Self-hatred can lead to suicide, but suicide, in your case, would be too heroic to expect. You can't kill yourself so you help Lorraine to have an accident so that she may lose your clone."
De Gier squeezed his face with both hands. His distorted features stared at Grijpstra.
"Yes?" Grijpstra asked.
"Dr. Shrinkski," de Gier said. "Go fuck yourself, Dr. Shrinkski."