The Motion of Puppets(18)
After the show, they walked back through the quiet streets to Egon’s cell at the warehouse. The tourists were steps ahead of them, peeling off to their cars parked along the side streets, or making the hike back into the Old City through a light fog that obscured the way.
“Come inside for a moment,” Egon said at the door. “You look like shit, and perhaps you could benefit from another drink.”
He followed Egon to his room and accepted a tumbler of Scotch. The women on the walls looked down upon them, and the empty warehouse was as quiet as a cathedral.
“Perhaps I should not say this, but I trust you and think you tell the truth. One of the detectives let slip a small clue to their thinking. He said that when you first reported her missing, you said something about a murder to the attendant who took your statement.”
“Murder? I said nothing of the sort. The sergeant was the one who talked about what happens to people who go missing. Do they think Kay was murdered?”
“As I said, a faux pas. Madness.”
“A body washed up,” Theo said. “A Jane Doe who drowned in the Saint Lawrence last week. They had no idea who she was. Naturally, when they couldn’t identify her, they thought it might be Kay. They took me to the morgue.”
Egon choked on his Scotch, sputtering to catch his breath.
“I am still in shock. It was horrible. Not Kay, of course, but close enough. She was black and blue and swollen from the water.”
“And you are sure?”
“No, not Kay. There was a resemblance, and I can see why they dragged me over there.” He was trying not to cry. “But it was just too much for me.”
“Let me freshen your drink. What an ordeal.”
The liquor wormed its way through his body. He sat awhile with his thoughts, debating whether to confess his fears. “I’m going crazy with worry. Can’t sleep, can’t eat. Every day I get out in the morning, first thing, and go out searching. I see her everywhere, but when I get close, she morphs into another woman.”
Egon handed him the bottle. “Tomorrow I will help you look. Now, go home, get some rest. Take the Scotch with you and drink it till you fall asleep. Keep up your spirits, mon ami. She is out there somewhere.”
The fog had thickened during the interval, a summer storm rolling in. Thunder boomed over the Saint Lawrence, and lightning illuminated the Frontenac. The rain started to pelt down before he was halfway home. The smell of cold water against the hot cobblestones. Heavy drops, rills tumbling along the curbs, puddles in the intersections. His wet clothes clung to his body and his shoes bubbled with water at each step. Drenched and weary, doused with drink, he slogged into the apartment, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the rugs. He laid down the bottle of Scotch, took off his clothes, and toweled off. Kay would have relished getting caught in the storm, she would have spread her arms and thrown open her face to the falling rain. She would have loved it, and he would have worried about catching a cold. Theo tumbled into bed, certain that if he could sleep, just sleep, he would be better in the morning. In the middle of the night, he was awakened by the sensation of rainfall. Drops of water on his bare chest and face, and in his stupor he wondered if he had been crying in his sleep. Through the shadows of the room, he realized that it was the drowned woman on top of him, straddling his body, and as his sight adjusted to the half-light, he could see the beseeching look in her eyes and hear her whisper again, “How have you forgotten me?”
*
The others taught Kay the motion of puppets.
No? fetched a set of rods from a bin and affixed a pair to her wrists and a pair at her ankles. The wooden sticks clacked against the floor as she walked into the middle of the Back Room, once nearly tripping over a tangle at her feet. The puppets gathered round in a semicircle, and Kay imagined herself back onstage, under a spotlight of attention. Mr. Firkin stepped forward as the master of ceremonies.
“The trick is to remember not to move until you feel the pressure from the puppeteer’s hands. Ordinarily when the humans manipulate you, there are two people required for a doll like you, one to move your arms, and another to control your legs. They will flank you on each side and push or pull on the other end of the rods. Perhaps it’s best if four of us act the parts, one at each extremity, so to speak. Let’s put the Devil on your left and the Good Fairy on your right. Judges, perhaps you can make her walk.”
The four puppets hurried to their appointed spots. She felt a soft tug as each took the sticks in hand and the overwhelming sense that she was no longer in control of her own body.
“If you were a real girl,” the Good Fairy whispered in her ear, “you would have an opening where they could use one hand to make you talk and move your mouth. Not like that crude thing you use now.”
Kay clamped shut her makeshift lips, recalling how Nix had taken a saw to her face. Putting a finger to his mouth, Mr. Firkin motioned for them to be quiet. A curious look came over him as he drew deep into his own thoughts. When at last he found the information he had been seeking, he chuckled like a professor.
“Are you familiar with your center of gravity? The fulcrum of your balance? For most people, it is situated between the navel—or should I say belly button—and the, ahem, groin. You might feel it as a small acorn in the pit of your insides. Of course, for others the center of balance might be virtually anywhere. A divot at the base of the skull. The midpoint between the flanges of the lungs. I knew one misfortunate soul whose center was in his left knee—”