SEVEN

I RETURNED WITH the diary and, still completely nude, sat in the lotus position on the bed. My detective was sprawled out on his side, facing me with his hand propping up his head. He, too, remained completely naked. A more captured audience, I couldn’t command. His eyes were fixed on me; he looked as though he were holding his breath. Then, he smiled.

“You look like you’re settling in to read me a fairy tale. You remind me of my mother reading me to sleep.”

“Did she always read to you completely naked?” He laughed.

“Not always.”

“I assure you,” I said, “this isn’t a fairy tale.” He nodded, closed his eyes and opened them in anticipation.

“For the Androgyne,” I began, reading from the middle section of Richard’s diary, “arrogant women are a delicacy. Their arrogance adds a delectable spice. After all, it was exactly this vanity that destroyed Adam and Eve and drove them from Paradise. All Eve had to hear was that God was preventing her from eating from the Tree of Knowledge because he didn’t want her to know she was as beautiful as he, and she rushed away to disobey the commandment.

“Ironically, the arrogance that should make a woman less accessible makes her vulnerable. The more pompous a woman is the more susceptible she is to flattery, and flattery is the poison with which assassins weaken their victims and get them to become careless and unprotected.

“Late one night after I had metamorphosed, I discovered a letter Clea had left for me on her desk. I read about Ophelia Dell and Mark Bini and Clea’s outrage over what had happened.

“Before we had arrived at the college, Janice had made it clear that I must never hunt on or near the campus. She didn’t want me to do anything that might bring attention to Clea. Whenever I did emerge, therefore, I went miles and miles away to prowl in some singles bar.

“But after I read Clea’s letter, I realized how angry she was about what had happened and how much she wanted me to render the proper punishment. She didn’t ask me specifically to do anything, but I read between the lines and understood why she had called me forth. After all, we had in a very true sense been created for just this purpose.”

“Now I know what you people think you are,” my detective quipped, “love vigilantes.”

“Perhaps we are,” I said without looking up. I read on. “That evening I pretended to arrive at the dorms looking for Clea. Naturally, I drew a great deal of interest, especially after I entered the lounge and introduced myself as Clea’s boyfriend. I knew it would be better to say that than to say I was her brother. A brother the police could trace; a vagabond boyfriend was another story.

“It was a rather big, luxurious lobby for a college dormitory—nicely carpeted, walls paneled, well lit with soft-looking couches and chairs, rich-looking maple and pine tables, one section set aside solely for television viewing. There were a half dozen or so girls watching television and a few sitting on sofas talking with boys. Ophelia was holding court on the right: Her disciples gathered around her and at her feet, listening to her describe a date she had had with a graduate student the night before. I had deliberately approached one of the girls on the periphery of that circle, introduced myself and asked for Clea.

“‘We didn’t know she had a boyfriend,’ Ophelia Dell said after she heard me introduce myself. She laughed and looked at the others. ‘We were all beginning to wonder if she wasn’t gay.’

“‘Hardly,’ I said and laughed along with everyone else, raising my eyebrows with insinuation, which caused Ophelia to look at me with sharper interest. She was a rather attractive young woman, and were I an ordinary young man, I most likely would have been captured by her beauty. But I sensed something dangerous about her: There was a fiery glint in her dark eyes, like a tiny diamond set in black onyx. I knew Clea thought Ophelia played with people’s emotions, amused herself by tapping the keys that produced elation and then, without warning, began to tap those that produced depression. Clea believed that Ophelia was always performing. In her letter to me she wrote, ‘Wherever there were two gathered in her name, there build a theater.’ Something like that.

“Anyway, of course I saw beneath the facade. Ophelia Dell wasn’t performing in the sense that she was consciously aware of what she was doing, how she was manipulating an audience. Oh no, she believed in her various personalities and unlike an actor, became these people. It’s the difference between acting and schizophrenia. Ophelia could flit from one personality to another with the grace and ease of a trapeze artist flying from one swing to another.

“Clea, being a woman, missed this. She was blinded by a woman’s natural jealousy of another attractive female.”

“Now wait a minute,” my detective interrupted. “You’re not going to let him get away with that, are you? I mean, it’s not true, is it … that business about a woman’s natural jealousy?”

“It might be,” I confessed. “But Richard forgets that men are also at a disadvantage when confronting beautiful women. Sex blinds them, makes them incapable of seeing reality.”

“So from what you’re saying, I should conclude that no one, male or female, sees the truth and understands who or what this person really is?”

“When it comes to an attractive member of the opposite sex, no. Unless of course, he or she wants to be forthcoming.”

He smiled as if I were now confirming something he had believed and tried to convince me of all along. I turned back to the diary.

“‘How come we haven’t seen you before?’ Ophelia asked me, stepping forward to dislodge herself from her admirers. They remained behind as if they understood that’s where they were supposed to be. I must say I was amused by the hold she had over them.

“‘It’s not easy for me to get away,’ I replied. She turned a smile on me the way someone would turn a flashlight on a dark corner and searched my face for sincerity.

“‘Get away from what? Are you a convict?’ she asked and checked to see if her disciples were still fastened to her every gesture, every word. Of course, they were and they laughed in chorus along with her.

“‘I am a prisoner of sorts,’ I replied. ‘A prisoner of the theater.’ I said it as if I were under some burden since birth, weighted down by the responsibilities and pressures.

“‘Oh?’ Her ridicule ended abruptly, as if I had uttered the magic words. I saw the sardonic expression in her face dwindle and then change to a more serious and even-tempered one. ‘What do you mean by that?’ she asked, stepping farther away from her tribe of admirers. I could see the disappointment in their faces as we moved beyond their hearing.

“‘I’m an actor,’ I declared in a tone of conclusion as if I expected she would understand what that meant, the burdens it implied. Her face brightened.

“‘Really? So am I.’

“‘Then you understand,’ I said. By now we were fencing with our eyes—her gaze moving down my body in a single swipe, I countering with a slow slash across her breasts and then cutting to her hips. We both brought our eyes up so our visual duel would come to an end. Our gazes locked. I smiled and she made an obscene little gesture with the tip of her tongue that I must confess titillated me.”

“It sounds like he really appreciated her,” my detective remarked.

“I never said she wasn’t a very attractive girl. Richard’s always been a connoisseur when it comes to women. That’s only to be expected,” I snapped.

“And you? Is it to be expected that you are a connoisseur of men?”

“Of course.”

“Should I be flattered then?” He smiled with such smugness.

“Didn’t you hear what Richard said at the start of this section: Flattery is the poison with which assassins weaken their victims and get them to become careless and unprotected.”

“Ooooo,” he said with mock fear. He embraced his naked torso. “Am I unprotected?”

“Of course you are … when it comes to the Androgyne,” I replied, my eyes as cold and dead as glass eyes on a mannequin. His smirk weakened. I returned to the diary.

“‘Where are you an actor?’ she asked.

“‘I’m with a road company. That’s why I haven’t been around before,’ I told her. Her eyes widened with appreciation. ‘We call ourselves the Traveling Thespians of Stratford, even though no one is from Stratford,’ I added with a smile. ‘We perform Shakespeare obviously.’

“‘Obviously,’ she said.

“‘Right now, we are preparing a new version of Romeo and Juliet. I play Romeo. I had a few days off and thought I would come to see Clea, a surprise visit. I guess I should have phoned first to be sure she was here, but I wanted to surprise her. Have you seen her?’

“‘Not in the last few hours. Actually,’ she said giving it real thought, ‘I haven’t seen her since yesterday.’

“‘You say you are an actress? Are you active in the college theater?’

“‘Yes. Of course,’ she added and brushed her hair back over her shoulder with a graceful sweep of her hand, exposing more of her soft white neck, which I must admit was as tempting to me as it would have been had I been a vampire. I quickly envisioned my lips pressed to that silky surface, luxuriating in the sweet scent of her body and the delicious taste I expected to find on her awaiting lips.

“I think Clea sensed how much I was stirred because I felt an ache deep within me, a rumbling that manifested itself in a feline growl or catlike hiss that reverberated down the corridors of my heart and echoed maddeningly in my ears. I actually grimaced.

“‘Are you all right?’ Ophelia asked.

“‘Yes, I was just feeling disappointed. I had hoped to find Clea so she could help me with my part, you see. I wanted her to read some Juliet to my Romeo. She’s a very fine, perceptive young actress and when you rehearse with someone who has definite talent, it brings out the best in you. Being an actress yourself, I’m sure you would understand.’

“‘Of course I do,’ she said looking annoyed that there was even the slightest doubt.

“I smiled warmly and took her arm to lead her farther away from our small audience.

“‘My name is Thomas,’ I said.

“‘I’m Ophelia Dell,’ she replied, not without that arrogance Clea despised.

“‘What a wonderful name,’ I declared. ‘Ophelia, have you ever worked with professional actors before?’ I asked quickly, as if the idea had just occurred.

“‘Yes. Often. My parents are professional actors.’

“‘I should have known,’ I said setting my trap of flattery. ‘You’ve obviously inherited some of their talent, and you have a certain presence, a statuesque demeanor that suggests professional training. When I first walked into this lobby, I was immediately drawn to you. You’re like a diamond surrounded by pieces of ordinary glass.’

“Her eyes brightened. I sensed her lowering herself into my warm pool of adulation, submerging herself in my praise.

“‘People who have real talent stand out. Their talent gives them a certain glow, a light ordinary people don’t have, don’t you think?’

“‘Of course.’

“‘Have you ever been in a production of Romeo and Juliet?’ I inquired.

“‘In high school, but the director was an English teacher who had little or no background in theater.’

“‘He didn’t cast you as Juliet?’ I asked, wide-eyed with amazement.

“‘No, and the one he did cast as Juliet was terrible. It took her ages to memorize her part. I was always feeding her lines in rehearsal and showing her how to recite them, but do you think the director noticed the differences between us, my superiority? No.’

“‘It takes people who have been around talented people to recognize them sometimes. When you are surrounded by mediocrity, you become mediocre.’

“‘Exactly,’ she said.

“‘I know this is rather presumptuous of me to ask, but since you are tantamount to a professional actress and you are so familiar with Romeo and Juliet, do you think I could convince you to rehearse some of it with me? I’d be more than happy to take you out to dinner as a token of my appreciation.

“‘I don’t mean to tear you away from anything important here,’ I added quickly.

“‘There is nothing important going on here,’ she replied with a disdainful glance at the girls watching television. ‘Where would we rehearse?’

“‘Well, I’ve taken a room at the Courtyard, a pleasant little motel just outside of town and…’

“‘Yes, I know where it is.’ She looked back at her girlfriends who were still looking our way with interest. Then she turned to me and smiled. ‘Just give me a moment to change out of this.’

“She was wearing a plain gray sweatshirt and a pair of jeans with a pair of pink tennis sneakers and no socks.

“‘Oh, but you look perfect. It’s the ideal outfit for rehearsal. I can bring you back to change for dinner. Maybe Clea will have returned by then and I can say hello before we go out.’

“I saw that the prospect of that pleased her. After all, she had stolen Clea’s boyfriend away and she would bask in the pleasure that brought.

“‘Aren’t you afraid she will be upset about you taking out another girl?’

“I shrugged. ‘We go out but we are not obligated to each other. Children of the theater can’t afford to tie themselves down like ordinary people do,’ I added. ‘Don’t you agree?’

“I turned my most charming smile on her, making my eyes a bit impish.

“‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I do agree.’

“‘Then you will go?’

“She thought for a moment, looked back at her envious and curious girlfriends and nodded.

“‘Okay,’ she said and we left.

“She didn’t tell anyone where she was going. I asked her if she had to. She replied it was no one’s business: a perfect example of arrogance.

“I drove her to the Courtyard, asking a stream of questions about her so our conversation would be concentrated solely on her. She told me about herself and Mark Bini. Of course, her version of the story was quite different and centered around her. Egotistical people like nothing better than talking about themselves. At the end of an evening’s conversation, they will always tell you how much they enjoyed being with you, when in fact they haven’t been with you—they’ve been only with themselves through you. It’s as if they have gone out with a mirror and an echo.

“I had chosen the Courtyard Motel because of its secluded location on a rustic road branching off the main highway. The proprietors, an elderly couple, lived behind the office. I had checked in late the evening before, dressed in a jacket and tie. Today I wore a plaid flannel shirt, tight jeans and sneakers.

“The Courtyard consisted of rooms in a semicircular configuration with the exterior a freshly painted light blue. All the rooms had milk-white shutters and were clean, quaint and comfortable. Behind the motel was a thick wooded area. It was indeed a motel that offered a weary traveler a quiet, restful spot. My room was about midway between the office and the last unit. Only two other rooms were being rented at the time, but when we drove up, only one party was present, their car parked in front of their room.

“It was already late in the afternoon, the sun sinking behind some mountains and thin shadows beginning to emerge from corners and out from under overhangs. Even the trees began to take on ominous shapes, but if Ophelia felt any nervousness coming to a motel with a relative stranger, she didn’t show it. I think she harbored some romantic belief that actors and actresses, anyone connected with the theater, were part of one great family … sort of like circus people. We couldn’t be strangers and certainly had nothing to fear from each other.

“Smiling, I opened the door to my room and showed her in. The room had two twin beds, a television set, two dressers with a wall mirror above one, and a small table and two chairs. Awaiting on the table like cheese in a mousetrap was an opened copy of Romeo and Juliet. Ophelia was drawn directly to it once her eyes had set on it. She read a few lines and closed her eyes and drew back her head as if she were savoring the sounds and digesting the poetry.

“What a ham, I thought. I could almost feel Clea cringe within me. But suddenly, she turned to me, her eyes fixed on me strangely. She sighed deeply and recited, projecting her voice as if she were on a stage.

“‘…O gentle Romeo, if thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully: or if thou think’st I am too quickly won, I’ll frown and be perverse and say thee nay so thou wilt woo; but else not for the world.’

“‘That is very, very good,’ I said. ‘To walk in cold like that and pick up those words as though you had been rehearsing for hours and hours, as if you were on the stage and right in the middle of a performance … simply wonderful.’ I shook my head in admiration. I held my smile tightly because underneath it was Clea’s disdainful smirk trying to emerge, but it was my words and smile that were needed.

“Ophelia’s face glowed. I had fed her ego as one would feed a fire, and she had quickly consumed my words and become bright, hot, burning with excitement.

“Fortunately, I had memorized a piece and she had read from that opened page. I fell into Romeo’s posture and demeanor and reached out for her hands.

“‘Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear that tips with silver all the fruit-tree tops—’

“‘Oh swear not by the moon,’ she cried, ‘the inconstant moon…’

“Clea slipped a laugh past me, nearly ruining everything.

“‘What’s so funny?’ Ophelia demanded, pulling herself up haughtily.

“‘I can’t believe how lucky I am to have stumbled on you in that dorm.’

“‘Oh.’ She smiled. ‘Am I better than Clea?’

“I felt a tightening in my stomach, but I was here to seduce this girl, was I not?

“‘Far better. Clea is good, yes, but you … you are that one in a million. They are very lucky to have you back at that college.’

“‘And yet Clea won the part of Desdemona over me,’ she complained.

“‘Who’s the fool who cast it?’

“‘The director, but how do you think she got the part?’ she said.

“‘Oh?’

“‘Your girlfriend is not very faithful. In fact, she’s a slut.’

“‘I was afraid of that. It’s one of the reasons I came here,’ I said.

“‘Well now you know not to waste any more time on her,’ she said gleefully.

“‘That’s for certain.’

“I approached her and reached down to turn the pages of the play script to arrive at that moment early in the play when Romeo and Juliet first meet and kiss.

“‘I’d like to try this with you,’ I said. She gazed at the pages.

“‘Fine.’ She turned to me, willing, ready, eager to prove how good she was.

“‘If I profane with my unworthiest hand this holy shrine, the gentle fine is this: my lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.’ I’m not half bad, I thought.

“She glanced at the book and then turned into me. We were so close the tips of her perky breasts grazed my chest.

“‘Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, which mannerly devotion shows in this; for saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch, and palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss.’

“I skipped right to it, but she didn’t mind or really didn’t know the difference.

“‘…thus from my lips, by yours, my sin is purged.’

“I kissed her, drawing her to me so tightly, she was nearly off her feet. Never had I pressed my lips so firmly and demanded more from a single kiss than this. My tongue latched to hers the way it would had I pressed it up against a freezing windowpane. She gasped and began to push against my shoulders, but she was already losing her balance. I saw the way her eyes went back. She was dizzy, overwhelmed. When I pulled my lips from hers, she gasped.

“I brought my lips to her neck and sucked softly as I lifted her in my arms and placed her gently on the bed. She looked up at me startled by her own apparent paralysis. My kiss had reached deeply into her, drawing energy from her spine and stunning her as if I had shot a tranquilizer into her or sent a jolt of electricity through her body. She couldn’t lift a finger; she could barely blink an eye. She stared up at me, helpless, confused, but oh, how sweet and beautiful she looked. I nearly lingered too long, giving her time to recuperate. It was Clea, however, deep inside me, chastising me and demanding action that made me move on.

“‘Oh, Juliet,’ I said, now mocking her, ‘let’s skip all the bullshit and get right to it, shall we not?’

“Despite her paralysis, she expressed shock and surprise. I saw the struggle in her eyes, the great effort to move her limbs, so she could get up and run out, but all she could do was look up at me, terrified.

“Her expression of terror did more to excite me. Her fear made my heart beat faster. I felt a rush. I was zooming down the steepest decline of a roller coaster, finding it hard to catch my breath myself. I closed my eyes and savored the sweet moment and then I lifted the sweatshirt off her. Her arms were like two disconnected limbs, just wobbling about as I pulled the shirt up and over her head. No longer supported by the effort, those arms fell beside her on the bed.

“She wasn’t wearing a bra, but her full, milky white breasts were so firm, they barely spilled over the sides of her chest, and each nipple, a dark carrot shade, was turned sharply upward. On her left breast, she had a small birthmark just below the aureole. I touched it with the tip of my finger. She tried to look down to see what I was doing, but she couldn’t see below her bosom.

“Her effort to scream and protest caused a slight quiver in her lips. There was a rippling effect down the sides of her jaw. I leaned over and kissed her softly on the mouth to lift that trembling from her. It was exquisite. How I relished the tiny, electric flutter as it traveled through my own lips and down the lines of my own jaw. Her eyes were as wide as they could be, her pupils bright. I brought my tongue to those eyes, forcing her to close her lids as I traced the eyeballs with the tip of my tongue. As I did so, I closed my own eyes and on the insides of my lids I saw what she saw.

“I expected to see a look of ecstasy in my face, but instead, I saw Clea gazing down at her with an expression of sadistic joy, and I realized that she was participating in this more than she had ever participated in anything I had done before. It was Clea who was driving me to toy with Ophelia; it was Clea who had turned my fingers and my lips into tiny knives, making my caresses painful and my kisses agonizing.

“I opened my eyes and sat back. For a moment Ophelia looked hopeful, but I shattered that optimism instantly when I unfastened her jeans and pulled them down her legs. I stopped at her ankles and ran my forefingers down the center of her stomach and over her bikini panties, hooking them at the crotch and tugging them off by lifting her lower body. Then I untied her sneakers and stripped her completely.

“I stood back, admiring her. Her beauty was so extraordinary, I had to offer her some solace.

“‘Think,’ I said, ‘think of the part you would most cherish, the role that you would seek with all your heart. Put yourself on the stage on Broadway. Imagine audiences giving you a standing ovation night after night; envision the lights, smell the makeup, listen for the swish of the curtains opening.

“‘If you are really as good as you think you are, you will carry yourself off and no longer be here suffering.’

“I could hear Clea scream: ‘She didn’t give Mark Bini any relief. Why are you giving her any?’

“I undressed and straddled her. When I looked down, into her eyes, I saw she had taken my advice. She had a far-off look. Her ears were filled with the sounds she wanted to hear.

“I dipped myself into her, first feeling as if I had lowered myself into a cold bath after being in the steam room. The chill made me shudder and I realized, the chill was coming from her. It was almost like making love to a corpse and for a moment, I nearly retreated; but I felt a pressure on my lower spine—Clea’s hand pressing me down, demanding I do what I had come to do.

“Gradually, I went deeper and deeper into her until I reached her warmth, the essence of her life, that subterranean pool normally well protected, shielded from thirsty predators, and I began to drink, drawing her life into me, absorbing her. The peach tint went out of her cheeks; the light dimmed in her eyes. Her breathing became labored; her heart clamored for richer blood, her brain screamed for oxygen. I could hear the alarms, feel the bedlam and the turmoil as all her organs cried out the danger. The frantic messages shot through her veins and arteries, every part of her demanding attention.

“And then as incredible as it might seem, I thought I did hear a thunder of applause and shouts of ‘Bravo, bravo, bravo.’ The ovation trickled to a single pair of hands clapping sharply, until that final salvo ended and the stage went black. When I opened my eyes and looked at her, I saw that the gleam in her eyes was gone. Her lips went slack and fell away from her teeth. Her skin quickly turned cold, clammy, as if a sheet of thin ice had been drawn over her.

“I lifted myself from her, or rather, what had been she. The odor of death was already escaping through every pore, every orifice. A putrescent cloud of dying flesh settled over her. Without looking at her, I dressed quickly.

“It was at this point that I felt Clea take more control. Normally, I would have simply left the motel room and driven off to retreat within Clea, but Clea was more demanding. Justice and revenge had become too tightly entwined. She wanted more; she wanted some poetic irony.

“She made me dress Ophelia, which was something I had never done to a victim before. I hated every moment of it, hated the stiffness in her joints, the icy way her eyes glared accusingly in their death stare. As soon as that was completed, I went to the doorway and looked out. Darkness had begun to fall. Thin, murky shadows were draped over the parking lot. It was as if some giant had thrown a grey veil over the world, but it was quiet, safe. There was no one around.

“I went out and opened the car door. Then I returned to the room, scooped Ophelia off the bed, as if she weighed no more than a pillow, and carried her out to the car. I sat her up in the front seat, keeping her firmly in position with the seat belt. Of course, her head drooped, but she appeared to be no more than someone dozing.

“‘Now let’s see, what should we talk about now?’ I asked the corpse as we drove off. I knew Clea enjoyed the humor. ‘Should we still talk about you, or have we exhausted the subject? You do look somewhat exhausted.’

“Clea’s laughter followed me all the way back to the college. By the time I had returned to the campus, the shadows had darkened and thickened. Night had taken a firm grip. Still in my Shakespearean mood, I thought it was truly the time of day when graveyards yawned. The dead did walk. I drove over the campus street slowly, my car moving like some ghost of a car, a dark spirit threading its horrific way through the darkness, hovering as close to shadows as it could, cowering away from the illumination of the streetlights as if the light had the power to destroy it instantly.

“Here and there students hurried across the lawns, some returning from late classes, most going to the dorm cafeterias. I drove around to the theater building and parked in the darkness. There I waited, the thump of my heart sounding like the beating of two hearts, Clea’s pulse rushing over mine at times, just as Clea’s thoughts invaded my own.

“I could feel my skin softening, my bosom aching as the breasts locked within began to throb like an incipient toothache. My penis tightened, retracted. Muscles throughout my body were dwindling. My waist was constricting. There wasn’t much time left. Clea was pounding on the door closed between us. She wanted to emerge and savor the moment, but she was being impatient. Just like a woman, I thought, expecting everything to be done the moment she wanted it done.

“I got out of the vehicle and went around to unbuckle the dead Ophelia and scooped her into my arms again. With Clea pressuring me to metamorphose, my superior strength began to diminish. I was practically as weak as an ordinary man and Ophelia was, after all, dead weight.

“Scurrying across the theater parking lot, I made my way to a side entrance. Fortunately it wasn’t locked, for I didn’t think I still had sufficient strength to yank it open. Once inside, I listened to be sure I was alone. Satisfied I was, I made my way down the corridor and entered the auditorium. I rushed down the aisle and placed Ophelia on the foot of the stage. Then I climbed onto the stage and opened the curtain.

“The stage was set up for The Zoo Story, a one-act play taking place on a park bench. I put Ophelia’s corpse on the bench, tilting her head back so her gaping mouth would be visible to the audience. Then I went to the costume and makeup room and got out the makeup kit. I returned to the stage and worked on her face until I had her looking like the mask of tragedy with two long black tears down her now-chalk-white face. I returned everything to the makeup and costume room and went up to the lighting panel. I found the light I wanted, a single spotlight placed to cut out the bench from the rest of the stage. I tightened the focus until all that was visible was her ghoulish face.

“That done, I stepped out into the audience and inspected my work. I could hear the clapping begin deep within me. It was Clea’s clapping. It built in momentum and volume until it took over my arms and hands and I was clapping. Clea emerged more and more with each clap. I felt myself sinking inside her, and I felt her satisfaction. I retreated somewhere below the thunder of her applause. I would no longer resist metamorphosis.

“I had done what she had wanted.”

I looked up slowly from the diary, aware that there were tears streaming down my cheeks. Whenever I read this section, I cried because it reminded me how much Richard loved me and how he would do anything to please me.

My detective simply stared, his head still propped up by his hand.

“And so,” he finally said, “I assume that was the way Ophelia Dell was discovered?”

I nodded. “Early the next morning.”

“No one checked on what time you girls arrived at night, or saw to it that you did arrive, so she wouldn’t have been missed?”

“No. It was a fully liberated dorm. We could have men in our rooms; we could smoke, have alcoholic beverages. We came and went as we pleased.”

“What happened next? Surely, there was an investigation that involved you.”

“The custodian who found Ophelia’s corpse on stage called the campus police. The story spread like a forest fire during a drought. Students flocked to the theater to see if they could catch a glimpse of the ghastly sight. You know how people are attracted to gore and death, how they slow down on the freeways to gape at an accident—their infatuation with the macabre.”

“Uh-huh,” he said dryly. “I know all about it.”

“Some students actually got to see her before the body had been removed. And many who did exaggerated what they saw—there was a slash across her neck, her eyes had been gouged … stuff like that.”

“But the police questioned you, of course.”

“Oh yes. The girls who had been in the dorm lobby described Richard, and I was questioned about him. I told them no one of that description was familiar to me, and I had no boyfriend now or in the past called Thomas.”

“They believed you?”

“What could they do? It appeared some psychopath was clever enough to use my name. Oh, it was hairy for a while—the scrutiny. They traced him to the motel and brought me a composite picture drawn by a police artist who had listened to the motel owner and some of the girls at the dorm. Naturally, I didn’t recognize him.”

“Weren’t there any resemblances?”

“Nothing that they picked up on. Of course, I was very worried for a while and so was Richard. He made no effort to emerge for months afterward.

“And when Janice found out, she was very angry. She was going to pull me out of the school. I had to promise that nothing like that would ever occur again while I was there. After a while, the police investigation dwindled to nothing. We all went on with our lives.”

“What was the cause of death?”

“Asphyxiation. Just like all the others.”

“Did you have any regrets? Feel any remorse once time passed and you realized what you and Richard had done?”

“None whatsoever. She got what she deserved. I went on with my acting and received rave reviews, enough to draw the attention of a theatrical agent—Freddy Bloom, who came down from New York to see me.”

“And that’s how you got discovered?”

“Uh-huh.”

I closed Richard’s diary and leaned back on the pillow. My detective continued to stare at me. I ran my fingers through his hair.

“You have nice hair, healthy hair. They say you can tell a person’s state of health through the condition of his or her hair.”

“Goes all the way back to Samson and Delilah,” he said.

“Yes.” I laughed.

“When are you going to turn that diary over to me?” he asked, nodding toward it on the nightstand.

“Soon. Are you anxious to get on with your investigation and rid yourself of me?”

“Just keeping my eyes on the prize.”

“Can’t you forget who and what you are for a while?”

“Can you?”

“Sometimes.” He looked skeptical. “Especially when I’m performing, assuming another identity.”

“That’s why you wanted to be an actress,” he said quickly. “It provides you with a means of escape.”

I turned away. I certainly didn’t expect he would be so perceptive. It was a bit frightening. There were things I didn’t want him to know. Now I wondered if it would be possible to reveal so much and not in the process reveal it all.

“Why would I want to do that?”

“Something I picked up yesterday, something you said about you and Richard being different from other Androgyne. There is a little too much of, what shall I say, inferior blood in you. Perhaps somehow your family line became diluted over the years.”

“That’s ridiculous. It can’t happen. We don’t mingle with inferiors. I told you—only Androgyne can propagate Androgyne.”

“Maybe in your history there was some inbreeding, an accident.”

“No.”

“How else can you explain it?”

“Explain what?”

“You desire sometimes to be an inferior.”

“I don’t…”

“Sure you do. It’s why you permitted yourself to fall in love with Michael,” he said.

I turned to him sharply. His eyes were penetrating. Usually, I didn’t underestimate an inferior male’s abilities. Why had I underestimated his?

“I’m thirsty,” I said. “Would you like something to drink?”

“Wouldn’t mind,” he replied shrugging. “What do you want? I’ll get it.”

“Just some orange juice on ice.”

“Okay.”

He rose from the bed. Naked, he walked out of the room. I lay back and closed my eyes. My heart began to pound. Richard was pulling himself up out of the darkness within me. I could feel his struggle. When I heard his voice now, it was softer, calmer, concerned.

“Let me come,” he pleaded. “For both our sakes. Before it’s too late. Please, Clea. Let me come. You have told this policeman too much. I have to end it. Now.”

Perhaps he was right, I thought. Just thinking it permitted him a toehold. I could feel him pull himself up and out of the shadows. I didn’t want him to emerge, but it was dangerously close to the point of no return, like going too far with a sexual embrace. The heat in the blood rushes over any hesitation and all restraint is quickly melted down.

My fingers tightened into a fist, my fingernails cutting into my palms until I felt the pain. My legs straightened and hardened. I felt a trembling in my bosom as my breasts became firmer. They were beginning to dissolve, the pectoral muscles beneath them enlarging. My shoulders started to thicken. When I ran my tongue over my upper lip, I could feel the emerging face hair. Soon, it would be too late to stop the metamorphosis. Richard would be waiting in this bed when the detective returned with my juice.