Draw One In The Dark(137)

He had her newspapers under one arm, and was staring at her, in utter dismay. "Kyrie," he said. "Have you slept? Eaten anything?"



"I don't . . ." She frowned. "I don't remember."



"You don't remember?" Keith asked. He looked scared. "Kyrie, it's been two days."



Two days? Since Tom had died?



"I just realized I'm . . . in my robe. In my home . . ."



"We brought you back. Mr. Ormson . . . Edward put you to bed."



He had? For some reason the idea of a strange male—of a strange older male—undressing her didn't embarrass her. Not even a little. It didn't matter.



She became aware that Keith had dumped the papers on the table, and was bustling around, setting a teapot on, opening the fridge, letting out with exclamations of dismay, if at her housekeeping or the lack of food in her fridge, she didn't know.



It seemed like all of a sudden, he was putting a cup of tea, a plate of toast with jam, and a peeled boiled egg in front of her.



"I'm not the best of cooks, Kyrie, I'm sorry," he said. "This is about all I can cook. But will you eat? A little. For me?"



He was looking pleadingly at her, and he looked far younger than she thought he was, and she thought if she didn't eat he might very well cry.



The toast and the egg tasted like straw to her, but she forced herself to eat them. The tea, at least, was sweet and warm, and she swallowed cup after cup, while Keith poured.



"Have you talked to Rafiel?" Keith asked.



Kyrie had to concentrate to remember Rafiel. It all seemed such a long way away and vague. After a while she shook her head.



"Well, they found journals. Apparently Frank kept journals. He'd managed to keep the beetle under control until just a few years ago and then . . . biological clock or what not and he went insane and started . . . laying down pheromones bait, to attract females and victims. He wrote all about it in his diary. He started laying the pheromones over a year ago. As if he were trying to reassure himself he wasn't crazy. Though most of the killings were the female's doing. He just helped drag the corpses to the castle, afterward."



She nodded, though what Keith was saying only made sense in a very distant and impersonal sort of way, as if he were talking about people who had been dead for centuries and whom nothing could affect.



"He was intending to make Tom the fall guy for it all, you know. That's why he hired someone from the homeless shelter with a history of drug abuse. The idea was to make all corpses disappear, except a couple, which would be found near Tom's apartment, and it would be thought that Tom had killed them all, that he had gone over the edge. The beetle's hallucinogenic powder would have helped. That's why they attacked us here. They wanted you to throw him out. They didn't want anyone to be around him, or to know him that well."



Well, and that had worked. And had led by degrees to everything else. But Kyrie felt too numb to even feel guilt. None of it mattered. She put her empty cup forward, and Keith filled it again.



"Kyrie, can you take a sleeping tablet? I bought some over-the-counter ones. I couldn't . . . I couldn't sleep without having nightmares. I have one. Can you take them? Or will they cause you any problems?"



"I can take them," she said, her voice sounding pasty and altogether like a stranger's.



He put the small yellow tablet in her hand. She swallowed it with a gulp of tea. Presently she felt as if the world around her were becoming blurry.



She was only vaguely aware of Keith's leading her to her bed, and tucking her in. For such a young kid—though he might be her age in chronological years—he had an oddly maternal touch as he tucked the blanket around her.



"Sleep," he said. "I'll take a key. I'll come check on you."

* * *



"This too shall pass," Kyrie said, and startled herself with saying it. Keith had come and checked on her and forced her to eat and sleep for the last two days.



This morning she'd woken up realizing that she couldn't go on like this.



Life would go on, even when there didn't seem to be any point to it. And it wasn't as though she could say, "Please just stop my subscription, I don't want to play anymore." Nor did it seem to matter. Not that way.



A wedge of sanity was forcing itself into her shock and grief. She'd liked Tom. She'd liked Tom a lot. Although at least part of the feeling was probably lust. She remembered his sprayed-on clothes, and she could smile, in distant appreciation.



She got up out of bed. It was eight a.m. Keith had been dropping by every morning at ten, after early classes. She didn't want him to catch her naked. And she really should stop being a burden to the poor young man. It was time she got herself together.