Brennan," he said.
"I can't forget about him," March said. His eyes were bright. "What do you suppose people would say if we told them the whole story? Everything that happened out there in the desert."
"Don't be a damned fool."
March smiled. "We were thirsty, weren't we? So thirsty."
"That's right. And we did what we had to do to survive."
"Yes," March said. "We did what we had to do."
He stood up slowly and lifted a folded square of linen from the table. Under it was a long, thin carving knife. March picked up the knife and held it in his hand. Sweat shone on his skin; his eyes glittered now like bits of phosphorous. He took a step toward Flake.
Flake felt sudden fear. He opened his mouth to tell March to put the knife down, to ask him what the hell he thought he was doing. But the words caught in his throat.
"You know what we are, Flake? You know what we—what I —became out there the night we cut Brennan open and drained his blood into those four big canteens?"
Flake knew, then, and he tried desperately to run—too late. March tripped him and knocked him down and straddled him, the knife held high.
"I'm still thirsty," March said.
SKELETONS
I had put Katchaturian's Masquerade Suite on the stereo and was pouring myself a tulip glass of port when the doorbell rang at a few minutes past seven.
Reluctantly I crossed to the foyer, asking myself why it was that whenever a man plans a relaxing evening at home alone, he is invariably beset by interruptions of one kind or another. Sighing, I opened the door.
The man standing on the porch was tall and thin, with eyebrows so thick they formed an almost solid black bar across his forehead. He wore a navy blue business suit and a dark tie; his narrow mouth was turned into a smile that did not reach eyes as slick as polished black stones. He reminded me of an undertaker.
He said, "Mr. Thorpe? Mr. Emmett Thorpe?"
"Yes?"
"A pleasure, sir, a distinct pleasure." He proffered his hand. "My name is Buchanan, Ian Buchanan."
His grip was cool and moist. I took my own hand away quickly. "What can I do for you, Mr. Buchanan?"
"A business matter, sir."
"Oh," I said. "Well, I'm sorry, but I never discuss business except at my office. Perhaps if you—"
"This is a matter of no little import, Mr. Thorpe, no little import."
"Yes?"
"Oh, very much so."
"Concerning what?"
"Lysander Pharmaceuticals."
"I gathered that much," I said. "Precisely why are you here, Mr. Buchanan?"
His smile widened. "May I come in? It's a bit chilly out here—decidedly nippy, in fact."
"I see no reason to let you into my house until you state the nature of your business," I said. I was beginning to grow irritated.
"I don't blame you for that. No, no, not at all. It pays to be careful these days, eh? Well, Mr. Thorpe, to put it quite simply, I am here to blackmail you."
I stared at him. "What did you say?"
"I think you heard me, sir. Now may I come in?"
I hesitated for a moment, and then stood aside wordlessly. We went into the living room. The Masquerade Suite was in its closing segments now; Buchanan paused to listen. "Ah, Katchaturian," he said. "A genius, sir, a monumental talent. Perhaps one day he will be given his due as one of the great composers."
I said nothing, standing with my hands closed into fists. My chest felt constricted, my mouth dry and coppery.
When the music ended, Buchanan seated himself in one of the overstuffed chairs and took in the contents of the room in a sweeping glance: the heavy mahogany-and-leather furniture, the fieldstone fireplace flanked by staggered shelves of good, well-thumbed books, the stereo components built into the paneled wall opposite. "A most impressive room, Mr. Thorpe, most impressive indeed," he said appreciatively. "I must compliment you on your taste."
"Suppose you get to the point, Buchanan."
"And the point is blackmail, eh?"
"So you said."
"So I did. An unfortunate word, blackmail, but there you are. I could have said I dealt in
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