Chapter Eleven
Daniel couldn’t sleep after his slip with the Uber driver. He’d been tired and entered one of his old names, “Darrel,” to make the reservation. Unfortunately, he used the new “Cazador,” not “Darrel Cacciato” from three years ago, or his recently abandoned “Hunter.”
I was tired and hungry, he thought. Diana’s right. I’m getting careless.
“Tighten the fuck up!” he told himself, and got busy.
He ordered new, insulated blackout shades with Velcro trim for all the windows, expedited one-day delivery. Even one leak through their new drapes was too much for Diana, and when Diana was uncomfortable, everyone was uncomfortable. He didn’t trust Diana with people in the house. Already he worried about Bill the Odd-Jobs Man working in the garage. She was attractive, deliberately sultry when on the hunt, happy with women or satisfied with men in a pinch. Men were easier in the short term. Diana managed their interior world while Daniel focused on the exterior. Hanging blackout shades and painting the interior were her immediate tasks after their PODs delivery, their good furniture and her workout equipment.
Much as she hates to move, he thought, she loves making a place her own.
Problems came when paint dried, pictures were hung, furniture set in its places, and boredom hardened her like concrete. He’d tried to sell her on his Matrix by asking, “Did you ever find a woman you’d like to stay with for a long time? This could help that.”
She twisted up a disgusted face and shook her head.
“I can’t afford one of your ‘relationships,’” she said. “Things go wrong out there in the light. People who like you want you to meet people they like, who want to inspect you, judge you. They have families.” She shuddered, and her gaze hardened on the past. She almost told him about the impossible pregnancy, then waved a hand in dismissal. “Besides, you’re talking about cattle. Milk them a little twice a day? Or nick them in the neck with Mother’s little ivory-handled pocket knife like she did in her made-up religious schtick?” She shrugged and studied the unpainted wall behind him. “They’re not worth the trouble. I won’t die like Mother!”
Daniel’s computer held a scan of the newspaper account of the discovery of their mother’s remains. DNA hadn’t been discovered yet when she died, but officials found her handbag and her special collection kit with a small glass container of blood, type O negative. New Mexico state police described her remains as “… a charred smear of baked bone fragments, a few teeth and black goo alongside Portrero Ditch outside Chimayo. Looks like she’d been dumped and set afire alive. She almost made it to the water.”
Diana’s response at the time was a vacant stare and a shrug. “She messed with the Gypsies.”
“Manner of death: ‘Suspicious.’”
“Possible causes of death: ‘Satanic Ritual’ (being Holy Week), ‘Personal Vendetta’ (two client/patients disappeared), ‘Spontaneous Human Combustion’ (no residue of combustibles present).”
She burned to death in the sun on the morning of Good Friday, so all manner of Christians became suspect.
“You really think it was the Gypsies?” he’d asked.
Same vacant stare, deadpan; she said, “They came through every year. She came to town and took away business. Lured her late at night, maybe a new client. Kicked her out before dawn to walk back. Didn’t know about our … allergy. End of Mother.” She cracked a smile.
“What’s so funny?”
She shook her head. “Irony, Brother. Try to keep up.”
Daniel gave up on sleep and flipped on his bedroom light, a strip of red LEDs, easiest on his eyes. His workshop wasn’t ready, so he rolled the remaining tin of his Matrix out of his mini fridge to a marble-topped maple dresser he’d made two moves ago. He set out a carton of squeeze bottles stamped with “Mr. Daniel’s Miracle Matrix.” He would’ve used “Dr.” as he did with his other, less successful inventions, but the famous corporate cosmetologists liked to be “Mr.” He printed out a new set of business cards as “Mr. Daniel, BioCosmetologist.” He’d studied biochemistry in a half-dozen night schools and found none that offered complete night programs. He supplemented with some of the best science libraries, but he needed the night schools for the labs. His night-school colleagues made excellent experimental subjects. The few who got suspicious got blind dates with Diana.
She was “Deirdre” then, after our Mother.
Deirdre was the only name his twin used more than once, a security breach that troubled him but boosted the thrill for Diana.
Daniel studied years of engineering on top of the biochemistry to tinker up his exfusion appliance. He still couldn’t infuse the Matrix with the correct dose of the fresh, raw adrenaline to satisfy Diana’s palate. Epinephrine from the hospital squirted into the mix made it bitter and made her manic for two days. He hadn’t managed to fine-tune exfusion—still an all-or-nothing filter. Diana didn’t miss the bitter edge of testosterone, which, for her, was easier to get.
She says bland is the problem, he thought, but she gets off on the hunt. The hunt is one whole-body fuck for her.
Daniel preferred actual sex with actual women, along with a good Bordeaux and, if they had it, weed. He couldn’t risk having a taillight out, much less a bag of weed in the glove box, even if it was legal. He avoided driving around at all, which was easier in cities. Already out here the edge of the earth looked like trouble.
That cop homed in on us right away.
He stuffed each squeeze applicator with a half-pound of Matrix, then placed the tin and a baker’s dozen of full bottles into his fridge. Preparation always made him eager. To calm his trembling hands, Daniel practiced slow, deep breaths to lead him into stasis. He lay down to pass the day before his first professional appearance at A Cut Above.