The Key to Midnight

to continue to feign a drugged indifference.
        The steel fingers gripped the neckline of her gown and tore the garment from her.
        She almost gasped, but kept a grip on herself because she knew that he was watching her closely.
        The steel hand touched her breasts.

----

    69
        
        Peterson popped a butter-rum Lifesaver into his mouth, savored it, and then said to Carrera, 'So it's decided. You'll kill Hunter tonight, strip him, and dump his body into the lake, under the ice.'
        'I'll cut off the tips of his fingers so the police won't be able to print the body, smash out his teeth to prevent dental-record identification.'
        'Isn't that excessive? By the time the lake thaws and they find him next summer, perhaps even the summer after next - if they ever do find him - the fish will have left nothing but bare bones.'
        'Can't be too careful,' Carrera disagreed. 'I'll also disfigure his face so he can't be identified from a photograph.'
         And you'll enjoy every minute of it, Peterson thought.
        Chelgrin hadn't said much during the past half hour, but now he walked to the table and faced Peterson. 'You told me I'd be allowed to see my daughter as soon as they brought her here.'
        'Yes, Tom. But Rotenhausen must examine her first.'
        'Why?'
        'I don't know. But he felt it was necessary, and he's the boss in this place.'
        'Not when you're around,' Chelgrin said sourly. 'Wherever you are, you're the boss. It's in your genes. You'll be in charge of Hell an hour after you get there.'
        'How very kind of you to say so,' Peterson replied.
        'Damn it, I want to see Lisa. I want-'
        Carrera interrupted: 'And there you have another problem. The girl. What do we do about the girl if she comes through the second treatment with a lot of mental damage?'
        'That won't happen,' Chelgrin said firmly, as though he could determine her fate by fiat.
        'Fifty-fifty chance,' Carrera said.
        Refusing to confront that dreadful possibility, Chelgrin turned from Carrera, started toward the hallway door, but then halted and backed up a step. 'Someone's there, listening.'

----

    70
        
        The instant that he knew he had been seen, Alex pushed the door all the way open and stepped into the room, thrusting the pistol in front of him.
        'Ah, hello,' said the fat man with curious aplomb. 'How're you feeling?'
        Ignoring him, Alex stared at Chelgrin. 'You're dead.'
        The senator didn't respond.
        Sickened and infuriated by a profound and growing sense of violation, by having been so totally manipulated, Alex said, 'Why aren't you dead?'
        'Faked,' Chelgrin said, nervously focusing on the muzzle of the gun. 'We just wanted you to find the clipping about Rotenhausen.'
        'And the unfinished letter to Lisa-?'
        'Nice touch, wasn't it?' Peterson asked.
        Confused, Alex said, 'Now that I think about it… at the time, I should've checked you for a pulse. Why didn't I check you?'
        'The bullet wounds, the rabbit blood,' Chelgrin said, 'the hair over my eyes so you wouldn't notice any involuntary eye-muscle spasms - it was all very convincing. And I wore only the robe and left my wallet on the dresser so you wouldn't have any reason to search me.'
        Alex glanced at each of the men, then at Chelgrin again. 'No. Doesn't wash. I made Joanna stay away from you too. As if I'd been programmed to keep us at a distance from you. Programmed not to shatter the illusion. Isn't that right?'
        Chelgrin blinked. 'Programmed?'
        'Don't lie to me,' Alex said, raising the gun a few inches until the muzzle was lined up with the senator's heart.
        Chelgrin seemed genuinely baffled. 'What're you talking about?'
        Turning to the fat man, Alex said, 'It's true, isn't it? I've been running around like a damn robot, programmed like a machine.'
        Peterson smiled. He knew the truth, even if Chelgrin didn't.
        Alex thrust the pistol at him. 'Last spring, when I went to Rio for a vacation - what in the name of God happened to me there?'
        Before Peterson could answer, Antonio Paz reached under his jacket for a gun. Alex caught the movement from the corner of his eye, swung away from Peterson, and fired twice. Both shots ripped into Paz's face. Like perfume from an atomizer, a mist of blood puffed into the air. Paz and his