The Key to Midnight

pale, interlocked hands.
        'At Nijo Castle?' Alex prompted.
        'I was hysterical.'
        'You said that you suddenly realized the man in your nightmare was someone you'd actually known, not just a figment of a dream.'
        Reluctantly she said, 'Yes. All right. But I'm not sure I want to find him.'
        'Until you find him and know what he did to you and understand why, the dreams aren't going to go away,' Alex said.
        Joanna continued to stare at her hands, which were clasped so tightly that the knuckles were sharp and bone-white.
        'When you meet this man with the mechanical hand,' Mariko said, 'when you confront him face-to-face, you'll discover he isn't half as frightening in reality as he is in the nightmare.'
        'I wish I could believe that,' Joanna said.
        'The known,' Mariko said, 'is never as terrifying as the unknown. Damn it, Joanna, you must talk to Uncle Omi.'
        Joanna was clearly surprised to hear Mariko swear.
        Mariko was a little surprised as well. She pressed on. 'I’ll call him in the morning.'
        Joanna hesitated, then nodded. 'All right. But, Alex, you've got to go with me.'
        'A psychiatrist might not want me looking over his shoulder.'
        'If you can't go with me, I won't go.'
        Mariko said, 'I'm sure Uncle Omi won't mind. After all, this is a very special case.'
        Relieved, Joanna leaned back in her chair.
        'It won't be so bad, Joanna-san. My Uncle Omi isn't as scary as Godzilla. No radioactive breath. No giant tail to knock over skyscrapers.'
        Joanna found a smile. 'You're a good friend, Mariko-san.'
        'Patients are sometimes spooked by his mechanical hand,' Mariko said, and she was rewarded with Joanna's laughter like the music of silver bells, which reverberated in the windowpane that separated them from the cold, watchful face of the night.

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    32
        
        Ignacio Carrera's breathing was violent but metronomical, as if he was exercising to Prussian martial music that no one else could hear. The barbells with which he struggled were heavier than he was, and judging by his cries of agony, which echoed through the private gym, the weight was too difficult for him.
        Nevertheless, he continued without pause. If the task had been nearer possibility, it wouldn't have been worthwhile. His strenuous efforts distilled alcohol-clear drops of sweat from him; perspiration streamed down his slick flesh, dripped off his earlobes, nose, chin, elbows, and fingertips. He wore only a pair of royal-blue workout shorts, and his strikingly powerful body glistened like every boy's dream of brute masculine strength. The sound of tortured tissues being torn down and stronger muscle fibers growing in their place was almost audible.
        On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, without exception, Ignacio Carrera worked diligently on his calves, thighs, buttocks, hips, waist, lower back, and stomach. He had a prodigious set of stomach muscles: His belly was hard and concave, like a sheet of corrugated steel. On Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, he labored to improve his chest, upper back, neck, shoulders, biceps, triceps, and forearms. On the seventh day he rested, although inactivity made him nervous.
        Ignacio yearned for the transmutation of his flesh - every ounce, every cell. For relaxation, he read science fiction, and he longed to have the body of the perfect robot that occasionally appeared in those books - flexible yet invulnerable, precise in its movements and capable of grace yet charged with crude power.
        He was only thirty-eight years old, but he looked much younger than his true age. His hair was coarse, thick, and black, and while he exercised, he wore a bright yellow ribbon around his head to keep the hair out of his face. With his strong features, prominent nose, dark and deeply set eyes, dusky complexion, and headband, he could have passed for an American Indian.
        He did not claim to be an Indian, American or otherwise. He told people that he was a Brazilian. That was a lie.
        In more genteel times, the gymnasium on the first floor of the Carrera house had been a music room in which guests in formal attire had frequently attended evenings of chamber music. At one end of the room was a circular dais on which a piano had stood. Now the enormous space -thirty by thirty feet - was carpeted solely with scattered vinyl mats and