Читать онлайн «The Fourth Deadly Sin»

The November sky over Manhattan was chain mail, raveling into steely rain. A black night with coughs of thunder, lightning stabs that made abrupt days. Dr. Simon Ellerbee, standing at his office window, peered out to look at life on the street below. He saw only the reflection of his own haunted face.

He could not have said how it started, or why. He, who had always been so certain, now buffeted and trembling… All hearts have dark corners, where the death of a loved one is occasionally wished, laughter offends, and even beauty becomes a rebuke.

He turned back to his desk. It was strewn with files and tape cassettes: records of his analyses. He stared at that litter of fears, angers, passions, dreads. Now his own life belonged there, part of the untidiness, where once it had been ordered and serene.

He stalked about, hands thrust deep into pockets, head bowed. He pondered his predicament and dwindling choices.

Mordant thought: How does one seek "professional help" when one is a professional?

The soul longs for purity, but we are all hungry for the spiced and exotic. Evil is just a word, and what no one sees, no one knows. Unless God truly is a busybody.

He lay full-length on the couch some of his patients insisted on using, though he thought this classic prop of psychiatry was flimflam and often counterproductive. But there he was, stretched out tautly, trying to still his churning thoughts and succeeding no better than all the agitated who had occupied that same procrustean bed.

Groaning, he rose from the couch to resume his pacing.

The problem, he decided, was learning to acknowledge uncertainty. He, the most rational of men, must adjust to the variableness of a world in which nothing is sure, and the chuckles belong to chance and accident.

There could be satisfaction in living with that-fumbling toward a dimly glimpsed end. For if that isn't art, what is?

The downstairs bell rang three times-the agreed-upon signal for all late night visitors. He started, then hurried into the receptionist's office to press the buzzer unlocking the entrance from the street. He then unchained and unbolted the door leading from the office suite to the corridor.

He ducked into the bathroom to look in the mirror, adjust his tie, smooth his sandy hair with damp palms. He came back to stand before the outer door and greet his guest with a smile.

But when the door opened, and he saw who it was, he made a thick, strangled sound deep in his throat. His hands flew to cover his face and hide his dismay. He turned away, shoulders slumping.

The first heavy blow landed high on the crown of his head.

It sent him stumbling forward, knees buckling. A second blow put him down, biting at the thick pile carpeting.

The weapon continued to rise and fall, crushing his skull.

But by that time Dr. Simon Ellerbee was dead, all dreams gone, doubts fled, all questions answered.