black intensity, and Beheim looked quickly away.
“Enough!”
said Alexandra. “There’s no purpose to this, not unless
you intend to kill him.”
“Now,
there’s an idea!”
“No.”
She closed her long fingers about his wrist; for an instant there
seemed to be a flurry of lights and darks in her eyes. “This
has not helped to ease matters between the Valeas and the de Czeges.
I don’t want it to go any further.”
“As you
wish then,” he said. “But I refuse to have him hounding
me during the remainder of the investigation. Give me the mace.”
“What are
you going to do?”
“Break his
legs. That should take two or three days to heal.”
Mikolas rolled
away, trying to reach his sword. Beheim hauled him back by his belt
and held him while he thrashed and fumed; a pinkish liquid bubbled
from his throat—the wound was healing quickly.
“What of
his brother?” Alexandra asked. “And what of the rest of
the de Czeges? Their legs will be whole.”
“One of
them, at least, will no longer pose a threat.” Beheim stretched
out a hand to her. “Give it to me.”
“I don’t
trust you,” she said after a pause. “I’ll do it.”
“Don’t
be ridiculous! Go and see to the children.”
“What’s
the use of that? If we take them away from him, they’ll only
return. You know that.”
He continued
holding out his hand, and with obvious reluctance, she passed him the
mace and walked off toward the window where the children were
sitting.
“You
know,” Beheim said to Mikolas without looking him in the eyes,
“I understand you. I used to arrest men like you. Sometimes I
had to kill them. I understand you very well.”
He tapped the
mace lightly against Mikolas’s knee, watched the leg stiffen in
anticipation. Then he raised the mace high and brought it down on the
kneecap with all his strength, shattering bone, smashing the fabric
of the trousers down into a mire of blood and cartilage. A
high-pitched whining escaped from Mikolas’s lips, and he lost
consciousness. Beheim crushed the other kneecap with a second blow
and sat patiently, waiting for him to wake up. Alexandra, he saw, was
kneeling beside the children, ministering in some way to one of them.
Finally Mikolas stirred. His eyes fluttered open. Focused on Beheim.
“Now I’m
going to tell you a story,” said Beheim, pushing
Mikolas’s face to the side with the ball of the mace so that he
was unable to use the power of his eyes. “Not so long ago in
Paris there was a maniac who had killed four women with his hands. He
was, as a matter of fact, a man very much like you. A physical
marvel, possessed of inhuman strength. We could see that from the
brutal things he’d done to the bodies. He sent us messages,
laughing at us, challenging us to find him. He boasted that he would
kill anyone who dared come near him. He wrote poems about our
stupidity and mailed them to the newspapers. Eventually we discovered
who he was, but since he lived on the streets, in the sewers, any
dark place that he could dominate with his strength, it was no easy
task to bring him to ground. At long last, however, we managed to
trap him in Montparnasse one night, and we chased him up onto the
rooftops.”
Alexandra came
up beside him and started to speak, but he held up a hand, urging her
to silence. “Just give me a moment,” he said. “I’m
almost finished here.”
Mikolas tried to
turn his head, to look at Alexandra, but Beheim gave him another firm
push with the ball of the mace.
“The
houses in that particular section of Montparnasse are set very close
together,” he went on. “Many of the streets no more than
alleys, the alleys barely wide enough to permit a grown man passage.
The rooftops are like a country all their own, a terrain of odd peaks
and gables and steep slopes, all tiled and slick underfoot even in
dry weather. A dangerous place to hunt so formidable a man as our
maniac. We knew he could not escape us. We had cordoned off an area
of
“Enough!”
said Alexandra. “There’s no purpose to this, not unless
you intend to kill him.”
“Now,
there’s an idea!”
“No.”
She closed her long fingers about his wrist; for an instant there
seemed to be a flurry of lights and darks in her eyes. “This
has not helped to ease matters between the Valeas and the de Czeges.
I don’t want it to go any further.”
“As you
wish then,” he said. “But I refuse to have him hounding
me during the remainder of the investigation. Give me the mace.”
“What are
you going to do?”
“Break his
legs. That should take two or three days to heal.”
Mikolas rolled
away, trying to reach his sword. Beheim hauled him back by his belt
and held him while he thrashed and fumed; a pinkish liquid bubbled
from his throat—the wound was healing quickly.
“What of
his brother?” Alexandra asked. “And what of the rest of
the de Czeges? Their legs will be whole.”
“One of
them, at least, will no longer pose a threat.” Beheim stretched
out a hand to her. “Give it to me.”
“I don’t
trust you,” she said after a pause. “I’ll do it.”
“Don’t
be ridiculous! Go and see to the children.”
“What’s
the use of that? If we take them away from him, they’ll only
return. You know that.”
He continued
holding out his hand, and with obvious reluctance, she passed him the
mace and walked off toward the window where the children were
sitting.
“You
know,” Beheim said to Mikolas without looking him in the eyes,
“I understand you. I used to arrest men like you. Sometimes I
had to kill them. I understand you very well.”
He tapped the
mace lightly against Mikolas’s knee, watched the leg stiffen in
anticipation. Then he raised the mace high and brought it down on the
kneecap with all his strength, shattering bone, smashing the fabric
of the trousers down into a mire of blood and cartilage. A
high-pitched whining escaped from Mikolas’s lips, and he lost
consciousness. Beheim crushed the other kneecap with a second blow
and sat patiently, waiting for him to wake up. Alexandra, he saw, was
kneeling beside the children, ministering in some way to one of them.
Finally Mikolas stirred. His eyes fluttered open. Focused on Beheim.
“Now I’m
going to tell you a story,” said Beheim, pushing
Mikolas’s face to the side with the ball of the mace so that he
was unable to use the power of his eyes. “Not so long ago in
Paris there was a maniac who had killed four women with his hands. He
was, as a matter of fact, a man very much like you. A physical
marvel, possessed of inhuman strength. We could see that from the
brutal things he’d done to the bodies. He sent us messages,
laughing at us, challenging us to find him. He boasted that he would
kill anyone who dared come near him. He wrote poems about our
stupidity and mailed them to the newspapers. Eventually we discovered
who he was, but since he lived on the streets, in the sewers, any
dark place that he could dominate with his strength, it was no easy
task to bring him to ground. At long last, however, we managed to
trap him in Montparnasse one night, and we chased him up onto the
rooftops.”
Alexandra came
up beside him and started to speak, but he held up a hand, urging her
to silence. “Just give me a moment,” he said. “I’m
almost finished here.”
Mikolas tried to
turn his head, to look at Alexandra, but Beheim gave him another firm
push with the ball of the mace.
“The
houses in that particular section of Montparnasse are set very close
together,” he went on. “Many of the streets no more than
alleys, the alleys barely wide enough to permit a grown man passage.
The rooftops are like a country all their own, a terrain of odd peaks
and gables and steep slopes, all tiled and slick underfoot even in
dry weather. A dangerous place to hunt so formidable a man as our
maniac. We knew he could not escape us. We had cordoned off an area
of
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