Last Days by Brian Evenson;Peter Straub Page A

see the appeal of self-cauterization, Mr. Kline," said Borchert. "Ugly, true, but you really do have something there. Less clinical. A return to natural religion, so to speak."
    "I don't have anything," said Kline. "This has nothing to do with me."
    "Oh, but it does, Mr. Kline. You may be an unintentional avatar, but you are an avatar nonetheless."
    "Look," said Kline. "I'm done with this. I'm leaving."
    "So sorry, Mr. Kline," said Borchert. "But we've talked about this. If you try to leave, you'll be killed. Now what was this about the room?"
    Kline shook his head. "Nobody was killed in that room."
    "What room?"
    "The murder room."
    "Oh," said Borchert. "I see." He used his arm to raise himself out of the chair and onto his remaining leg and then stood there, half gone. He stood tilted slightly in the direction of his absent limbs, as if crimped at the side, for balance. "How can you be so sure, Mr. Kline?"
    "Everything is wrong," said Kline. "The blood spatter pattern is irregular, the positioning of the body isn't right in regard to blood flow--"
    "But surely, Mr. Kline, irregular doesn't mean falsified. Perhaps it's simply an unusual circumstance."
    "Perhaps," said Kline. "But there's something wrong with the blood."
    "The blood?"
    "It isn't completely dry."
    "But surely--"
    "It's been artificially dried. A fan or a hair dryer or something. But it's still damp underneath. It couldn't possibly belong to the body of a man killed several weeks ago."
    Borchert looked at him thoughtfully a long moment and slowly hopped his way around so he could slide back into the chair.
    "Well?" said Kline.
    "So it's a reconstruction," said Borchert. "So what?"
    "So what?" said Kline. "How can I be expected to solve a crime by looking at a reconstruction of it?"
    "Mr. Kline, surely you're enough of an armchair philosopher to realize that everything is a reconstruction of something else? Reality is a desperate and evasive creature."
    "Am I being asked to solve the crime or the reconstruction of the crime?"
    "The crime," said Borchert. "The reconstruction," he said, gesturing to himself with his thumb and his one and two-thirds fingers, " c'est moi ."
    "I can't get anywhere without real evidence."
    "I have perfect faith in you, Mr. Kline."
    "At least let me talk to a few people who might know something."
    "Somewhat tricky," said Borchert. "But, ever the optimist, I'm convinced something can be arranged."
    Shaking his head, Kline went toward the door. Once there he turned, saw Borchert smiling in his chair. When he smiled, Kline realized that all his bottom teeth had been removed.
    "This is going well, don't you think?" said Borchert, speaking loudly, perhaps for the sake of the guard. "Thank you, dear friend, for stopping by."

V.
    Ramse showed up a few days later with a tape recorder balanced on his forearms. He put it on the table near Kline.
    "What's this for?" asked Kline.
    "It's a tape recorder," said Ramse. "For taping things. Borchert asked me to bring it."
    "What does he want me to do with it?"
    "It's for the interviews," said Ramse. "For the crime."
    Kline nodded. He went to the fridge and poured himself a glass of milk, drank it slowly as Ramse watched.
    "Anything else you need?" Kline asked.
    "No," said Ramse. "Just that."
    Kline nodded. "Right," he said. "Where's Gous?"
    "He's getting ready for the party."
    "The party?"
    "Didn't he send you an invitation?"
    "No."
    Ramse furrowed his brow. "An oversight," he said. "He'd want you to come. I'm sure he wants you to come. Will you?"
    Kline shrugged. "Why not?" he said.
    "It's settled then," said Ramse. "I'll pick you up at eight."
    Kline nodded, looked absently at his watch. Until the accident, he had worn his watch on his right arm, but now if he wore it there it threatened to slide off the stump.
    Across the table, Ramse cleared his throat.
    "You're still here?" asked Kline.
    "Shall I wait outside or would you rather I came back later?" asked Ramse.
    "For the party?"
    "You don't