“Man to man. Man to man. You use that expression to imply frankness, Mr. Lounds, I appreciate that. But you see, I am not a man. I began as one but by the Grace of God and my own Will, I have become Other and More than a man. You say you’re frightened. Do you believe that God is in attendance here, Mr. Lounds?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you praying to Him now?”
“Sometimes I pray. I have to tell you, I just pray mostly when I’m scared.”
“And does God help you?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think about it after. I ought to.”
“You ought to. Um-hmmmm. There are so many things you ought to understand. In a little while I’ll help you understand. Will you excuse me now?”
“Certainly.”
Footsteps out of the room. The slide and rattle of a kitchen drawer. Lounds had covered many murders committed in kitchens where things are handy. Police reporting can change forever your view of kitchens. Water running now.
Lounds thought it must be night. Crawford and Graham were expecting him. Certainly he had been missed by now. A great, hollow sadness pulsed briefly with his fear.
Breathing behind him, a flash of white caught by his rolling eye. A hand, powerful and pale. It held a cup of tea with honey. Lounds sipped it through a straw.
“I’d do a big story,” he said between sips. “Anything you want to say. Describe you any way you want, or no description, no description.”
“Shhhh.” A single finger tapped the top of his head. The lights brightened. The chair began to turn.
“No. I don’t want to see you.”
“Oh, but you must, Mr. Lounds. You’re a reporter. You’re here to report. When I turn you around, open your eyes and look at me. If you won’t open them yourself, I’ll staple your eyelids to your forehead.”
A wet mouth noise, a snapping click and the chair spun. Lounds faced the room, his eyes tight shut. A finger tapped insistently on his chest. A touch on his eyelids. He looked.
To Lounds, seated, he seemed very tall standing in his kimono. A stocking mask was rolled up to his nose. He turned his back to Lounds and dropped the robe. The great back muscles flexed above the brilliant tattoo of the tail that ran down his lower back and wrapped around the leg.
The Dragon turned his head slowly, looked over his shoulder at Lounds and smiled, all jags and stains.
“Oh my dear God Jesus,” Lounds said.
Lounds now in the center of the room where he can see the screen. Dolarhyde, behind him, has put on his robe and put in the teeth that allow him to speak.
“Do you want to know What I Am?”
Lounds tried to nod; the chair jerked his scalp. “More than anything. I was afraid to ask.”
“Look.”
The first slide was Blake’s painting, the great Man-Dragon, wings flared and tail lashing, poised above the Woman Clothed with the Sun.
“Do you see now?”
“I see.”
Rapidly Dolarhyde ran through his other slides.
Click. Mrs. Jacobi alive. “Do you see?”
“Yes.”
Click. Mrs. Leeds alive. “Do you see?”