The Deadly Sins Novels Volume One by Lawrence Sanders

Author:Lawrence Sanders
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2017-07-27T00:00:00+00:00

4

AFTER THAT CALL FROM Monica Gilbert, Daniel Blank had dropped the phone and gone trotting through the rooms of his apartment, mouth open, scream caught in his throat; he could not end it. Finally, it dribbled away to moans, heaves, gulps, coughs, tears. Then he was in the bedroom, forehead against the full-length mirror, staring at his strange, contorted face, torn apart.

When he quieted, fearful that his shriek had been heard by neighbors, he went directly to the bedroom phone extension, intending to call Celia Montfort and ask one question: “Why did you betray me?” But there was an odd-sounding dial tone, and he remembered he had dropped the living room handset. He hung up, went back into the living room, hung up that phone, too. He decided not to call Celia. What could she possibly say?

He had never felt such a sense of dissolution and, in self-preservation, undressed, checked window and door locks, turned out the lights and slid into bed naked. He rolled back and forth until silk sheet and wool blanket were wrapped about him tightly, mummifying him, holding him together.

He thought, his mind churning, that he might be awake forever, staring at the darkness and wondering. But curiously, he fell asleep almost instantly: a deep, dreamless slumber, more coma than sleep, heavy and depressing. He awoke at 7:18 a.m. the next morning, sodden with weariness. His eyelids were stuck shut; he realized he had wept during the night.

But the panic of the previous day had been replaced by a lethargy, a non-thinking state. Even after going through the motions of bathing, shaving, dressing, breakfasting, he found himself in a thoughtless world, as if his overworked brain had said, “All right! Enough already!” and doughtily rejected all fears, hopes, passions, visions, ardors. Even his body was subdued; his pulse seemed to beat patiently at a reduced rate, his limbs were slack. Dressed for work, like an actor waiting for his cue, he sat quietly in his living room, staring at the mirrored wall, content merely to exist, breathing.

His phone rang twice, at an hour’s interval, but he did not answer. It could be his office calling. Or Celia Montfort. Or … or anyone. But he did not answer, but sat rigidly in a kind of catalepsy, only his eyes wandering across his mirrored wall. He needed this time of peace, quiet, non-thinking. He might even have dozed off, there in his Eames chair, but it wasn’t important.

He roused early in the afternoon, looked at his watch; it seemed to be 2:18 p.m. That was possible; he was willing to accept it. He thought vaguely that he should get out, take a walk, get some fresh air.

But he only got as far as the lobby. He walked past the locked mail boxes. The mail had been delivered, but he just didn’t care. Late Christmas cards, probably. And bills. And … well, it wasn’t worth thinking about. Had Gilda sent him a Christmas card this year? He couldn’t remember. He hadn’t sent her one; of that he was certain.

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