men(both little and small)

by miriam heddy

 

anyone lived in a pretty how town

by e. e. cummings

anyone lived in a pretty how town (with up so floating many bells down) spring summer autumn winter he sang his didn't he danced his did   Women and men(both little and small) cared for anyone not at all they sowed their isn't they reaped their same sun moon stars rain   children guessed(but only a few and down they forgot as up they grew autumn winter spring summer) that noone loved him more by more   when by now and tree by leaf she laughed his joy she cried his grief bird by snow and stir by still anyone's any was all to her   someones married their everyones laughed their cryings and did their dance (sleep wake hope and then)they said their nevers they slept their dream

stars rain sun moon (and only the snow can begin to explain how children are apt to forget to remember with up so floating many bells down)   one day anyone died i guess (and noone stooped to kiss his face) busy folk buried them side by side little by little and was by was   all by all and deep by deep and more by more they dream their sleep noone and anyone earth by april wish by spirit and if by yes.   Women and men(both dong and ding) summer autumn winter spring reaped their sowing and went their came sun moon stars rain

In the cold light of morning—which was not actually all that cold as it streamed in past his stained glass window and cast yellow and green light upon his bed—Larry Fleinhardt decided that he was used to waking up alone, yes, and perhaps even resigned to it, but he was decidedly not pleased by that state of affairs. Not that he had done much to alter the circumstances of his life toward any other end—not for some time, at any rate. He had, in fact, purchased a new mattress only last week, and lying back in the bedding store and testing a number of options, he'd come to realize that it was as good a commitment to a life of solitude as any he could imagine. Were he involved in a relationship, he would have had someone with whom to debate the relative merits of firm versus less firm, steel coils versus those intriguing new foams on the market. But as it was, stretched out across one mattress after another, he measured the fit of each one solely against his own body, anticipating no other body beside him who might lie sleepless and disturbed by his eventual choice of the Tempur-Pedic over the rest of them. He recognized, of course, that he was succumbing to the advertising phrase "space age" and the promise that it was developed at NASA, and even the fact that he enjoyed saying, "visco-elastic" to himself as he lay there and bounced on it with the heels of his sneakers kicking the edge like a set of new tires. He considered that Charles, were he along on the trip, might well find the Sleep Number mattress appealing. Charles did love his little dials.

 

But he was alone. And that was really something he needed to come to terms with.

 

At home, with the mattress covered in the new bedding he'd bought (another indulgence, again serving no tastes but his own), he shifted onto one side and then the other, trying to decide whether the confluence of NASA and Sweden was really worth the two grand he'd spent. Probably so. It was comfortable. Decadent, even. The brochure had insisted that it absorbed motion so well that he wouldn't even feel his partner moving beside him, and he wondered whether he was likely to test that claim anytime soon, and decided it was unlikely, unless he lowered his standards considerably.

 

There were those who believed the primary problem in any successful courtship was the beginning—finding the most felicitous moment in which to initiate it. First impressions being what they were, that would seem to make a certain amount of sense. But that particular formulation of the problem presumed one was courting a relatively unknown subject—someone to whom you, yourself, were also unknown, with each person entering into the equation attempting to solve for the other, unknown quantity.

 

That, of course, in no way described the present situation. No—in his own case, it was far too late to worry about first impressions, and though he'd spent a good deal of time weighing various means and methods of making himself and his desires clear, he had yet to conclude that any one moment was likely to be better than any other. They all, in the vernacular, sucked about equally.

 

In the shower, then again while shaving, he agreed with himself that there were simply too many variables to consider. Human beings were far too complex to fit into any algorithm. Or rather, they could be reduced and computed—and Charles certainly was fond of doing so—but he personally didn't altogether find such mathematical means altogether trustworthy as the sole basis for making such an important decision.

 

Of course, that could simply be cowardice talking.

 

Getting dressed—the khakis and green shirt or the khakis and blue shirt? Jeans? And what shirt?—he admitted that yes, he did admire Megan's work as a profiler, and wouldn’t dare dismiss the efficacy of her predictions. She and Charles both had demonstrated a high degree of success with that approach. It was apparently possible to predict the behavior of a psychopath with reasonable accuracy, and as they'd talked about that over their series of lunches, he'd considered asking her whether she believed that predictability was, in fact, part of the illness—perhaps even what distinguished such damaged lives. If the human brain were analogous to a computer (and he was thinking now of HAL, though of course he would have chosen another example to propose the question to Megan), insanity was often thought of as the thing which made the program unpredictable. The better metaphors were, perhaps, already in service. A mind gone off the rails.

 

Jeans and the white shirt, which of course was in the wash, so it had to be the blue shirt after all. And tennis shoes, of course. White ones.

Surely ordinary, sane people—and he counted himself among them, and usually considered Charles Eppes in that company as well—were not so bounded by routine as to be readily quantifiable, and so he had come to the tentative conclusion that it was possible to track (ah! And there again were the rails!) a psychopath because the illness seemed to reduce the normal complexity of human behavior down to a smaller set of pathways. It had taken yet a third reading of the poisoner's Manifesto to come to this tentative hypothesis, and of course he was, admittedly, well outside his own area of expertise in speculating.

 

Looking at his own breakfast plate (which was pleasing aesthetically, though it might arguably be lacking in certain key nutrients), he decided not to engage the question after all. He already half-suspected that Megan's interest in him was at least partly clinical, which of course did not preclude it being other things as well, including sexual, and perhaps even romantic. That said, there was no reason to risk a diagnosis, especially if it didn't seem likely to end well.

 

But what was the ideal happy ending?

 

Charles and the Family Eppes seemed utterly convinced he was already well on his way to a state of matrimonial bliss with Dr. Wade, and he hadn't had a single good reason to disabuse them of that notion, though he wasn't actively encouraging it either. Frankly, he'd prefer that they quit speculating entirely, but given the paucity of their own romantic lives, he supposed gossip was inevitable. Anyone lived in a pretty how town and nobody was getting any.

 

Now where was that from? He dismissed it, sure it would come to him eventually.

 

He took his penis in hand and gave it a tug, not sure whether he really was in the proper mood, but ever hopeful.

 

Megan wasn't at all unattractive. No—far from it. She was quite beautiful—a stunning example of the species Homo sapiens sapien. No—it was entirely the X factor, as he had come to clumsily define it. The thing of it was, women were complicated. And while he admired that complexity the way he admired the complexity of much of the Universe, a part of him (a lazy part, admittedly), much preferred the company of men. Even so, he was reasonably confident that the sex would be—if not perfect—then nothing to complain about (and really, who would he complain to anyway? Charles? Now that was unlikely).

 

But that was the crux of it. Men were easier. Easier to talk to, simpler to understand, less sensitive, less demanding. And they had penises, which he was admittedly fond of. Granted, one man in particular, with whom he already spent the greater part of his days, and without whom he had no idea how he had ever lived, though he had lived without him for decades, was anomalous in many ways, and yet… he was a man, and well equipped at that.

 

A very attractive man.

 

He gave it another tug and gave up. Charles was too young. Young enough that, at that point in their relationship when he might have ordinarily felt they knew each other precisely the right amount to make sex inevitable, Charles had been far too young for him to even consider making such a suggestion. He wasn’t even sure at the time about Charles' sexuality, and he wasn't sure that Charles himself knew, at that time.

 

Though once Charles was old enough that he felt it was decent to consider asking, they'd somehow achieved a level of relationship inertia as to make it impossible to imagine disrupting it. And, ironically, he still wasn't at all sure Charles knew what he really wanted in the way of interpersonal relationships.

 

Cummings. Now why had he forgotten that?

 

Comings and goings. Reaped their sowing and went their came.

 

What he really needed, he decided, was a participatory orgasm.

 

Instead, seeing as that wasn't likely at all, he went to work, which, as it was Saturday, meant not moving farther than his home office, and he spent the next five hours trying to talk himself out of confronting Charles with what he decided was an untenable situation. But by the time he pulled into the driveway, he had done precisely the opposite.

 

Alan was out getting things for dinner, and due back shortly, and Don was apparently taking a shower before dinner, and so he decided to at least open the conversation. After all, his own car would be in the driveway, facilitating a quick exit should things go badly (and he already assumed they probably would, and was resigned to another night alone, though he did wonder whether he should wait until after dinner to broach the subject and so ensure that he at least got to eat whatever Alan was cooking tonight. He really had been looking forward to dinner and good conversation, though putting it that way, his plan seemed rather self-serving.)

 

He found Charles in the garage, convenient and yet absolutely inaccessible, and he couldn't say he actually had much of an appetite after all.

 

"Charles, I think we have a problem."

Charles did not turn as he entered the garage, but Larry took the slight lift of his shoulders as an invitation to come inside, and examined the chalkboard—or as much as he could see of it—over Charles' shoulders.

 

"We have many problems, Larry. Were you thinking of any one in particular?"

 

"Yes—a personal problem. A particular personal problem."

 

"We have a personal problem?"

 

"Don't we?"

 

"I really don’t know, Larry. You tell me. " Charles shook his head, and Larry watched the back of his shoulders for signs that the conversation was making any impression at all, but since he'd come in, Charles hadn't yet broken the rhythm of his writing on the board, the chalk tapping out short, staccato beats. Normally, it was music Larry would gladly listen to, often finding that Charles provided a soothing backdrop to his own thoughts.

Now, he was a little bit annoyed to find himself reduced to background noise.

 

"Sex."

 

He was pleased by the sudden ear-piercing scrape of the chalk on the board hitting a very wrong note.

 

"Sex?" Charles erased the errant stroke on the board with the side of his hand and continued writing, and Larry walked up right behind him and spoke over his shoulder, careful not to actually touch him or the board.

 

"Sex," he repeated. Though there were many euphemisms, there was something about the word itself that bore repeating. It was almost onomatopoeic—sibilant and succinct.

 

Charles' hand paused on the board. "Sex."

 

And Larry almost walked away and went home right then and there, because there was something unaccountably arousing about getting Charles to say that word, regardless of his intent. It was really quite satisfying. But doing so would only assuage the problem temporarily.

 

Charles' hand curled just a bit more tightly around the chalk holder and he shook his head. "I think I can see where that might be your problem, Larry, but I'm not sure how you see that as our problem."

 

But Charles hadn't started writing again, which Larry took to be a hopeful sign.

 

"You really can't?"

 

"Nooo… I really can't." Charles finished filling the one board and stepped over to the next, leaving Larry standing in front of a very interesting bit of mathematics that he recognized as part of Charles' recent research endeavors.

 

"This is intriguing."

 

And it was the right thing to say, because Charles turned toward him and grinned. "It is, isn't it?"

 

"It really is. Giving up on Amita certainly has freed you to invest your substantial ego in your work. You've made remarkable progress in a relatively short time."

 

"I haven't given up on Amita."

 

"Oh. My mistake." Larry shrugged, noticing that Charles had, as usual, ignored what he didn't want to hear.

 

"She gave up on me." Charles ran his hand through his hair, leaving a trail of chalk dust in his curls "But you're right—things are going well. Things are going really well. I can—" he tapped his temple, leaving a spot of chalk dust there as well— "see it. Almost."

 

"It's always the part that eludes us that—"

 

"What?"

 

Larry turned on his heel and walked back over to the first blackboard. "I've been giving some thought to Adams' theory of the shoe event horizon."

 

"I'm not familiar with that one, Larry."

 

"Oh, well, it's not really a theory in the scientific sense."

 

"Adams identified Sirius B." Charles had turned from the board to lean against the edge of the desk he'd moved into the garage. He looked very thin—Larry noticed that, though he was sure he'd noticed it before. He wondered if it had anything to do with Amita—with trying to attract her or a result of losing her. Either way, Charles was still quite attractive, and Larry frowned, a bit self-conscious now of his own less than ideal physique.

 

Distracted as he was, it took a moment to realize that Charles had the wrong Adams in mind. "Well, yes. Walter Sydney Adams did identify the first white dwarf star, in—"

 

"1915. So he had a not-theory about… sex?"

 

"Walter Sydney Adams?" Larry laughed. "Well, he might have, but I don’t think he published it if he did. No—I was actually thinking of Douglas Adams."

 

Charles' brow furrowed and Larry sighed.

 

"The novelist."

 

"Right. So what did Douglas Adams have to say about sex?"

 

Larry put a hand to his forehead, belatedly realizing that he had chalk dust on it—he nearly always did--and probably looked ridiculous, though it wasn't as if it was anything Charles hadn't seen before and not been attracted to. Larry sighed and continued talking, though his heart really wasn't in it any longer. "Adams observed that depressed people look at their feet, and when they do so, they inevitably see their own shoes."

 

"With you so far. Should I be taking notes?"

 

"I can leave at any time, Charles." It was no idle threat, but Charles' grin made it hard to imagine doing so.

 

"No—this is fascinating."

 

Larry nodded, deciding to ignore the sarcasm. "So essentially, he goes on to a causal chain in which, seeing their shoes, they decide to buy new ones to cheer themselves up. And so Adams theorized—and again, I use that word loosely—that this could trigger an eventual economic collapse, as shoe demand would come to spur mass production, bringing with it a decrease in quality, and, eventually, economic instability on a planetary scale."

 

Charles laughed. "And this has something to do with sex?"

 

Larry faltered, suddenly wondering why Adams had seemed at all relevant. "Sex? No, I suppose it doesn't. But it reminds me that I do need new shoes. I've worn a hole in these, but I can't seem to give them up."

 

"Larry, you have two pair exactly like those."

 

"Not exactly."

 

"Exactly." Charles shut his eyes. "No—you're right. Not exactly. One pair has blue paint stains on the soles and the other pair you have laced differently—crossed over instead of under."

 

Larry looked down and realized that Charles was right, down to the under-lacing on this pair.

 

Charles opened his eyes and shrugged and turned the chalk over in his hands, and Larry walked over to him and reached out and brushed the chalk out of Charles' hair, ignoring Charles' startled expression and forcing himself not to linger any more than was necessary, holding up his palm so Charles could see the chalk dust on his fingertips. Charles looked puzzled, bringing one hand up to Larry's forehead, wiping away whatever chalk dust remained on his own forehead. Charles' hand drifted downward to brush Larry's cheek, and he held his breath, but then Charles took his hand away and blinked as if suddenly waking up.

 

Larry spoke softly, choosing his words carefully now. "Charles, did it ever occur to you that it's a bit strange that you know this about my shoes?"

 

"I see you a lot, Larry. I see your shoes a lot." Charles sounded like he was trying not to sound defensive, and Larry nodded, understanding that and wanting to make this easier, not entirely sure how to go about that.

 

"Yes, but the important question is, do you like my shoes?"

 

"I think you have excellent taste in sneakers."

 

Larry felt the brief moment of optimism leave him, and he was again resigned to how this would end. "Charles, I think you spend entirely too much time looking down."

 

Though at that moment, Charles wasn't looking down, and when he stopped smiling, Larry did as well, though they stayed there, watching each other warily, until there was a knock on the door, freeing them both to look away.

 

Don entered the garage, not surprisingly oblivious to any tension there, or more likely, attributing it to professional issues, of which they had more than several. "Hey, Larry—you staying for dinner? Dad just got back with hamburger. He says he's making his onion soup mix burgers, but I don't remember him buying any onion soup, so it might just be burgers."

 

"That sounds fine, Don," Larry nodded.

 

Charles glanced over at Don and then back at Larry, and Larry looked down at his shoes, kneeling down to tighten the laces on one of them, which conveniently brought him out of the line of sight between Charles and Don, but inconveniently brought him eye-level with Charles' zipper.

 

"Yes, Larry's staying."

 

"Well, okay, you two keep working then. What is that?" Don pointed at the boards and then shook his head. "No—" Don chuckled. "Don't tell me. You—Larry—you want yours pink in the middle?"

 

"Yes, thank you, Don. That'd be fine." Larry looked up and Don nodded, clapping his hands together.

 

"Good. You want beers, you know where they are. I think you've got another half an hour at least. Dad can't find the matches or the charcoal."

 

"On top of the refrigerator," Charles said, and Larry thought that it really was remarkable the way life moved on around them. Burgers were prepared, shoes tied. All of it mundane, none of it truly satisfying.

 

"The charcoal? Charlie, I think I would have seen that."

"The matches, Don. I haven't seen the charcoal in at least a week. Are you sure we're not out?"

 

Don shook his head. "You think it's in here somewhere?"

 

"No. It's not here. I think we might have used the last of it last month at the thing—the—"

 

"You might be right about that. Okay. I'll tell him. But hey—look around, just in case."

 

And then they were alone again, and Larry sat down on the floor, deciding he might as well tighten the other lace while he was at it.

 

Charles joined him there, sitting cross-legged and resting his hands on his knees. "Look, Larry, I think you're making something out of—"

 

"Nothing?" Larry finished retying the laces and drew his knees up to his chest and rested his chin on his knees.

 

"You're seeing Megan."

 

"I think I've said all I'm going to say about that."

 

"Because of this?"

 

"I thought you aren't willing to admit that this exists."

 

Charles looked troubled, and Larry felt bad about that, but only a little.

 

"Charles, honestly, I'm sympathetic to your desire to avoid the obvious, but I have to confess that for me it has become a problem. And I presumed, perhaps incorrectly, that that made it our problem, though I might be wrong, and if I am, I suppose I'll just… buy more shoes."

 

"How—" Charles looked up at the blackboards as if they revealed answers to this as well. "Maybe… we should stop working together—just for awhile. Until this…."

 

"Are you suggesting this because you think that my feelings will change? Because I have to be honest with you and say that I very much hope that they don't. I don't think they will."

"Larry—" Charles frowned. "We can't—I don't… I'm sorry. But I'm glad that you—that you brought it to my attention."

 

Larry nodded and tried not to take that as impersonally as it sounded. He got up and held out a hand to Charles, who offered him a weak smile and took it, getting up off the floor. Despite the missing pieces, what was left allowed them to function anyway. He'd counted on that. "I'm sure your father hasn't put the burgers on yet."

 

"No—It's—you should stay."

 

"Charles, I really do think it would be easiest if I left now. We can talk about this—or not talk about it—some other time."

 

"I'll see you Monday?"

 

"Of course, Charles. I hardly think we can avoid each other that easily." It was a lie, and Charles had to realize that. The school was admittedly small, but with a little effort, he could establish distance between them. It would mean losing things he'd come to hold dear—not just Charles himself, but those parts of his life bound up with the mathematics department—committees and competitions that they tended to enter as a pair. They were both signed up to judge the programming contest, and he'd been looking forward to that. But it would leave him more time for his own research, which he had been neglecting of late, given the steadily increasing demands of Charles' consulting work on his own time. He would miss this as well—time spent with Charles' family. Alan had always been a good friend, and he'd come to think of Don as one as well, in his own way.

 

Charles nodded and Larry waited and then finally looked down, and Charles did as well.

 

"I'll be needing my hand, Charles." Goodbyes were always awkward. Why was that? Perhaps that's why he so often ended a day's work with Charles by sleeping in the guest room at the Eppes house, which allowed them to resume their work first thing the next morning. He would miss that as well, miss knowing only a wall separated him from Charles. Though he consoled himself with the fact that he did have a new bed, now, and that was something. The guest room had never been all that comfortable.

 

"Larry, this is—"

 

He nodded, hoping Charles would have the sense to not say anything more, and Charles didn't complete the thought, instead leaning forward, and Larry shut his eyes and felt the briefest brush of Charles' mouth on his cheek. He sighed, telling himself it was foolish to have hoped for something else.

 

"I'll be going."

 

"Right."

 

He squeezed Charles' hand and Charles looked down and at last let go.

 

On the drive home, Larry realized he hadn't said anything to Alan or Don, though he knew that Charles would express his regrets, as well as he understood them.

 

The rest of the day and the next stretched out long and dark, and he spent a good deal of it in bed, reading.

 

---

Monday came to pass, and he somehow managed to immerse himself in work sufficiently to almost ignore the desire to check in on Charles, who, after all, had his own work to occupy him. Twice, he looked up from reading filled with absolute certainty that Charles was in the room with him, and once, he actually started talking, about to ask Charles for advice on a particularly sticky problem, only to see he was speaking to his own jacket hung across the room, its slumping shoulders suggestive of a person but, once he looked closely at them, entirely empty.

 

When he looked in the mirror, he saw that same hollow shape, and avoided looking in the mirror for the rest of the day, stopping at the cafeteria for a donut and coffee, taking them back to his office in the interests of avoiding a chance encounter with Charles.

 

Still, he lingered for a few moments in the hallway, until he saw that he was doing it and felt utterly foolish. Charles had every reason to avoid him, and it was, he realized, entirely sensible that he do so.

 

After all, this separation would, in the long view, do neither of them much good professionally, so it was in both their interests that Larry Fleinhardt regained his senses as soon as possible when it came to Charles Eppes. Professor Eppes, he decided to call him, privately, deciding that the moniker was a fruitful reminder that Charles was now a colleague, nothing more.

---

 

But by Friday, he was beginning to worry, and considered calling the Eppes household in order to establish that Charles—Professor Eppes—had, in fact, been at work that week. It was simply astonishing that, despite every effort he made to sabotage his own avoidance of the man, he had yet to accidentally run into him even once.

 

He did see Amita in the commons area, and waved at her, and she stopped to chat with him, but he fumbled the question, interrupting her to ask, "How's Charlie?" to which she quite reasonably frowned, looking down at her shoes—a very nice pair of pumps that looked both expensive and uncomfortable—and shrugged.

 

"I suppose he's fine."

 

"Yes, yes, of course," he agreed, promising himself he was not going to ask her when she last saw him, and so changed the subject to graviton theory, which she greeted with some relief, meeting his eyes again and expounding at length about her interest, her enthusiasm for the subject reminding him of Charlie—Professor Eppes— when he had begun his studies, and something of his thinking must have shown in his expression, as she trailed off and went quiet, though he was used to that as well, patting her on the elbow and accepting her promise that they would have coffee next week.

---

 

The gaps I mean,

No one has seen them made or heard them made,

But at spring mending-time we find them there.

I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;

And on a day we meet to walk the line

And set the wall between us once again.

We keep the wall between us as we go.

To each the boulders that have fallen to each.

And some are loaves and some so nearly balls

We have to use a spell to make them balance:

'Stay where you are until our backs are turned!'

We wear our fingers rough with handling them.

Oh, just another kind of out-door game,

One on a side. It comes to little more:

There where it is we do not need the wall:

He is all pine and I am apple orchard.

My apple trees will never get across

And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.

He only says, 'Good fences make good neighbors'.

—Robert Frost.

 

 

Saturday morning, the phone rang, and it was Megan. He was still in his bathrobe, and pulled it shut, tying it with one hand as he listened to the problem.

 

"Of course—yes, I'll read it and offer what I can, but you really—yes, I suppose I can, yes. It's… eleven o'clock already? Yes. I'll be there."

 

He checked his email, reading the file over his second cup of coffee, showered and got dressed, grabbing clothing at random and yet somehow ending up in the very same outfit he'd worn last Saturday, blue shirt and blue jeans. He considered intentionally choosing the white shirt, which was clean this time, but then didn't. And he put on the tennis shoes with the overlacing, wondering what Charles might say about that, or if he would even notice.

 

He hadn't asked Megan if Charles would be there. He didn't dare speculate, knowing it was possible that he wouldn't be.

 

But of course he was there, sitting at Don's desk, his shoulders hunched, Don hovering behind him with one hand on his shoulder.

 

"Professor Fleinhardt!"

 

Megan's warm voice at his side forced him to turn away from his study of Charles, who looked fine, just fine. He hadn't shaved that morning, clearly, and his face was darkly shadowed, which made him look a bit older. But he really was quite—

 

"Larry? Are you alright?" Megan's voice was hushed and he nodded, realizing that he was still watching Charles.

 

He turned away. "Sorry—I was just thinking about this case. It's really quite fascinating. Your murderer's interest in astrology is unusual—"

 

"How so?" Don came up behind him and he startled, turning slightly and accepting the cup of coffee Don held out to him. "Looks like we have another Zodiac Killer."

 

Larry shook his head. "Decidedly not, I'm happy to say. True, the astrology connection, and his insistence on finding meaning in what are, after all, random events, suggests that, like the Zodiac Killer, your man—" Larry paused and looked over at Megan, who nodded.

 

"It's unlikely it's a woman at this point. So, you were saying… unlike the Zodiac Killer?"

 

"Yes, this man seems to harbor a rather strange fascination with Johannes Kepler, who as you may know, is often considered the first theoretical astrophyicist—"

 

"Though Carl Sagan called him the last scientific astrologer." Charles had joined them, and Larry nodded.

 

"Where would we all be without the scientific method? His mother—well, it seems she was responsible for introducing young Johannes to the stars. One really has to wonder what she might have achieved in her own right had the times allowed a woman to pursue…well, in any case, she was reputed to be involved in witchcraft, which, at the time, might well have been an accusation derived from her intellectual abilities. Speculation of course, but can you imagine the frustration, and yet also the satisfaction she must have taken in introducing young Johannes to his first lunar eclipse, knowing he would go on to do what she couldn't? Did you know he actually came to publish a monograph on the origins of snowflakes? In 1611. A remarkable achievement, though of course he never was able to fully explain the relationship between the cold and snowflakes' hexagonal shape."

 

"And this is relevant to the case?" Don pressed, impatient, as always. Not that Larry blamed him. Still, it was a fascinating story, and one that, regardless of his intent, took some time to elaborate to an audience of novices.

 

"Well, yes, Don, actually it is relevant, not only because your killer mentions his mother in nearly every paragraph, suggesting—and here, Megan, perhaps you could confirm this? But I was reading that as an indication that he identifies himself not only with Kepler's theories but with his life, and perhaps that might be an avenue to explore in seeking him out. I brought with me a biography of Kepler—"

 

He found it in his bag and held it out to Don, but it was Megan who took it, and he suspected that it was unnecessary as they would likely find all they needed to know online. He did use the internet for quick fact-checking, but overall, he preferred the tactile thoroughness of a good book, especially this one, which was particularly well-written.

 

Megan smiled at him encouragingly and he realized they were waiting for him to continue, which he did, "As for the monograph on snowflakes, the diagrams in your subject's notes are all embedded hexagons, which I see your experts assumed to be an occult reference, but I suspect are a simply an allusion to Kepler's fascination with the crystallization of water. Did you notice his obsession with the letters H and O? Water, water, everywhere, and not a drop to drink."

 

And now Megan was beaming at him. "All that in an hour's time? I'm impressed."

 

He looked away, accidentally catching Charles' eyes and noticing that he was also looking pleased. "Well, thank you. I admit that I haven't managed to decrypt the second layer of his notes, but I suspect Charles can—"

 

Charles stepped in, rubbing his hands together and gesturing towards the computer. "I was working on that, actually. Take a look at this, Larry. I think you're absolutely right."

 

Larry followed Charles back to his computer and looked over his shoulder as he typed. "Yes, that's—interesting. The Zodiac Killer used homophonic substitution—"

 

"And he did as well. But, take a look at what he wrote."

 

Larry chuckled. "Neo-Pythagorean Metageometry. Well, I revise my opinion of him decidedly downward."

 

Charles turned around and grinned at him and patted Larry on the hand. "Don't be so disappointed. It's still interesting."

 

"But this is nonsense."

 

"Well, just because nobody's spent the time on it doesn't mean it wouldn't prove fruitful to do so." Charles was baiting him, grinning, and he laughed.

 

"You have got to be kidding! Charles, it's—well, I suppose mental masturbation has its place," he acknowledged, and, hearing Megan clear her throat, he realized he'd just said that aloud, and to Charles of all people.

 

"Charlie, what—what's this about Pythagoras? He's the triangle guy, right?"

 

Charles looked over at Don, and Larry sighed with relief.

 

"Don, yes, the Pythagorean Theorem holds that the square described upon the hypotenuse of a right-angled triangle is equal to the sum of the squares described upon the other two sides. Though the theorem itself was actually known to the Egyptians, who used it to build the pyramids, and the Chinese as well. But Pythagoras is attributed with the first geometrical demonstration of it—"

 

"Which is another way of explaining cultural bias," Larry added, and Charles frowned.

 

"Maybe—and we can argue about that later. But the key here—and we shouldn't forget this—is that your guy is out of his mind. He's obsessed with Kepler—"

 

"Particularly with ice crystals, which is an odd choice—" Larry added.

 

"But—Larry-- that makes sense in terms of what he's doing—or what he thinks he's doing."

 

"Right," Don looked annoyed. "Well okay. Let's get to that. What's he doing, Charlie, besides killing people? Because all I've got is five dead bodies left all over the city."

 

Charles frowned, and looked at him once more and then turned back to Don, and whatever had passed between them was gone before Larry could work out what it was, or if it was just his imagination.

 

"Don, your killer's a fan of Kepler, but more importantly, he's a Fritz Leiber fan."

 

"Wait—the science fiction writer?" Megan leaned over the desk, her arm brushing against Larry's own, and he glanced down at Charles, who frowned but continued talking, and Larry wondered again whether the frown meant something, and whether he had been reduced to the very level of superstitious insanity they were now tracking.

 

"Yes, Megan, right, except Lieber was, like L. Ron Hubbard, the founder of a pseudoscience—a fictional philosophy grounded in a mathematical theorem--which in this case amounts to something that's not a religion to anyone but your believer."

 

"So what's the theory here?"

 

Charles went quiet, leaving it to Larry to try to explain what was, essentially, nonsense. "Your father might find this interesting, because Lieber's ideas have a bearing on urban planning, specifically on a belief that there are—I believe he called them 'paramentals' in his books—gathering in large cities as a result of the placement of buildings—the steel in them apparently acting as some sort of divining rod of sorts for evil energy. Lieber's character, DeCastries? I believe your murderer mentions him at one point, described cities as tombs."

 

Megan thumbed through her pile of papers and pointed at one sheet she'd highlighted, reading aloud from the manuscript. "Since we modern city-men already dwell in tombs, inured after a fashion to mortality, the possibility arises of the indefinite prolongation of this life-in-death. Yet, although quite practicable, it would be a most morbid and dejected existence, without vitality or even thought, but only paramentation, our chief companions paramental entities of azoic origin more vicious than spiders or weasels."

 

Don shook his head. "Spiders and weasels? I don’t get it. How does this help?"

 

Charles waved his hand at the computer. "Well, the important part is the solution to fighting these spirits or whatever they are—"

 

"Paramentals," Larry offered.

 

"Your killer's operating under the belief that he can foretell the future by—and here's the strange thing. In the book, a megalopolisomancer—a fortune teller—used the placement of large buildings which acted as weight, with placing certain sigils—except I'm not sure what a sigil is."

 

Larry cleared his throat. "A sign or amulet."

 

"That would be the bodies, then, which I think he thinks must be levers to move a fulcrum."

 

"And he needs a fulcrum because?" Don asked, his brow furrowing.

 

Megan nodded. "To focus the paramentals. No—this makes sense. It falls into a pattern of thinking we've seen before. Delusions of grandeur. Our killer very likely has convinced himself that he's doing the right thing—that these deaths are necessary for some higher purpose."

 

Charles nodded. "But what we don't know is how many signs—bodies—he needs. He could be done."

 

Megan shook her head. "No—I don't think so."

 

Larry looked over at the computer again and Charles turned toward him. "I don't think we need metageometry, Charles. I think we can apply basic logic to this problem. After all, he isn't using math in any rational way. He's using…." Larry stopped, because he wasn't sure, but Charles blinked at him and then suddenly smiled.

 

"Snow."

 

"Charlie, there's no snow in Los Angeles."

 

"No, Don, but there is water, and look—hexagons. Water. Tall buildings. Look—"

 

Charles got up and ran to the map, on which Don had already marked the bodies—where they'd been dumped, all of them just outside skyscrapers with no apparent connection to one another.

 

"I see buildings, Charlie. What am I looking for here?"

 

But Charles had a marker out and had started to draw lines, connecting the body dumpsites with the nearest bodies of water, creating a neat, six-sided shape, and then another.

 

"Hexagons," Megan said, and Larry nodded.

 

"Embedded hexagons, yes. And he still has one more body to dump. Here. Tomorrow night, if the pattern holds, as it has so far." Charles pointed at the map, and then went silent, as they all noticed that nowhere in their analysis had they provided any clues to prevent the last murder, though Larry wondered if Keplers' biography might help with that.

 

"So we set up a stakeout, catch him dumping the body. Stop him."

 

Larry admired Don his pragmatism, realizing that he couldn't begin to imagine being able to so easily set aside the grief that he knew was now quietly consuming Charles's sense of accomplishment.

 

"Thanks guys. You did good." Don clapped Charles on the shoulder and Charles nodded, still staring blankly at the red dot on the board—a death he'd predicted, which he was sure to see as something he should be able to prevent.

 

"Larry, is he going to be—"

 

"I'm sure he'll be fine, Megan. We need to look more closely at the biographical connection—at Kepler's life story. If your killer has in any way modeled himself on Kepler—"

 

"I'll get a team of people on that, Larry. And we'll check in with you. But—should I have a little talk with him?"

 

"Charles?" Larry considered that, deciding that, for all that it might help, Charles hadn't asked for help, and would likely take affront at the suggestion that he needed any. "I don't think that would be helpful. I'll—I'll talk to him."

 

"I'm sure you'll take care of him." Megan nodded and walked over to Charles, saying something softly that Larry couldn't catch, and Charles smiled at her, an unconvincing smile as she left the room to catch up with Don. They had a stakeout to arrange, and David and Colby, out interviewing possible witnesses to the body dumps would need updating. Larry suspected that Lieber's name wouldn't even come up, nor Kepler, and decided that made sense for practical reasons, though they were the only thing that made this killer seem to be more than he really was—a deluded fool whose obsession had led him to manufacture evidence in the pursuit of an inaccessible goal.

 

It all sounded terribly familiar, and he wondered suddenly if Megan recognized just how much he did care about Charles. She was perceptive, and he was apparently not terribly good at hiding his affection anymore, though perhaps he never really had been.

 

Larry gathered his jacket and bag and walked over to Charles, planning to offer him a ride home, but suddenly losing powers of speech as Charles put his arms around him and hugged him, patting his back in warm circles.

 

"Charles, this really isn't a good—"

 

But Charles let go of him, and Larry realized that, objectively speaking, the hug had taken mere seconds, and would probably have drawn no notice or suspicion—just a greeting between two men who hadn't seen each other for a time. A week, Larry reminded himself. It had only been a week. But Charles looked different, somehow.

 

"Do you need a ride home?"

 

"Yes. Thanks."

 

On their way to the parking garage, Larry noticed that even as he worked to keep his distance, Charles' shoulders would periodically brush against his own, their hands brushing and pulling away, like two men who had been up to a long night of drinking.

 

"Tired?"

 

"Exhausted, Larry." And he slumped into the bench seat, rubbing his eyes, allowing Larry to see that he did look horrible, though it was relative, as Larry was still utterly taken by him.

 

"You should sleep."

 

Charles nodded and shut his eyes, and when Larry next looked over at him, Charles was dozing, his head resting against the closed window, his mouth open slightly. He mumbled in his sleep and Larry sighed, rolling down his own window, driving slowly and taking the longest possible route he could think of that didn't mean actually doubling back. He prolonged the drive for well over an hour before turning toward the Eppes house, reluctantly. He turned down the radio so that the jazz was a murmur drowned out by the wind, wanting to let Charles sleep—wanting to keep him close.

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