Everville (39 page)

It must have repeated this nonsense two hundred, three hundred times, always finding some fresh way to deliver it as wisdom from the pulpit, as an invitation to intercourse, as a skipping song-until it had imprinted the words on Harry's mind so forcibly he knew they'd be circling his skull forever.

He woke strangely calmed by the dream. It was as though his subconscious was making a connection his conscions mind could not, pointing him back to that terrible time as a source of wisdom. His head thumping, he drove in search of a twenty-four hour coffee shop, and finding one out on the highway, sat there until dawn, puzzling over the words. It was not the first time he'd done so, of course. Far sweeter memories had died in his cortex, gone forever into whatever oblivion happiness is consigned, but the demon's words had never left his head.

I am you, it had proclaimed. Well, that was plain enough. What internal seducer had not tried confounding its victim with the thought that this was all a game with mirrors?

And you are love, it had murmured. That didn't seem to demand much exegesis either. His name was D'Amour, after all.

And that's what makes the world go round, it had gasped. A cliche, of course, rendered virtually meaningless by repetition. It offered nothing by way of insight.

And yet, there was meaning here; he was certain of it. The words had been designed as a trap, baited with a sliver of significance. He had simply never understood what that significance was. Nor did pondering it over half a dozen cups of coffee, and-as dawn came up-Canadian bacon and three eggs over easy, give him the answer. He would just have to move on, and trust that fate would bring him to Kissoon.

Fortified, he returned to his motel, and again consulted the map he had taken from the hovel in morningside Heights.

There were several other sites his quarry had deemed worthy of marking, though none of them had been as significant to him as New York or Jamestown. One was in Florida, one in Oregon, two in Arizona; plus another six or seven. Where was he to begin? He decided on Arizona, for no better reason than he'd loved a woman once who'd been born and bred in Phoenix.

The trip took him five days, and brought him at last to Mammoth, Arizona, and a street corner where a woman with a voice like water over rock called him by his name. She was tiny, her skin like brown paper that had been used and screwed up a dozen times, eyes so deeply set he was never quite certain if they were on him at all.

"I'm Maria Lourdes Nazareno," she told him. "I've been waiting for you sixteen days."

"I didn't realize I was expected," Harry replied.

"Always," the woman said. "How is Tesla, by the way?"

"You know Tesla?"

"I met her on this same corner, three years ago."

"Popular place," Harry remarked, "is there something special about it?"

"Yes," the woman replied, with a little laugh. "Me. How is she?"

"As crazy as ever, last time we spoke," Harry said.

"And you? Are you crazy too?"

"Very possibly."

The response seemed to please the woman. She lifted her head, and for the first time Harry saw her eyes. Her irises were flecked with gold.

"I gave Tesla a gun," the woman went on. "Does she still have it?" Harry didn't reply. "D'Amour?"

"Are you what I think you are?" Harry murmured.

"What do you mean?"

"You know damn well."

Again, the smile. "It was the eyes that gave it away, yes? Tesla didn't notice. But then I think she was high that day."

"Are there many of you?"

"A very few," Maria replied, "and the greater part of all of us is Sapas Humana. But there's a tiny piece"-she put thumb and forefinger a quarter of an inch apart to demonstrate how little-"a tiny piece of me which Quiddity calls to. It makes me wise."

"How?"

"It lets me see you and Tesla coming."

"Is that all you see?" "Why? Do you have something in mind?"

"Yes I do." "What?"

"Kissoon."

The woman visibly shuddered. "So he's your business."

"Is he here?"

"No."

"Has he been here?"

"No. Why? Do you expect him?"

"I'm afraid so."

The woman looked distressed. "We thought we were safe here," she said.

"We haven't tried to open a neirica. We don't have the power. So we thought he wouldn't notice us."

"I'm afraid he knows you're here." "I must go. I must warn everyone." She took hold of Harry's hand, her palms clammy. "Thank you for this. I will find some way to repay you."

"There's no need."

"oh, but there is," she said, and before Harry could protest further she'd gone, off across the street and out of sight.

He stayed in Mammoth overnight, though he was pretty certain that the Nazareno woman was telling the truth, and Kissoon was not in the vicinity. Weary after so many weeks of travel, he retired to bed early, only to be woken a little after one by a rapping on his door.

"Who is it?" he mumbled as he searched for the light.

The answer was not a name but an address. "One-twoone, Spiro Street," said a low sibilant voice.

"Maria?" he said, picking up his gun and crossing to the door. But by the time he had it open the speaker had disappeared from the hallway.

He dressed, and went down to the lobby, got the whereabouts of Spiro Street from the night manager, and headed out. The street he sought was on the very edge of town, many of its houses in such an advanced state of disrepair he was amazed to see signs of occupancy: rusty vehicles in the driveways, bags of trash heaped on the hard dirt where they'd once had lawns. One-two-one was in a better state than some, but was still a dispiriting sight. Comforted by the weight of his gun, Harry stepped up to the front door. It stood a couple of inches ajar.

"Maria?" he said. The silence was so deep he had no need to raise his voice.

There was no reply. Calling again, he pushed the door open, and it swung wide. There was a fat white candle-set on a dinner plate surrounded by beads@n the threadbare rug. Squatting in front of it, with her eyes downcast, was Maria.

"It's me," he said to her. "It's Harry. What do you want?"

"Nothing, now," said a voice behind him. He went for his gu. n, but before his fist had closed on it there was a cold palm gnpping the back of his skull. "No," the voice said simply.

He showed his weaponless hands.

"I got a message-" Harry said.

Another voice now; this the message carrier. "She wanted to see you," he said.

"Fine. I'm here."

"Except you're too damn late," the first man said. "He found her already."

Harry's stomach turned. He looked hard at Maria. There was no sign of life. "Oh Jesus."

"Such easy profanity," said the message carrier. "Maria said you were a holy man, but I don't think you are."

The palm tightened against the back of Harry's head, and for one sickening moment he thought he heard his skull creak. Then his ton-nentor spoke, very softly: "I am you, and you are love-"

:,Stop that," Harry growled.

'I'm just reading your thoughts, D'Amour," the man replied. "Trying to find out whether you're our enemy or our f'riend."

"I'm neither." "You're a death-bringer, you know that) First New York-"

"I'm looking for Kissoon."

"We know," came the reply. "She told us. That's why lk she sent her spirit out, to find him. So you could be a hero, and bring him down. That's what you dream of, isn't it?"

"Sometimes- "Pitiful.

"After all the hann he's done your people I'd have thought you'd be happy to help me." "Maria died to help you," came the reply. "Her life is our contribution to the cause. She was our mother, D'Amour."

"Oh-I'm sorry. Believe me, I didn't want this."

"She knew what you wanted better than you did," the message carrier replied. "So she went out and found him for you. He came after her and sucked out her soul, but she found him."

"Did she have time to tell you where he is?"

I 11

'Yes.

"Are you going to tell me?"

"So eager," the skull holder said, leaning close to Harry's ear. "He killed your mother, for Christ's sake," Harry said. "Don't you want him dead?" "What we want is irrelevant," the other son replied, "we learned that a long time ago." "Then let me want it for you," Harry said. "Let me find some way to kill the sonofabitch." "Such a murderous heart," the man at his ear murmured. "Where are your metaphysics now?" "What metaphysics?" "I am you, and you are love-"

"That's not me," Harry said. "Who is it, then?"

"If I knew that@' "If you knew that?" "Maybe I wouldn't be here, ready to do your dirty work." There was a lengthy silence. Then the message carrier said: "Whatever happens after this-" "Yes?"

"Whether you kill him or he kills you-"

"Let me guess. Don't come back."

"Right."

"You've got a deal."

Another silence. The candle in front of Maria flickered.

"Kissoon's in Oregon," the message carrier said. "A town called Everville."

"You're sure?" There was no reply. "I guess you are." The hand didn't move from the back of Han-y's head, though there was no further response from either of the sons. "Have we got some further business?" Harry asked.

Again, silence.

"If we're done, I'd like to get going; get an early start in the morning."

And still, silence. Finally, Harry reached round and tentatively touched the back of his head. The hand had gone, leaving only the sensation of contact behind. He glanced round. Both of Maria's children had disappeared.

He blew out the candle in front of the dead woman, and said a quiet goodbye. Then he went back to his hotel, and plotted his route to Everville.

Not for the first time in the dark years since the Loop, Tesla dreamed of fleas. A veritable tsunami of fleas, that rose over Harmon's Heights with the wreckage of America on its busy crest, and teetered there, ready to drop at a moment's notice. In its itching shadow, Everville had become a lagoon city. Main Street was a solid river of fleas, upon which makeshift rafts were paddled from house to house, rescuing people from the leaping surf.

A few folks seemed to know her, though she didn't recognize any of them.

"You! You!" they said, stabbing their fingers in her direction as she towed her own creaky little boat down the street, "You did this! You with the monkey!" (She had a monkey on her shoulder, complete with vest and red felt hat.) "Admit it! You did this!" She protested her innocence. Yes, she'd known the wave was coming. And yes, maybe she'd wasted time with her wandering when she should have been warning the world. But it wasn't her fault. She was just a victim of circumstance, like all of them. It wasn't "Testa? Wake up! Tesla? Listen to me.

Wake up, will you?"

She unglued her eyes to find Phoebe staring down at her, grinning from ear to ear.

"I know where he is. And I know how he got there." Testa sat up, shaking the last of the fleas from her head.

"Joe?"

"Of course Joe." Phoebe sat down on the edge of the sofa. She was trembling. "I was with him last night, Tesia."

"What are you talking about?"

"I thought it was a dream at first, but it wasn't. I know it wasn't. It's just as clear in my head now as it was when I was there."

"Where?"

"With Joe." "Yes, but where, Phoebe?"

"Oh. In Quiddity."

Tesla was ready to dismiss the whole thing as wishful thinking at first, but the more Phoebe told, the more she began to think there was truth here.

Raul concurred. Didn't I tell you? he murmured in Tesla's ear when Phoebe came to the part about the door on Harmon's Heights. Didn't I say there was something about the mountain?

"If there is a door up there... " she thought. It explains why this damn town's gone crazy.

"I have to go up there," Phoebe was saying. "Get through the door, so I can go find Joe." She grabbed hold of Tesla's hands. "You will help me, won't you? Say you will."

"Yes, but-2'

"I knew. I said the moment I woke this is why Tesla came into my life, because she's going to help me find Joe."

"Where was he when you left him?"

Phoebe's face fell. "He was in the sea."

"What about his boat?"

"It went on without him. I think... I think they must have thought he was dead. But he isn't dead. I know he isn't. If he was dead I wouldn't be feeling what I'm feeling now. My heart'd be empty, you know?"

Tesla looked at the woman's elation, and heard her faith, i@ and felt a pang of envy, that never in her life had love taken hold of her this way. Perhaps it was a lost cause, going in search of a man lost overboard in the dream-sea when it seemed the world was about to end, but she'd always had a taste for lost causes. And if she spent the last few hours of life trying to reunite these lovers, was that so petty an ambition?

"Did Joe tell you where the door was on the mountain?"

"Just somewhere near the top. But we'll find it. I know we'll find it."

It was less than half an hour later when Tesla and Phoebe stepped out into the sun, but Everville was already in high gear. Main Street was fairly swarming with people: bleacher builders, banner hangers, balloon inflaters, barricade raisers. And where there was labor, of course, there were people around to watch and remark upon it: coffee drinkers and doughnut dippers, advice givers and troubleshooters.

"We shouldn't have come this way," Phoebe said as they waited in a line of a dozen vehicles for a truckload of chairs to be unloaded.

"Calm down," Tesla said. "We've got a long day ahead of us. Let's just take things as they come."

"If only they knew what we know," Phoebe said, watching the people on the sidewalk.

"Oh they know," Tesla said.

"About Quiddity?" Phoebe replied incredulously. "I don't think they've got the slightest idea."

"Maybe it's bufied deep," Tesla said, studying the blithe faces as the passed. "But everybody gets to go to Quiddity y three times, remember."

"I got to steal a visit," Phoebe said proudly.

"You had help on the other side. Everybody else gets their glimpses, then forgets them. they just get on about their lives, thinking they're real."

"Did you do a lot of drugs?" Phoebe said. "I've had my moments," Tesla said. "Why?"

"Because some of the stuff you come out with-it doesn't make any sense to me." She looked across at Tesla. "Like what you just said, about people thinking they're real. they are. I'm real. You're real. Joe's real."

"How do you know?"

"That's a stupid question," Phoebe said.

"So give me a stupid answer."

"We do stuff. We make things happen. I'm not like... like-" she faltered, searching for some frame of reference, then pointed at one of the coffee sippers, who was sitting on the curb scanning the cartoon strips in the morning's Oregonian. "I'm not in the funny pages. Nobody invented me. I invented myself."

"Just remember that when we get to Quiddity." "Why?"

"Because I think a lot of things got invented there." "Go on."

"And where things are made, they can be unmade. So if something comes after you-"

"I'll tell it to go fuck itself," Phoebe said. "You're ]earnings" Tesia said.

Once they were off Main Street the traffic lightened up considerably, and disappeared completely once they reached the road that wove up the flank of Harmon's Heights. It didn't take them all that far. About a third of the way up the mountainside it came to an unceremonious halt, without so much as a sign or a banier to mark the place. "Damn," Phoebe said. "I thought it went further than this."

"Like all the way to the top?"

"Yeah."

"Looks like we've got quite a hike ahead of us," Tesia said, getting out of the car and staring up the forested slope.

"Are you up for it?"

"No."

"But we're here. We might as well give it a try." And with that, they began their ascent.

In Ws long life, Buddenbaum had met many individuals who had tired of the human parade. People who had gone to their death with a shrug, content that they no longer had to witness the same old dramas played out over and over again. He had never understood the response. Though the general shapes of human exchange were unchanging, the particulars of this personality or that made each new example fascinating in and of itself In his experience no two mothers ever educated their children with quite the same mingling of kisses and slaps. No two pairs of lovers ever trod quite the same path to the altar or to the grave.

In truth, he pitied the nay-sayers; the souls too stunted or too narcissistic to revel in the magnificent minutiae that the human drama had to offer. they were turning their backs on a show that divinities were not too proud to patronize and applaud. He'd heard them with these ears, many times.

Despite the fact that his body knitted together with extraordinary speed

(in a week his defenestration would be an embarrassing memory), he was still in very considerable discomfort. Later, perhaps, when the avatars had arrived and he was certain everything was in hand, he'd take a little laudanum. In the meanwhile, his chest hurt like the Devil and he had a distinct limp, which gained him some unwarranted attention as he made his way out in search of a decent breakfast. It would be inappropriate, he decided, to go to the diner, so he found a little coffee shop two blocks from his hotel and sat by the window to eat and watch.

He ordered not one but two breakfasts, and consumed the better part of both in preparation for the exertions and lastminute panics ahead. His eyes scarcely strayed to his plates as he emptied them. He was too busy watching the faces and hands of the passersby, looking for some sign of his employers. It was by no means certain they would come in human garb, of course. Sometimes (he never knew when) they would descend out of the clouds wreathed in light: the wheels of Ezekiel rolling into view. Twice they'd come in the form of animals, amused, he supposed, by the conceit of watching the drama from the perspective of wild beasts or lap dogs. The one way they had never come was as themselves, and after years of doing them service he'd given up hope of ever seeing their true faces. Perhaps they had none. Perhaps the plethora of faces they put on, and their appetite for vicarious experience, were evidence that they had neither lives nor flesh of their own.

"was everything okay?"

He looked round to see his waitress standing at his side. He had not taken too much notice of her until now, but she was a wonderful sight: hair raised in a vivid orange hive, breasts rampant, face daubed and drawn and dusted.

"You're looking forward to something today, I can see that," Buddenbaum remarked.

"Tonight," she said, with a flutter of her mascaraed lashes.

"Why do I think it's not a prayer meeting?" Buddenbaum replied.

"We always throw a little party Festival Weekend, me and some of my girlfriends."

"Well that's what festivals are for, isn't it?" Buddenbaum said.

"Everybody has to let their hair down@r put it u@nce in a while."

"Do you like it?" the woman said, patting the hive affectionately.

"I think it's extraordinary," Buddenbaum said, without a word of a lie.

"Well thank you," the woman beamed. She dug in the pocket of her apron, and pulled out a little sheet of paper. "If you feel like dropping in," she said, proffering the paper. On it was an address and a simple map.

"We have these little invites made, just for the chosen few."

"I'm flattered," Buddenbaum said. "My name's Owen, by the way."

"I'm pleased to meet you. I'm June Davenport. Miss."

The addendum could not be ignored politely. "I can't believe you haven't had offers," Buddenbaum said. "None worth accepting," June replied.

"Who knows? Maybe tonight'll be your lucky night," Owen said. A

lifetime of yearning crossed the woman's face. "It better be soon," she said, more lightly than it was -felt, and moved off to ply the needy with coffee.

was there anything more beautiful, Owen wondered as he left the coffee shop, than a sight of yearning on the human face? Not the night sky nor a boy's buttocks could compare with the glory of June Davenport (Miss)

dolled up like a whore and hoping to meet the man of her dreams before time ran out. He'd seen tale enough for a thousand nights of telling there on her painted face. Roads taken, roads despised. Deeds undone, deeds regretted.

And tonight@d every moment between now and tonight-more roads to choose, more deeds to do. She might be turning her head even now, or now, or now, and seeing the face she had longed to love. Or, just as easily, looking the other way.

As he made his way down towards the intersection, where-Aespite the previous day's encounter-he still intended to keep watch, he chanced to look up towards Harmon's Heights. There was a mist cloud gathering on the summit, he saw, hiding it from view. The sight gave him pause. The sky, but for this mist, was flawless, which made him think it was not of natural origin.

was this the way his employers would come: down out of a clouded mountaintop, like Olympians? He'd not seen them do so before, but there was a first time for everything. He only hoped they wouldn't be too baroque with their theatrics. If they came into Everville like blazing deities, they'd clear the streets.

Then who'd go to June Davenport's party?

The mist had not gone unnoticed in other quarters. Dorothy Bullard had called up Turf Thompson, whose meteorological opinion she'd long trusted, for some reassurance that the cloud wasn't going to dump rain on the day's festivities. He told her not to worry. The phenomenon was odd, to be sure, but he was certain there was no storm in the offing.

"In fact," he remarked, "if I didn't know better I'd say that was a sea mist up there."

Comforted by his observations, Dorothy went on with the business of the morning. The first of the day's special events-a little pageant about how the first settlers came to Oregon, enacted by Mrs. Henderson's fourth-graders in the park, got underway ten minutes later than advertised, but drew a crowd of perhaps two hundred, which was very gratifying. And the kids were completely enchanting, with their little bonnets and their cardboard rifles, declaiming their lines as though their lives depended on it. There was a particularly affecting scene created around one Reverend Whitney (Dorothy had never heard of him, but she was certain Fiona Henderson had done her homework and the tale was true), who had apparently led a group of pioneers out of the winter snows to the safety of the Willamette Valley. Seeing Jed Gilholly's son Matthew, who was playing the good reverend, forging through a blizzard of paper scraps to plant a cross in the grass and give thanks for the deliverance of his flock quite misted Dorothy's eyes.

When the show was over, and the crowd dispersing, she found a proud Jed with his arm around his son, both beaming from ear to ear.

"Things are off to a damn good start," he said to Dorothy, and anyone else in listening range.

"You're not bothered about that other business, then?"

Dorothy said.

"Flicker, you mean?" Jed shook his head. "He's gone and he's not coming back."

"Music to my ears," Dorothy said. "And what about little Matty then?" Jed said.

"He was wonderful."

"He's been learning his lines for the past few weeks."

"I almost forgot them this morning," Matthew said.

"Didn't I?"

"You just thought you had," Jed said, "but I knew you'd remember them."

"You did?"

"Sure I did." He ruffled his son's hair, lovingly. "Can we get some ice cream, Dad?"