Over the Darkened Landscape (11 page)

“Dear God,” he whispered.

Another scratching sound came from the right, but Wells was too caught up in the tableau to look. The cat on the right side of the painting, a simple orange alley cat, had bent all the way over and was now using one claw to gouge a line in the flesh of Jane’s cheek. Bright, unnaturally red blood welled up, oozing out of the fresh wound more slowly than blood had the right to flow.

Wells could feel his gorge begin to rise; the taste of bile was sharp in the back of his throat. He turned his head away, and jumped back at the sight that greeted him now, knocking over the canvas in the process.

Wain was still lying on the cot, but now more than a dozen cats stood around him and over him. All were silent, except for the padding of their feet if they moved, and the distant scratching sounds as several dug their claws into Wain’s back, arms and legs. He could see Wain shudder and shake each time a cat scratched him, but the artist also made no sound. One cat, which Wells realized with even greater horror was the orange one from the painting, turned and looked him in the eye, staring calmly at Wells for a second before arching its back, flattening its ears, and hissing.

The sound of the cat broke Wells out of his horrified reverie. He turned and stumbled for the door, kicking the canvas that he had knocked over a moment before. His eyes cast down once more to the abominable thing, like steel to a magnet.

The painting had changed once more. Now four numbers were jaggedly scrawled across the width of it; “1927” it said, in a most sickly gray. One glance at the painting of Jane showed him that she, or at least the figure in the painting, now appeared to be dead, although there was now no blood to be seen. The cats were no longer anywhere in the picture.

He pulled on the door, it wouldn’t open, knocked frantically, and when the door opened he staggered out, gasping for air. He heard the door shut behind him, and disembodied hands held him up while similarly removed voices chattered at him in a fashion beyond comprehension.

Gradually, his breathing calmed down, and his vision returned. He looked around.

An intern was holding him up, and the doctor was examining him worriedly. MacDonald looked on in concern, and the others watched with interest as well. Only the mad that shuffled by paid him no heed, already used to such behaviour on a regular basis.

“Are you all right?” asked the doctor, at the same time that MacDonald asked, “What happened in there?”

Wells waved them both off. “Nothing, nothing,” he said, “Just my claustrophobia acting up, is all. Can we get outside?” Wouldn’t do to tell them what he saw. Just be locked up like Wain and the rest of these poor mad souls.

MacDonald nodded and marched off. The intern who wasn’t holding onto Wells and the two guards hurried to catch him, and Wells slowly followed, careful to keep his eyes down.

The one time he did look up there were three inmates standing only a few feet away. Each man seemed to be unaware that he had a cat sitting on his shoulders, and each of the cats were intently watching Wells as he walked by. He sucked in a breath and did his best not to whimper, then looked back to the floor and picked up his pace.

Wells said farewell to MacDonald and the doctor and then staggered away, too in shock to call a cab, first trying to understand, and then rationalize, what he saw.

Whatever it was, he couldn’t face Jane now. He resolved to leave for his home in France that night, to join his love Odette at
Lou Pidou
.

To get away from cats forever.

France, 1927

Jane had joined him for his lecture at the Sorbonne, and then shortly afterwards they went back to England for the wedding between their son Gip and H.G.’s best secretary, Marjorie. The day after the wedding he again returned to France.

He spent most of his time writing, but on the tenth of May a letter from his son Frank arrived in the post.

Jane had cancer. Had been ill when he had seen her, and had not told him.

He set down the letter and immediately wrote a quick note to Jane, to tell her he loved her, and that he was coming home to help her. He wanted to write that he would see her through her recovery, but before the letter could get that far there was a scratching at the door of his study. He slowly looked up, hands shaking and mouth dry.

A cat stood there, one he had never seen around the house before. Cats were not allowed in
Lou Pidou
, his unwavering decree. It stared at him for a moment, then arched its back, flattened its ears, and hissed at him, before turning and walking out. It was the same orange cat from two years before.

Wells was still for a moment, then he exploded out of his chair and raced to the door. The cat was nowhere to be seen.

He shuffled back to his study, feeling an odd combination of defeat and relief, feeling that what Wain and the cats had shown him was just about over. He went to his desk, but instead of sitting he lay down on the floor underneath, curled up much like Wain had been two years before.

“I have had Frank’s letter today and for the first time I learned how seriously ill you have been & that you may still be very ill. My dear, I love you much more than I have loved anyone else in the world & I am coming back to you to take care of you & to do all I can to make you happy . . . My dear, my dear, my dearest heart is yours.

Your loving Bins.”

—
Excerpt from a letter from H.G. Wells to Jane Wells.

“ . . . my little wife has to die of cancer & I want to spend what time remains of her life with her . . .”

—
Excerpt from a letter from H.G. Wells to Margaret Sanger, written before leaving France.

“ . . . and H.G.—H.G. positively howled. You are no doubt aware that he was not a conventionally perfect husband . . . O it was hideous—terrible and frightful . . . The way of transgressors is hard . . .”

—Excerpt from a letter from Charlotte Shaw to T.E. Lawrence on the funeral of Jane Wells.

More Painful Than
The Dreams of Other Boys

M
ike Gordini leaned against the hood of his patrol car and watched the world go by, marvelling at the sight of families all together, children being towed along by parents, patient and otherwise. Kids here were so helpless, so unable to control themselves and their lives, and on the second day of his new duty it was still taking him by surprise.

His new partner, Simone Perez, came out of the Korean grocery and tossed him his Coke, then walked around and climbed in behind the driver’s seat. Mike opened his door and sat beside her, found himself staring at her and wondering at how she looked; pretty, he thought with surprise, even though a few wrinkles showed and some gray hairs were creeping in around the temples and up top. The ring on her finger told him someone else likely thought she was good-looking as well, but he hadn’t had the guts to ask about that yet. Weird enough that he was here with her, in this strange section of the city.

She turned her head back from shoulder-checking, caught him staring at her. She smiled. “What?”

Mike could feel the heat in his cheeks. He turned his head and looked out his window, pretended he was watching for perps as he cracked open his soda. “Nothing,” he answered, then took a sip.

“Nothing my ass. I can’t say I know what you’re feeling, Mike, since I grew up here. But I’ve met a couple of people who came out of Templeton, and they’ve told me how weird it is for the first little while. I can only imagine.”

He grunted and took another swig; watched this city of age go by, and wondered at it.

*

For the remaining three hours of their shift, life remained uneventful, the presence of their car serving as a check for anyone thinking of pulling any stunts. Twenty minutes before the end of their shift, all available units were called to an address near the Line with Templeton.

Simone looked over at Mike. He felt a lurching in his stomach, knew he wasn’t ready to get that close to the Line so soon after having to cross over. But he forced a smile and nodded at her, then turned on the lights as Simone shrugged her shoulders and stepped on the gas. But before they’d gone a block, a second call instructed them to come in to the precinct to see the captain.

“Come in, both of you,” he said, when they got to his office. “Close the door and have a seat.”

Captain Munro was even more amazing to Mike. Almost no hair, a huge gut, wrinkles and age spots lining his face, he was everything that Mike had always thought he would never be. Was this how he’d end up on this side of the Line?

“There’s been a murder,” said the captain. “Derek Hayes.”

“Jesus,” said Simone. She looked over at Mike, but he just shrugged. The name meant nothing to him. “Very rich guy, sometimes seems like he owns—owned—half the town. To say nothing of all his other interests around the world.”

“Ah,” said Mike, nodding. He looked back to Captain Munro. “So what does this have to do with us?”

“Well,” said the captain, “mostly it just has to do with you, Gordini, although Perez will continue to back you up. Hayes was found dead inside Templeton; beaten to death.”

Mike leaned forward. “
Inside
Templeton. What, you mean just over the Line?”

Munro shook his head. “Nope. He was down on fifty-fourth, near the clocktower.”

“Holy shit,” said Simone.

Mike leaned back and nodded, feeling a little nervous now, then asked, “Why are you telling us?”

The captain steepled his fingers and for a long moment stared over them at Mike. “The mayor had a little chat with the chief,” he finally said. “Hayes, as you might imagine, was a go-to guy for political contributions, and already his lawyer and his corporate partners are making noises about wanting this solved now. So the mayor wants someone from our force in there to make sure that the investigation goes the way it should. To say nothing of the fact that we don’t know if we can trust whatever they have for investigators over there.”

Ice-water shock ran down Mike’s spine. He closed his eyes for a second to regain control, heard Simone say, “No way, Captain. We can’t do that!”

“Who said anything about you, Perez? You’ll be staying here on this side, giving backup when the time comes.” He looked back to Mike. “You understand what’s up?”

Mike nodded, too stunned to speak. He’d only been out of Templeton for just over three months now, and after training and then only two days on the street, here he was being asked—no, told—to go back in. “I’ll age,” he managed to croak.

“You have an advantage, Gordini, you know that. You’re only just out, so it isn’t going to hit you as hard. And even though you were forced to leave, I’m told that the way things work your recent departure should actually help retard the process.”

“It gets worse each time you go back, though.” He winced at how whiny the plea sounded.

Munro’s deep voice sounded hoarse now, but he ignored Mike, just carried on. “We’ll provide for you, of course. The only way you can go in there is as a full detective; there’s no way anyone would accept just a beat cop working on this case. And we’re only asking that you do the most basic investigations while in Templeton. Most of your work will be done on this side of the Line, with our full support.”

Mike leaned his elbows on his thighs and sat there, quiet, first looking at the captain and then at Simone. Munro just leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, but Simone was staring hard at Mike, almost glaring. Finally he shrugged, looked at her with what he hoped was an apologetic face, and said, “I’ll do it. I can’t turn down this chance to prove I can handle it.”

Simone stood up, threw up her hands. “You stupid prick. You’ve only been on the job a couple of days. What the hell do you think you need to prove?”

“That’s enough, Perez,” whispered the captain. Even that quiet Mike could hear the threat in his voice. “You’re going to get a bump up as well, go back up to detective.”

Back?
thought Mike.

“It’s not about a promotion, captain,” protested Simone, but he waved her off.

“You have a suit?” he asked Mike, whose thoughts jumped back to the situation at hand.

“Yes, sir. In my locker.”

“Right. Go downstairs and get changed. I’ll meet you at Sarge’s desk with your new badge and the keys to your car. You too, Perez. Make it fast.”

Mike stood, saluted, and left the office, Simone right behind him. In the squad room, a dozen faces all turned to look at them, but no-one said a word. A telephone rang, but everyone ignored it at least until the two of them had crossed the room and were through the door to the stairwell.

The car was a ratty old Buick, probably the worst one in the garage. But at least it was his own, and he thought it went well with his shiny new badge and his brown, slightly dilapidated secondhand suit, slacks hanging by mismatched suspenders while they waited for a chance to be taken in. Simone sat in the passenger’s seat this time, sullen, staring out the window, looking quite snazzy in her beige outfit.

He reached the edge of Templeton in about fifteen minutes, pulled the car to the curb and just sat there, staring at the Line and gripping the steering wheel tight enough for his knuckles to go white. Several squad cars sat at the edge, as well as one ambulance, but the officers were just milling around, nobody willing to step over. Looking through the thick fog of the Line, he could see only the vague shapes of buildings; no-one over there liked to approach it unless absolutely necessary.

“Ready?”

Simone turned and looked at him. “Fuck no. But it’s your decision, isn’t it. And since I’m your partner . . .” She gave a weak smile. “Let’s go.”

Mike stepped out and pocketed his keys, then flashed his new badge at the first cop to approach him. The officer, a guy he recognized but didn’t recall ever meeting, shook their hands and led them over to the sergeant standing at the edge, hands on his hips and staring down at the road.

“Sergeant Dickson,” said the patrolman. “Gordini and Perez are here, the detectives we were told about.”

The man reached out a big meaty paw and shook Mike’s hand, then Simone’s. “Detectives. You got a radio?”