by Greg Bear
That theory didnt feel right, however. What was happening to Peter was less like the opening of a valve and more like a loose seal on a spigot: the drip, drip, drip of bad mental chemistry, mundane and sad. His uncle on his mothers side had suffered from schizophrenia. Peter had never had any symptoms . . . until now. But he had gone off the deep end before. Trying to find out. Trying to learn how to bring something back.
He lowered the book and stared at the wall, at the eight-by-ten pictures of the girls hanging there in simple brass frames. Daniella, in the last year of her life, flashing him a cheesy smile with her index finger screwing a little dimple into her plump cheek. Lindsey, on the same day, more serious, with wide blue eyes and lips drawn into a firmly noncommittal line.
Peter told himself, No, you are not crazy, and you are not making up excuses. You're a bereaved daddy, and thats hard to live with, but you're seeing real things. You're trying to figure out what they are and what makes the most sense.
He then asked with a wry grimace, So why is it just you seeing things, me bucko?
Huxleys book lay open on the bed, not very helpful after all.
The house phone rang in the kitchen. He walked across the hall and picked up the receiver from the cradle, tugging it's long winding cord to hold it to his ear. Russell here.
Mr. Russell, this is Detective Scragg. Robbery Homicide. I called earlier. We havent talked for quite a while. I hope this is a good time, or at least not a bad time.
Peter turned. The kitchen was dark; the only light came from the porch through the window over the sink. A wood-slatted Venetian blind over the window cast bars of shadow on the cabinets and counter.
The voice on the other end continued. I just wanted to set up an appointment to meet with you again. Discuss some things, if you don't mind.
It's Sunday evening, Peter said.
Yeah, well, weekends don't really exist for me. I'm going over open cases, cold cases. I do that. Someday I'lllearn, but not yet. Mrs. Russell won't take my calls.
Right. Peter didnt feel like telling Scragg about the divorce.
I don't blame her, but theres some things I need to go over with you, not new stuff, just to refresh my memory. Wind up the case ticker again.
Peter did not know what a case ticker was. What can I do?
You know, this is the second anniversary.
Peter looked at the calendar on the wall. His fingers tightened on the phone.
I just wanted to go back and ask some of the questions I might have asked before, and I might not have. New perspective. Cops change and grow. Maybe I'llsee something differently this time.
Two years since her death. Suddenly, Peter could visualize his daughter so clearly, walking across the porch, laughing with Helen as they folded laundry, sulking after a fight with Lindsey. Trying to make her real again in his head. That was it, right? Make her so real, as if she had never gone away. He hurt with the effort.
Nothing new? Peter asked.
No, sir. Nothing new, Scragg said. Nothing concrete, anyway.
Peter turned slowly in the dark kitchen, winding the cord around his arm. If I can help . . .
I'm sure you can, Mr. Russell. Sorry if I'm imposing. What I wanted to ask about was, did we miss interviewing anyone, talking to people, anybody, even those we couldn't possibly suspectanyone interested in masks . . . I'm reaching here.
Peter closed his eyes. The killer had painted a raccoonlike mask around Daniellas eyes and nose, using mixed dust and blood. He felt his own blood slow throughout his body, turning into cool, sluggish rivers everywhere but behind his eyes.
His eyes.
Weve searched high and low for something similar, and weve found nothing, Mr. Russell. But were sure this person has killed before. Can you think of a hobbyist, a collector maybe, some sort of artist, someone who knows you, who might have singled you out for special attention . . . I mean, who has killed before, but hidden his crimes. He would need a safe place to store bodies, perhaps lots of bodies
Peter kept trying to see his daughter as she had been when alive, defense against the images so horribly replayed for him. He stopped listening to Scraggs voice. He could not focus on that particular fountain of unbearable truths.
He opened his eyes and reversed his turning, unwinding the phone cord.
The twilit shadow of a ten-year-old girl stood in the doorway that led from the kitchen back to the hall. It was Daniella, not Lindsey, with longer hair, smaller and slighter, youngerof that he was certain. Her outline was distinct, her form fully dimensional. A spot of pale yellow light seemed to rest on her midsection. She watched him, basking in his attention.
Scragg continued to talk, a distant murmur of sympathetic but cruel reality.
Daniella raised one hand as if to point. Peter stared, the heat behind his eyes like a blast of tropical air. His seeing made her more real.
Scraggs voice perversely grabbed his attention again.
someone she knew, someone she recognized, Scragg said. Can you think of anybody we did not interview?
I'llask her, Peter said.
I beg your pardon?
She's here, she's back, Peter murmured in awe.
It was not just the reappearance of his daughter, it was what she had becometranslucent, gossamer, as beautiful as a piece of crystal. Peter could not combine what he was hearing with what he was seeing. The detective spoke of death, of suspects and murder, but Daniella was here, demanding his attention.
She smiled.
He frowned and shook his head, resolved to focus. If he did not, he might lose the one impossibility that was far more important to him. I can't talk now.
Mr. Russell
Peter hung up.
This image was not just Daniella seen from the outside, not just a ghost of the exterior; as the seconds passed, he could see deeper, through the wisps of what might have been an afterthought of clothing; deeper still, below the skin, into lightly sketched outlines of bones and organs, kept in place by some slavery to mortal form, but no longer functional, certainly. No longer necessary. As with the outside, so the inside. She looked like a medical school model made of glassor more correctly, like a human diatom, translucent and nacreous.
Ghosts have bones, Peter murmured.
She looked to her left, mildly concerned about something waiting down the hallway, and then returned her gaze to Peter.
Hello, Daniella, he said. Is it still there? he asked gently, as if discussing a spider or some other small vermin that had distressed her. Wait a minute. I'llget a jar and put it outside.
She agreed with a girlish nod, it was still there, whatever it might be. Peter wondered if she could disagree with anything he said. Maybe ghosts were like puppets, forced to do or believe what you suggested.
In his mind, he tried various statements, I love you. Where are you, sweetie? What happened to you? and wondered if she could pick up what he was thinking. He had been talking to Daniella in his head for years, saying all the things there had not been time enough to say while she was alive.
He finally settled on, Tell me if you're real.
She rewarded him with a step forward. Apparently, whatever was in the hall did not worry her too muchif she could be worried. Past all mortal cares, right? But on to other cares, postmortal?
What in hell could that mean?
Peter felt as if he had just drunk six cups of strong coffee. His pulse raced. He was not sweating, however; he was not in distress, just excited almost beyond words, excited out of his wits. Overjoyed.
I love you so much, he said. Thank you for giving me another chance. Thank you.
Little motes of light floated up from the floor and found their place in her. The closer she came, the more solid she seemed. He could almost reach out and touch her, embrace her.
No.
You're real, Daniella said. Her voice was a reed instrument through yards of thick gauze, a bad connection from across impossible seas. She raised her hand and spread her fingers as if to
lay them flat on his chest. Once more Peter noticed the glow, like light falling on her midriff, as if she contained a small luminous cloud, a sunset within a ghost.
What do you want, sweetie? Peter asked.
Look, she demanded, and made another step. This time, as she moved, he could see the discontinuitya jerk, as if a video were being rapidly advanced. Behind her face he discerned the outlines of veins and arteries, teeth behind the lips, skull beneath the skin. No wonder we think the dead come back shrunken and decayed. But she's made of crystal. She's beautiful, not ugly and broken.
Daniella was now within his reach. With a moan, Peter leaned forward. He felt resistance, like pulling together the equal poles of two bar magnets. His skin tingled. She lay against his chest, sighedthe echo of a sighclosed her eyes, and wrapped translucent arms around him.
From every point she touched flowed a welcome weariness, deeper than repose, the seeping desuetude of death: sadness and distance and loss, loss of motive, utility, connection. His muscles grew limp. Too late, he realized this was not good. This would not work.
Peter gasped for air.
Daddy, she said, and spread up and around him.
CHAPTER 28
IN MEXICO THE dead are not mocked but laid and sweetened by candy skulls.
Ancient tribes, enlisting shamans trained in sympathies and magic, placated their dead. They surrounded and confused them with ritual, gently separated them from life and the living, and tried to make sure they did not return, or that if they did return, they had no power. Their darkness was deeper than ours, their nights longer; they truly lived in the shadow of the Earth, and on some nights, haunted nights, the sun itself was reluctant to show his face again.
For the living, it is love. For the dead not yet departed, it is a clinging, sapping necessity. The old ways speak of dangerous needs that cannot be met or assuaged. Wise mothers protected their babies against mal occhio, the unreasoning affection and desire of both the desperate living and the envious dead.
He should have prepared and protected his baby.
Mal occhio
Evil eyes
Time has slipped; he has slipped and fallen.
He saw her so clearly. She was there.
He almost makes sense out of it. The dead can never return to their old homes in the same way. They need release, forgetting. Freedom.
(The sunset within the ghost . . .)
The weeping will never stop.
Peter just wants his daughter back.
CHAPTER 29
HE LAY ON the sloping driveway outside the house, staring at a crusted patch of old oil flecked with clay litter. His pulse rattled in his ears, blood pumping like gasoline through a stalled engine. He did not remember coming out here and falling, but his knuckles and knees were skinned. There was no pain; pain would have been welcome.
His face was wet with emotion, but he could not remember why at first and wondered if it had finally come, if the angina or whatever had finally split his tissues.
He rolled over and stared at the graying sky. Dusk or dawn? The sky was getting brighter. It must be dawn. Had he been out on the driveway all night?
The phone rang in the house. Not the Trans; the old wall phone. Communication. Talk from distant lands. He counted seven rings before it stopped. Got stiffly to his knees on the drive, faced the house like a penitent about to inch toward a shrine. Slowly, memories returned. He was saying his daughters name over and over. He looked down. His shirt and pants were covered with a thin layer of dust, not driveway dirt. Grayish white. On his fingers: house dust, as if he had crawled under a bed. He stood and sniffed his fingers. Unmistakably, the scent he had associated with Daniella from infancy clung to him, sweet and primal. God help me. He leaned against the wall of the garage. His pulse steadied, his breath eased, vitality returned. He felt a dangerous kind of good, that sense of relief and well-being after a skipped heartbeat. He wanted more. He wanted to return to the house and see if Daniella was still there. This time, he knew that if they touched he would not wake up. And that would be okay. That would be just fine with him.
The phone rang again.
Still dizzy, Peter walked toward the house. A little stumble on the low curb beside the driveway. He crossed the patio, stubbed his toe, lurched, and brushed the Soleri bell. The key broke loose from it's tape and fell onto the bricks with a blunt ting. He stared down at it, letting the phone ring.
The key was covered with dust.
Peter bent, picked it up, sniffed it, and put it in his pants pocket.
CHAPTER 30
HE LIFTED THE receiver on the tenth ring.
I feel awful, Helen said without waiting for him to speak. It wasnt your fault. I don't blame you for being angry.
Then, when he still didnt answer, she said, Peter, damn it, are you there?
I'm not angry, Peter said.
Why don't you answer your phone? I know you're angry.
I'm not feeling well, Peter said. He could see himself in the glass of the kitchen cabinetand frankly, he thought he looked a little luminous.
We want to make it up to you, Helen said.
Id love to see you both, Peter said. He had questions, so many questions to ask so many people.
I really think we should go on a picnic.
Softly, as if reaching for a life preserver, he asked, Can Lindsey stay here overnight?
Of course, Helen said a little sharply, her aggression not yet abated. She felt guilty but justified. Doing this would make her feel better. Well, hed take what he could get, whatever would lure him away from that blank and dangerous place that had held him for so many hours.
Why are you calling this early? Peter asked her.
What? Silly, it's ten oclock.
He looked outside. The sun was bright. The clock wound down.
Your electric clock?
Power out, I mean.
Is everything all right?
I think so.
Over the phone, he heard a dryer buzzing. Sorry. Just a sec. Helens voice dropped away and she called out, Lindsey, come say hello to your father.
A brief pause and a clunk. Lindsey took the phone. The first thing she said was, Hi, Dad, we need to talk.
Sure, Peter said.
Moms getting the laundry in the other room, Lindsey said, dropping her voice. We need to talk and I can't tell you why.
I know, Peter said. I miss you, Lindsey.
Somethings changing, Dad, she whispered. Then, louder, Heres Mom.
CHAPTER 31
RAVENOUS, PETER MADE himself a late breakfast of oatmeal. As he ate, he could feel the nutrients push along his bloodstream, warm and sensuous as dollops of hot gravy wrapped in mashed potatoes. After touching the dead, even oatmeal could be sinful.
In the back of the cabinet he found an ancient jar of Tang and made himself three glasses, breaking up the fossilized orange clumps in tap water, stirring and stirring with the clinking spoon, then lining them up and drinking down all three. The sugar was like electricity. He could feel everything with a sharpness that was both exhilarating and worrisome.
Lindsey needed to talk with him.
Peter put down his spoon, suddenly ill. A few minutes passed before he knew that what he had eaten was not going to come back upghost of breakfast. He could not eat any more. He looked at the phone, at the answering machine on the tile counter below, with it's light steady, no messages. And no wonder. He had switched the answer mode to off. He did not remember doing that.
He reached out and turned it on again.
Peter wondered if Daniella would leave him messages like a ghost on an episode of The Twilight Zone, dialing out of the graveyard over a storm-dropped telephone line. Of course, Daniella was not in a graveyard. Helen had had her remains cremated. There was an urn in a columbarium. No. Don't go there.
Ive never been there. I did not do for her what I did for Phil: return her to the sea. Helen forbade me from taking my daughter back to nature.
Scra
gg. Detective Scragg. After all this time, still checking out the case. Looking at the calendar, two years. Just a coincidence. How devoted, how dedicated. People we have not thought about. Suspects all.
He leaned over the breakfast-nook table, hands grabbing the metal rim, and just stared at the shiny marble-print linoleum top, at nothing, nothing whatsoever.
Bit his lip, then his cheek.
She had been missing and dead for three weeks when a jogger found her buried in high, dry grass, under a pile of leaves.
Former nudie movie director Peter Russells ten-year-old daughter has been found in a shallow grave in Griffith Park.
Whoever had kidnapped and killed her had just scraped at a patch of grass and earth and dumped her there. She had been stabbed many times, a frenzy. Their only solace, thin solacePeters, Helenswas that Daniella had not been raped.
Ghosts did not reflect the violence done to them in life, the sickness, the murder.
Time seemed to have slowed, so rapidly were all these thoughts spilling out of his deeps.
No, thats not it at all. She died of leukemia. She was sick for months, not murdered. Don't be an ass.
She died in a car wreck, a bus accident.
She died falling off a rock on a school outing, broke her neck; she was beautiful, lying there in the coffin with all the flowers.
Who in this awful, awful world would want to slaughter such a lovely little girl, and then leave her outside to rot?
SOMETIMES, RARELY, THE missing kids return alive, and the TV cameras return as well. When the kids return, dead, who will believe? Peter Russells daughter comes back from the other side. Nation rejoices. After the break, a happy father.
Those terrible three weeks of not knowing, Helen shrieking in the bathroom, scratching her arms bloody. Lindsey hiding in her room or under the stairs down to the basement, at eleven too young to really understand death; and who at any age could ever understand or accept the death of a loved one?
