Dead Lines, A Novel of Life... After Death

by Greg Bear

  Next, on Oprahmourning or forgetting? Pain or insanity?

  Weeks into months.

  When the police could do nothing, find nothing, Peter had gone out himself. Bought books on solving crimes. Returned to the scene over and over again, standing in October sun or December rain, coming home with muddy shoes, running on in an optimistic fury about what he would do the next day, what he would investigate.

  Lying next to Helen at night, reading from the textbooks, until she grabbed up the blanket and went to sleep in the living room.

  Finally, that short last step into madness, going to the psychic. And all along, drinking like a fish just to hope to feel normal for five or ten minutes out of the unendurable day.

  Working on autopilot. Flying blind.

  Who did this to you, sweetie? And why?

  Weeping quietly, his shoulders shaking, rubbing his sternum with a stiff finger, he sucked in a breath. Humpty Dumpty time, Peter Russell, he said.

  CHAPTER 32

  PETER WALKED UP the hill from the small grocery store, carrying two paper bags full of milk and salad makings and lunch meat and bread and a six-pack of ginger ale. He saw a red Mercedes 500SL parked on the sloping drive before his house and paused, then hefted the paper bags and continued.

  The Mercedes California license plate read TRANS4U2.

  Stanley Weinstein was pacing in short arcs on the porch, stopping to thwong the Soleri bell with a finger. He jumped as Peter said hello. Didnt hear you coming. What a great house. Classic rambler. Hope I'm not interrupting something interesting.

  Weinstein was a bundle of nerves, but not nervous energy. The bags under his eyes had darkened since their meeting in Marin.

  No problem, Peter said, unlocking the front door. Come on in. I'llput these away. Want a ginger ale?

  Don't you have white wine? Whiskey?

  Peter shook his head. Won't keep it in the house, he said. Besides, you're driving, right?

  Responsible fellow, Weinstein said, following him inside. He flipped the cardboard lid on the box in the hallway. You still have a few units, I see.

  A few, Peter admitted. I don't get out in public much. Gave them to several friends, however.

  Alls well, then, Weinstein said, a not completely appropriate response, Peter thought. As if the young man was only half listening. I'm meeting with more moneyed interests in Santa Monica tonight. Lots of cash on the sidelines. Raising money is kind of like show business, don't you think? See and be seen.

  Show business is all about raising money, Peter agreed, taking the bags into the kitchen.

  Truth is, Weinstein continued, I also wanted to see how your work is going. There have been Questions.

  What kind of questions? Peter asked, washing the lettuce in a battered colander in the sink.

  Wiser heads say Ive taken a bit of a risk. Some of our newer investors wonder if you're the best choice. I'm here to bring back ammunitionconceptual samples. Have you looked at the work done by our design firm?

  Peter came out of the kitchen into the living room, wiping his hands on a towel. It's awful, he said.

  Weinstein snorted. We paid a fair amount for their assessment. They're among the folks who wonder about you, to tell the truth.

  Well, lets always tell the truth, Peter said, feeling his cheeks pink. Watch your mouth. Delicate time. No more self-sabotage.

  No offense, Weinstein said. But we need to move forward.

  Other difficulties? Peter asked.

  Other than keeping everyone on the same page, none, Weinstein said, but would not meet Peters eyes. Geniuses are not my first choice for business partners. They keep going off on tangents. They get lost in theory. Lets consider this, lets consider that. You know the drill. The dental drill.

  I havent got much to show, yet. Arpad sent me a note with the design team sketches, and he doesnt like them, either.

  Weinstein now faced him with what was apparently meant to be an accusing glare. Well, yes, Arpad. Truly our Tesla, is he not? And with about as much business sense. If I'm going to fight for you, I need some genuine Peter Russell material. Inspirational.

  If? Peter asked.

  Weinstein pulled his head to one side to take a kink out of his neck. For a moment, his eyes looked wild. Weve got a week to prove ourselves, and not one hour more. If I can keep Arpad from getting morose, if I can keep our investors from turning into a pack of hyenas . . . Please. Anything.

  Peter decided that Weinstein was little worse than most of the producers he had worked for. The lower the budget, the more they complained. But he had usually delivered, and he would try now. Handing out word balloons, he offered, draping the towel over his arm like a waiter.

  Weinstein cocked an eyebrow. Beg pardon?

  Peter made as if he were uncorking a bottle of champagne, pantomimed pouring it into his fist. People on the street, blowing up word balloons and giving them to each other. They take them home and the word balloons pop . . . out come messages. Were only human. Talk is what we do.

  Sounds self-defeating, Weinstein said. Not in the least sexy or edgy.

  I'm working on that, Peter said. Fan dancing. Men and women, naked, holding word balloons in front of their privates, waltzing around a street.

  Weinstein snickered. Well, he said, noncommittal. Well. He walked along the big front window, hand to chin.

  Amateur actors, Peter said. Old and young, not all hip pretty kids. Slightly baggy nudes, but they're all having fun. Maybe their skin suits are a little too obvious. Shoot super eight. Or you can buy me a used Arriflex Super 16, more control, we can pull it down in the lab. About thirty grand. Cheaper than renting if were going to do several commercials or promos back-to-back.

  Peter would not ask Karl Pfeil for a loan, not now.

  What about digital video? Weinstein asked, wincing a little.

  Not the look you said you wanted. But maybe things have changed.

  No, no, Weinstein said, backing down. He pursed his lips. We can rent.

  Peter sensed acquiescence. Give me a budget and I'llput together a team. I can do wonders for fifty grand. If we rent. And thats exclusive of my own fee. Twenty grand per promo, fifty grand for a commercial. If we work fast, I can get you some short stuff in two weeks. Peter secretly took a deep breath.

  Weinstein resumed pacing. You cannot believe the pressure. Six of our key people resigned yesterday. It's got us seeing double.

  Maybe they shouldn't be working in a prison, Peter suggested.

  Weinstein shot him a look that Peter could not read, then turned away. Your agent, he said.

  I work with a lawyer, Peter said. They hadnt spoken in over seven years.

  Fine, Weinstein said. Get me the papers. You don't like the other ideas, huh?

  They were going to use the gas chamber, Peter said.

  I suggested that, Weinstein said. Psychotronic, right?

  Suicidal, Peter said, feeling an odd strength roll back into him. You're selling talk, not video games. But if you want to sell Trans to jaded teenage boys . . .

  Weinstein considered this, his face blank. All right, he said, and held out his hand, waggling his fingers like a beggar. A sample, anything. I'm desperate.

  Peter took up a sketchpad and a Magic Marker and drew a large cartoon of four of Phils nebbishy guys, clutching their word balloons down low. Don't walk the walk without the talk, he said, sharing the words across the balloons. Then, over it all, he scrawled, When talk is cheap, life is good. And thats the naked truth. He handed the page to Weinstein, who glanced at it and grimaced.

  Flabby nudes? The naked truth? Do you know the kind of people I'm facing, Peter? They are locked into hyper-cool. They compete with each other to buy superexpensive sports cars, just for bragging rights. Their women fit the perfect waist-to-hip ratio, like they order them from a catalog. They can smell blood in the water from a mile away. They can taste failure, like eels taste sickness and death.

  Where is that coming from? Peter asked himself.

&
nbsp; Weinsteins cheeks tightened to form deep dimples around his lips, beyond anger and into desperation. If I let our investors meet Arpad now, the way he is, I'm sunk. Were all sunk. He's going through a crisis.

  What sort of crisis? Peter asked.

  Weinstein shrugged that off. I need assurance, cool, stability, savoir faire. I don't think dull wit and flabby nudes are going to cut it.

  Then why did you ask me? Peter said, his voice breaking. You know my reputation. Thats all Ive ever been good for. He had had enough.

  Because I thought you might still have something to add, Weinstein said.

  Peter made as if to tear the sheet of paper in half, but Weinstein snatched it from his hands. Fuck it. A meeting tonight, bigger money than even Mr. Benoliel can dream of. And this. Weinstein swiftly and neatly rolled the paper. Got a rubber band? he asked.

  HALF AN HOUR after he saw Weinstein out the door, Peter sat in the kitchen, vibrating with anger and wondering if he knew what in the hell he was doing, with Weinstein or with anyone else in his life. He tried to sip ginger ale, but his hand was shaking so badly it spilled. The phone rang.

  He looked at it for a moment, sick of talk, any talk, then set down the glass and picked up the receiver. Hello.

  It was Michelle. Joseph is doing poorly, she said. He wants to meet with you. He won't tell me why. Can you be here?

  Peter drew himself together. Of course, he said. My cars in the shop. I'llgo pick it up and be right over.

  The garage sent a Jeep. The Porsche was all fixed and ready to roll. But he would have to be back before it was dark.

  If he dared.

  CHAPTER 33

  THANK GOD YOU made it, Michelle said as he climbed the steps.

  She was seated with legs crossed on a wicker peacock chair on the long shaded veranda. It was three oclock and she held a martini in one hand.

  Whats up? Peter asked.

  She shrugged. He won't tell me. Emotionally, he's been going downhill for a week now, she said, and added, through prim lips, Sometimes I wonder if I even know the man. Then she bucked up and set the glass on a round, glass-top table. Between you and me and the alcohol.

  Of course, Peter said. Beside the glass, he saw that she had arranged a pile of silvery pushpins to form a clownish, grinning face, like a jack-o-lantern.

  I should quit, she said, lifting the glass again. I don't drink much, but I should quit completely. It's false, isnt it, the way it takes the stress off? Because the stress is still there.

  You just don't feel it as much, Peter said.

  You quit a long time ago, Michelle said, looking up at him with heavily made-up and inquisitive green eyes. He had not seen her use so much makeup before: rouge-pinked cheeks, false eyelashes, mascara. It bordered on the grotesque.

  It would have killed me, Peter said.

  You're strong. She changed expressions, brightened. One moment she was somber, the next, friendly and curious. How did the interview go?

  Ive got a job, Peter said, smiling. Thanks to you.

  I try, Michelle said distantly. Joseph might be pleased to hear about that. He likes you, you know.

  I know, Peter said. I wouldn't want to disappoint him, or you.

  How in hell could you disappoint us? Michelle asked, astonished.

  I may be losing it again, Peter said. It's as if I'm trying to sabotage everything.

  Like last time? Michelle asked, leaning forward.

  Worse than last time. I'm seeing things.

  She reached out and brushed the back of his hand. One of her long nails briefly scratched the skin there, leaving a white mark. What makes you think you're losing it? Joseph sees things all the time. She smiled as if that might be a jokeor might not. He won't confide in me. It's as if I can feel the storm clouds, but . . . I don't know where they're coming from. He talks in his sleep, sometimes. We all get old, I guess.

  Peter looked across the broad green lawn, embarrassed. Well, it's worse for me.

  Cloud shadows chased over the estate.

  Tell me about it, Michelle said. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, and gave him a sidelong look. I care, Peter. I listened before, I can listen now.

  I wouldn't know where to begin.

  Start with yesterday, Michelle said. As good a place as any.

  What I'm seeing or not seeing, that isnt the worst of it, Peter said. It's the pattern. It's caring and losing and then breaking down. Don't ever have kids, Michelle.

  I wont, Michelle vowed.

  No matter how much of a selfish bastard you think you are, kids come along and they dismantle you, they rebuild you. You put everything you are into them, all your hopes and fears. It's as if you have to reach out and protect everybodythe whole family, the whole world. I used to lie in bed afraid that Id lose one or both of my children, afraid of what that would do to me, to me and Helen.

  Well, that must be common enough, Michelle observed.

  Yes, but I still didnt keep track, didnt listen to my own fears. I lost my focus. I was off on a trip . . . doing research for a book. A stupid little book that wasnt going to go anywhere, no matter how much research I did. And a bit of the dark world came and took her.

  Helen calling on the phone, Daniella was missing. Flying back on a commuter plane from San Francisco. Getting into Burbank Airport, Helen picking him up curbside, rushing home . . . to sit and wait, talk to police officers, digging for photographs, writing down descriptions for the Amber Alert, slowly working their way up after four days to Detective Scragg.

  Just four days, and then they were talking to Robbery Homicide.

  Dark world? Michelle repeated, incredulous. Devils and demons? She was murdered, Peter.

  It's a metaphor. Kipling, Peter said. This was getting him nowhere.

  Id still like to know what you're seeing. Maybe it can help me understand Joseph.

  Peter squinted across the lawn. I don't get you, he said. It doesnt mean a thing, because it can't be real, right?

  She shrugged. Sometimes he sleepwalks. Screams in the middle of the night. The doctor says it might be a reaction to his blood-pressure medicine. It's worse at night, but now it happens in the daytime, too. When you arent here. When you're here, he's on his best behavior. Michelle rubbed her hands and stared at her knuckles. He talks about you like a son. Her face went blank. So I guess that makes me your mother, and that makes me responsible for both of you. See? I can feel responsible, too.

  He hasnt told me any of this.

  Well, he wouldn't, would he? It's up to me, when you're gone, to bear up under that particular brunt. She sat back in the chair, eyes like flint. I don't think anybody here is going nuts. You or Joseph. But there is a mystery. Two big strapping males start worrying about their sanity and spending big money on gurus in Pasadena. Now she stood. In her short-sleeve white blouse and pleated slacks, she looked like a Howard Hughes prote, about to portray Amelia Earhart. She might have been a ghost herself, an actress visitor from Salammbos past, from the 1930s. Go to him.

  Of course. He got up from the chair and headed for the door.

  I still can't get my Trans to work inside the house, past the veranda, Michelle called after him. Ask Weinstein about that.

  I will, Peter said.

  * * *

  JOSEPH WAS SEATED in front of the open French windows in the upstairs room. He wore a sweatshirt and what looked like ski pants. Happy hunting? Joseph asked as he heard the door close. He did not turn to look.

  Pretty decent, Peter said. They're giving me a job. I owe it to you and Michelle.

  Michelle did the legwork, as she is most talented in that department, Joseph said. Come sit. Don't make me bend my neck. I'm stiff all over today.

  Why not get out and get some exercise? Peter asked.

  Because I'm . . .

  For a moment, Peter thought he could anticipate what Joseph was going to say: losing my mind. But Joseph pulled his words back and amended them to, That Sandaji womans assistant has been pestering me
ever since your visit.

  For more money?

  No. Apparently you impressed her maidservant or whatever she's called.

  Jean Baslan, Peter remembered. I doubt she was impressed.

  Well, somebody was. Sandaji would never call directly, not even me, her benefactor.

  Wary of filthy lucre? Peter offered.

  She enjoys her money. But she spends too much time dealing with troubled people and she probably likes her privacy. Hows that for insight, Peter? Joseph afforded him a wan smile.

  Pretty good, Peter said.

  My producer instincts. Now cheer me up. Tell me about your job.

  Peter outlined the generalities of the commission, and told him about the awful pitch scribbled by the consultants in Palo Alto and the dicey meeting with Weinstein at the Glendale house. He felt not the slightest inclination to tell Joseph about his ghosts. Here, in the clean old room with it's dark, expensive furniture, the view of the endless lawn, back at Salammbo, life felt normal. He could be half convinced it was all an inside job. Psychological. Falling back into an old, old rut. Well, he had survived that before, he could do it again . . . and so on, as he rolled out the story of his visit to San Andreas.

  Jesus, Joseph said when Peter finished. He made a face. They actually have their switchboard thing in the gas chamber?

  They're proud of it, in a weird way. I'm trying to convince them that stunt is a little too juvenile for the open market. A certain amount of respect is called for when you go big time.

  Spoken like a true king of exploitation, Joseph said. Are they heedless nerds?

  They seem to have social skills, Peter said. Arpad Kreisler . . . he's pretty interesting.

  Head on his shoulders?

  Peter nodded.

  A new beginning, Joseph said.

  Maybe.

  Well, we might not need you here much longer, Joseph said. That would set you free to watch over my investment. He swallowed. Michelles investment.

  I can still help out here when I'm needed, Peter said, suddenly uneasy, as if about to wake up from a nice dream. Gratis. Youve both been good to me.

  Joseph motioned for Peter to move his chair and sit directly in front of him, in the pool of sun coming through the window.