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

by Greg Bear

  What he was longing for was a place away from his beaten path, where he could put together what he thought he knew and prepare some course of action.

  He had planned all along to be home before dark. Now that thought scared him. A pretty little shade, one step behind him wherever he went, waited to hug him, envelop him. He did not want to end up sprawled on the driveway again, a bit of his life neatly sliced away.

  He glanced with a shiver at the Porsches right-hand seat. No dimpling of the upholstery, no wandering specks of dust.

  Objective confirmation. Seeing the same things. You know you're not crazy, and you're certainly not just making it up to fail again.

  Peter folded his arms and closed his eyes.

  Just know what you need to do. If Schelling is right, Daniella is stuck

  He gave a sudden, unexpected hiccup. The effective center of his immediate problem might be Joseph. Peter had no idea what to do now about the Trans units, all over the world, but he could drive back to Malibu in the dark and approach Joseph in his upstairs room and ask what in the hell was happening. Ask what Joseph suspected, grill him if necessary about what he had known even before the Trans units had arrived at Salammbo.

  Neither Sandaji nor Schelling could describe to Peter the nature of the malevolence they had sensed at Salammbo, only that they wanted nothing to do with it. A man who had seen unimaginable horrors during the First World War, nearing the end of a long and peculiar life . . . as frightened as a child.

  But the key question was almost unaskable: Why would Daniella appear at Salammbo, to strangers?

  Scragg had asked about people who had never been mentioned during the investigation. People beyond suspicion.

  Joseph.

  Peter was shivering, though the inside of the car was warm. He, too, felt a deep and pervasive fear, what he imagined would be experienced by hunted mice, rabbits; he was a small animal still hoping to escape from greater and carnivorous truths.

  But there was no place to hide.

  Even if he learned something important at Salammbo, there was still the matter of the units, of Trans itself, blocking the pathways of the deadand whatever that implied.

  What in the name of all that is holy am I going to do? he asked out loud. But thus far he had seen nothing holy. Awesome, frightening, dangerous, yes, but holy seemed to have no place in this scheme of things. What Peter wanted most of all, sitting in his old car in the prosperous and orderly neighborhood, was a safe and gentle God to provide answers and guidance. The God of his childhood, gray-bearded and welcoming and full of warm understanding.

  Not this spiritual abyss.

  Peters hand reached out to turn the key. He had come to a kind of decision: not Salammbo. Not yet. He needed to be better prepared, stand on firmer ground. He needed to return to the real center of his life, all that he had left.

  Lindsey and Helen.

  He wound around the neat dark streets, with their old milk-glass streetlights glowing like warm little moons, and finally returned to the freeway. The traffic was hideous after the storm. Lane after lane, road after road, jammed full, horns honking, people getting out of their cars and standing, rolling down windows to share complaints.

  Blocked traffic everywhere.

  Not a good time to die.

  CHAPTER 37

  LINDSEY RAN UP to the condo door first after Peter rang the doorbell. They stood with the screen between them and exchanged a look that confirmed what Peter had suspected; things had changed in this householdfor Lindsey, at leastin much the same way they had changed in his own.

  She gave him a scrunched look. What took you so long?

  I'm here now, sweetie, he said. Wheres your mother?

  Helen came around the corner from the kitchen and flipped on the outside light. She stood beside Lindsey and eyed Peter suspiciously. It's ten oclock.

  Lindsey and I have to talk.

  What about? Helen asked. Who invited you?

  She doesnt know? Peter asked Lindsey.

  Lindsey shook her head.

  Know what? Helen demanded.

  I need to speak to my daughter, Peter said.

  Mom, can you go someplace for a while? Lindsey asked.

  Peter cringed inwardly.

  Helen flashed over. I control this household, buster. Nobody tells me to leave my own house!

  I don't barge in like this often, Peter said, trying for an ingratiating smile.

  Mom, it's important. It's nothing like what you're thinking.

  Helen stepped back, aghast. Who here has ever given a damn about what I'm thinking? Sure as hell, you havent told me something, she said, livid.

  Youd freak, Lindsey said. At this, Helens eyes popped and she shoved Lindsey inside and slammed the door.

  Peter heard them shouting, but it was a thick, burglar-proof door, and he could not make out what was being said. Part of him miserably wanted to walk away, but he stuck his hands firmly in his pants pockets and leaned against the stucco wall.

  The shouting inside went on for almost five minutes. He glanced at his watch just as the door opened again. Helen unlatched the screen and let it slide into it's roller.

  I am in charge in my own house, she insisted, stepping out and closing the door to a crack behind her. She was subdued, on the edge of tears. It's the last thing I have. God help me if I lose that, right? She regarded Peter plaintively, asking for help in the only way she knew howwithout asking. Helen had had so much kicked out of her in the last two years; the starch was almost gone, leaving only wrinkles and weariness. He did not know what more to say. He could not reassure when there was no assurance left in him. But he had to try.

  Peter straightened. It's just some stuff we need to hash out, father-daughter. I need to catch up. You know that.

  I know that, all right, Helen said.

  Nothing for you to worry about, Peter added, smiling. The way Helen searched his smile, if there was anything left in it, in him, for her, was painful. When it's all over, I'llexplain.

  Fat chance I'lleven know how to start.

  Lindseys arm poked out through the door and gestured for him to come in.

  Promise? Helen asked. She sounded younger than Lindsey.

  Promise, Peter said.

  Helen went back into the house. When she returned, she was clutching her purse and a light sweater was half wrapped around her shoulders. I'llbe back in ten minutes, she said, abruptly shoving past Peter. Is it raining? she asked, her face bitter and resigned all at once.

  It's stopped, Peter said. Thanks.

  You two deserve each other, Helen said. Lock the door. Ten minutes.

  Twenty! Lindsey called out.

  Peter joined Lindsey in the living room. Lindsey offered him a glass of water. Mom drinks bottled water. I don't mind tap water. Do you?

  It's okay, Peter said.

  Mom doesnt allow soft drinks or alcohol.

  I don't drink now anyway, Peter said.

  Right, Lindsey said, as if she would reserve judgment on that. Moms pretty strung out with this boyfriend stuff.

  Peter sat on the couch. With some guilt, he saw that the stuffing was poking from a corner of the armrest; guilt because he could not buy them new furniture. But that was stupid. Helen had never asked. The possible cause of the damage, a young orange cat, sauntered into the living room, stretched out it's many-toed feet, and sat on it's haunches, appraising him.

  Thats Bolliver, she said. Mom calls him Bolliver Sling-shit. We have to watch where we step in the bathroom. His litter box is in there. He's messy. She stood in front of him and took a deep breath. How did you and Mom meet?

  Peter looked up from the couch.

  I mean, you're so different.

  She was working on a construction crew, Peter said. We just hit it off. A year later, we were married.

  Helen, unrecognizable now, from this distance, had stood in the sun beside the freeway, wearing a yellow helmet, a ponytail thrusting stubbornly from the back, her professional smile broo
king no nonsense from passing drivers; stern brown eyes, dark red hair very curly indeed, muscles instead of fat, nicely shaped, but more utilitarian and healthy than voluptuous. He had driven past, SLOW, as specified by her extended orange sign, rolled down the window of the Porsche, and asked her out for lunch at a nearby Hamburger Hamlet.

  You and construction, Lindsey said. Did you ask her to model?

  No way, Peter said. She would have hit me.

  That explains a lot. Yeah. Lindseys expression told Peter that the time had finally come, and could not be put off. She sat beside him. This isnt exactly new, you know. Whats going on.

  Youve seen Daniella.

  Mm-hmm. I felt her over a year ago. Ive just never seen her until now.

  Felt her, how?

  At the house in Glendale, when I visited. She didnt, like, show herself or anything; I just knew. I didnt tell anybody because Mom would have called in a psychiatrist. I didnt need that. I still dont. She had assumed an explanatory, grown-up voice, but Peter saw her hands were trembling.

  And now?

  Lindsey leaned her head back, staring at the ancient popcorn-textured ceiling. She appeared to me three nights ago, in my room. I had a night-light on. It was late. She was just there. There was something else, too, but I couldn't see it. She didnt scare me, at first.

  At first?

  Why not tell me what you know? Lindsey asked. Because if I'm going to be crazy, you have to be crazy, too, okay? It's only fair.

  Ive seen Daniella, Peter confessed. And other things.

  All right, she said. My throat is really dry. How about yours?

  Peter toasted her and they both took a long swallow of water.

  We have a little group at school, pretty tight, we talk about this stuff. Other people seeing things. And theres this Web site that started yesterday, kids writing about it.

  Peter showed his astonishment. A Web site?

  Yup. A lot of kids talk about the new phones, like the one you gave Mom. But Mom hasnt used hers. She says it doesnt feel right. I tried it. It's really quiet. I didnt like it, either.

  Your mother hasnt seen Daniella?

  She sees what she wants to see. She sleeps with eye patches on and stuff all over her face. I think she takes pills. Were not having it real easy here. She fixed Peter with a limpid, whats-a-woman-to-do look.

  Have you talked with your sister? Peter asked.

  First, she's not my sister, not anymore, Lindsey said with a fragile defiance. She's dead. She's something else. Lindsey looked up over his shoulder, at the front door. Lets start at the beginning, okay? You first. But hurry. Mom will come back soon. She doesnt trust either of us. She thinks well talk about her boyfriends.

  You could be more understanding, Peter suggested.

  Just tell me, please.

  Peter described what he had seen at the house, leaving out his attempt to hug Daniella. He asked, You havent touched her, have you?

  No way, Lindsey said. She looked like a Visible Woman. I could see her bones, Dad.

  Peter stared at his daughter. You didnt feel sympathy?

  Well, yeah, of course, Lindsey said. I wouldn't want to be where she is, if thats what you mean.

  No, Peter said. That isnt what I mean. Her toughness was beginning to be irritating. He had hoped for a little help resolving this problem.

  We love flesh, Lindsey said defiantly. You said that.

  I did?

  Or Mom said you did. And the flesh is gone, right? She's nothing but ashes now.

  Peter shook his head. She needs something. She's coming to us for some reason.

  Isnt that what ghosts do? Kind of like homeless people by the freeway? You let her touch you, didnt you?

  Yes.

  Her eyes went wide. Wow. What did that feel like?

  I blacked out. Peter wiped his forehead. What did she say to you?

  Lindsey drew herself up. She used this really tinny voice, like it was coming from a cheap boom box turned down low. She saidI think she saidIt's been too long. She said it a couple of times, like an echo and creepy. I thought I saw something in a corner but it wasnt her. It was something that was, like, waiting. I might have screamed, because Mom opened the door and turned on the light, and they were gone.

  Peter folded his hands around his face. You didnt tell your mother.

  Like I said, shed freak. You're not going to tell her, are you?

  Peter shook his head. I wouldn't know where to begin.

  When you die, you're supposed to go away and leave people alone, and it's all sad and, like, sad, and the rest of us live until it's our turn. Right?

  Peter remembered his own adolescence. An appearance of toughness was sometimes the only armor you had. Still, Lindseys brisk aloofness irritated him. She was your sister and my daughter, he said, but cut his words off before he could add, You shared a womb with her for nine months. I don't know what she is now. Still, I care what happens to her.

  What if she kills us? Lindsey asked, eyes burning. She was in my room, it's my room, and she just zapped me. I didnt touch her, but she still sucked up my energy. I pushed back into my bed and just went, Go away! What if ghosts really are vampires?

  I don't think thats what happens.

  The front door opened and Helen came in hoisting a bag of groceries. Her face was still pale but she appeared resigned to the interruption of her routine. Again, Peter felt a sudden and sharp sympathy.

  I took the opportunity to do some shopping, she said. I bought Dulce de Leche. Hen Dazs. Is that all right?

  I'm going to bed now, Lindsey said, jumping up from the couch and doing a short spin to the hall. Dad and I had our talk. It went okay, so don't worry. She looked over her shoulder at Peter. You're going to quit working for that phone company now, arent you?

  I WONT ASK what you talked about, Helen said primly after Lindsey closed her bedroom door. I'm sorry I was cross. She's just acting strange latelyand so are you.

  You havent seen anything odd? Peter asked, following her into the small kitchen.

  If you mean ghosts, no, she answered curtly.

  Confused, Peter said, Lindsey told me you hadnt talked.

  Helen squinted. I deposited your check, she said. Bank manager gave me some guff, but I kowtowed. It's a lot of money, Peter. I hope the job is going well. I'llget the cash out for you next week. She reached into a kitchen drawer and took out an ice-cream scooper. She then reached to the back of the drawer and removed the Trans. Lindsey asked me to return this. I guess it works, but I havent used it.

  Peter pocketed the unit, feeling like he had come into the middle of a movie and missed most of the important dialog.

  One scoop or two?

  Two, he said. His hands trembled and he hid them from her view.

  I'm just feeling an urge to help some man or other be contented for at least a couple of minutes. Is that too much to ask? To make somebody care, be happy, just a little?

  Not at all, Peter said.

  I wish I could still communicate with Lindsey, she said with brittle caution. We used to have such an open relationship. She folded two scoops of ice cream into a small bowl, stuck a spoon upright, and handed the bowl to him. Typical, right? I was the same way with my mom.

  She's okay, Peter said. She's tough. Just like you.

  She acts tough, but she's just twelve years old, Helen said. I worry.

  They walked into the living room. Helen was working to appear cheerful. She swallowed a bite of ice cream and said, Um. I just have this feeling theres a conspiracy going on, and I'm being left out.

  No conspiracy, Peter said. We needed to clear the air before the picnic. About how I havent knocked down the door to see her. He did not know whom he was protecting now.

  Yeah, well, guilty me, woe is you. The picnic is on for this Saturday. I assume you'll be there?

  I'lldo my damnedest, Peter said.

  No more baby-sitting overnights, not for now. I have no love life. Helen spooned up a larger bite. My boyfriendin
case you're wondering why I talk about ghostsis a complete loon. His excuse for ditching me was, he saw his wife walking in the backyard of his house. She's been dead for six years. I really pick em, don't I?

  CHAPTER 38

  PETER SAT IN the booth at the Dennys, watching people come and go, asking them silently, And what have you been seeing lately? Two weeks ago, he had been a plumpish bachelor living a skinny existence, a long gray quiet following on a raucous youth, waiting for circumstances to go his way. They had, in a rush; too many circumstances. He swarmed with circumstances.

  He stared at the booth across from him, half expecting some elderly lady to congratulate him on his pretty young daughter, and how radiant she looked in this light. She positively glows.

  But the booth was empty. The restaurant was doing brisk business, solid bodies going to and fro, hither and yon, too many to allow the slow accumulation of Visible Women and Visible Men, like crystal shells full of the departed spirits of bones and organs.

  And if he looked at the floor long enough . . .

  He closed his eyes. Just warmly lit darkness, no footsteps through the accumulated ages of dust and skin flakes. But perhaps they swept this Dennys clean in more ways than one, every night.

  If the world was changed forever, no going back, would they hire janitors to clean up after the ghosts? Offer new items on the menurestoratives, collations, remembrances, plates of wine or of blood?

  It was nearly midnight when he finished his fifth cup of coffee. He was wide-awake, determined. A good time, perhaps, to get out to Salammbo and ask Joseph some important questions. They might still be awake.

  Sleep no more.

  He thought of Helen with eye patches and skin cream, full of pills and obliviousand tried to connect that image to the first time he had seen her, jaunty, strong, and smiling, sporting a Day-Glo orange vest and patched jeans under the never-ending sun on Pacific Coast Highway.