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

by Greg Bear

  The door was cracked open. The lights were on.

  He knocked lightly. Michelle?

  No answer.

  Peter pushed the door open with the toe of his shoe.

  She had chosen one of the smaller upstairs rooms. Somehow, that did not surprise Peter. But the room was a mess, and that did surprise him. Pages of photos had been cut out of magazines and tacked to the walls with a glimmering forest of straight pins, far more pins than necessary. The clippings showed tattoos, hundreds of them, on arms, backs, faces, eyelids, penises, and labial lips. Straight pins outlined the tattoos, straight pins by the hundreds, the thousands; some marched off beyond the borders of the images to delineate prickly labyrinths on the narrow passages of uncovered walls.

  Sliced and torn and crumpled magazines covered the floor beside the four-poster bed, a little girls bed with pink ruffles and duvet and lace-trimmed pillows, barely long enough to hold Michelles lanky five and a half feet.

  He stepped over the piles of magazines and studied the clippings. Michelle had never shown him tattoos; he did not know whether she had any.

  Facing the bed was a full-length oval mirror. Peter again skirted the piles of cut-up magazines and looked into the mirror. Lipstick, eyebrow pencil, rouge, and other items of makeup had been used to daub shapes and designs on the glass, stripes and animal patterns, and higher up, grimacing masks.

  He stooped before the mirror to line up his own face within a painted mask. The design made him look like a demented badger. An animal clown.

  He could not imagine Michelle living here, not the Michelle he knew. Thought he knew.

  Masks. Mud and blood.

  Lordy Trentons young wife painted clowns.

  Peter turned away from the mirror, his stomach twisting.

  The bathroom light was on. The fan whirred faintly. Peter looked inside. The heat lamp and fan timer had ten minutes left to run, out of an hour maximum. The room still felt humid. The shower curtain surrounding the oval tub was beaded with water. The tub was empty except for reddish stainsnot blood, but smeared rouge or lipstick. False eyelashes had settled over the drain cover. More than a pair; there were at least six or eight, tangled like a drowned family of spiders.

  Peter backed out of the bathroom and turned to the walk-in closet. Shoe boxes had been stacked against one wall inside the closet. Shelves and clothes on hangers covered the other wall.

  Beyond any sense of discretion, he took down a shoe box and pulled up the cardboard lid. Inside lay Polaroid snapshots and what looked like digital photo prints: more corpses, freshly dead, no decay, dismayed but fatally relaxed expressions, sprawled on linoleum, lying over a battered couch, slumped into a nondescript corner.

  Eyes flat, uncaring.

  Judging by the lighting and the angles, these were not official crime-scene photos. Peter pulled down another box, lid askew. One peek inside and his fingers loosened. The box dropped and spilled.

  All Polaroids, the photos inside were of a little girl sprawled on a square of plywood. Arms and legs draped over the edges, limp.

  He pushed up against the hanging clothes. Pictures spilled over the carpeted closet floor, dozens, dozens.

  All of Daniella.

  This is it, he thought. He had had enough. Let the thing in the hall come and get him. He did not want to see any more, and if he continued, Peter knew there would be worse things than just pictures of his dead daughter, horrible as they were. After all, he had known she was dead for some time, two years, and that was the principal fact here demonstrated so graphically.

  Peter stood in the closet for a few minutes, not moving, staring at the stacked boxes, surprised by his strength. You'll die when you don't want to, he murmured. Not a minute sooner.

  Someone who used Michelles room had collected crime-scene photos of his dead daughter. Photos of other murdered people. That was perverse, but it was not beyond belief. Peter had learned about a lot of weird, secret hobbies in his time in Los Angeles. But he could not make the connection. The Joseph he knewthe Michelle he thought he knewwould never do or allow such a thing.

  He looked down one last time at the spilled photos. It was indeed his daughter, but without the painted raccoon markings. Not as she had been when the hikers had notified the police. Not on the dry golden grass of a hillside, covered with clods of dirt and leaves.

  But as her killer would have seen her.

  In the bathroom, the timer clicked off with a short whir.

  Peter left the bedroom and stood in the hallway. With real deliberationit was almost impossible to force one foot in front of the otherhe turned right and walked slowly down the corridor to the door that led to Josephs sitting room, the room with a view over the drive and the estate. Motion sensors again switched on the overhead lights as he walked. The stark white glare from each halogen bulb in it's recessed can bounced along the dead walls to the end and rushed back in a tidal echo.

  He reached the door and touched the knob. Joseph was inside this room. What condition he was in, Peter could not know; but he could smell the man with senses as sharp as a dogs, instincts tuned by fear.

  Things were different between them now.

  Peter could almost see it.

  Joseph is sitting in his chair, by the window, waiting for me to come in, a blanket over his legs and a gun, a pistol, resting casually on his lap. He will say, Ive killed Michelle. She's down in the tunnel, and now I'm going to kill you, you bastard, for trying to steal my wife. I hate thieves. Joseph will raise the pistol and shoot until the clip is empty. There are plenty of places around here to stash bodies.

  Masks and bodies.

  Just what Scragg was looking for.

  Peter clutched the knob and twisted it. He was not now and never had been a coward. The door opened with the familiar slight squeak. The room beyond the door was mostly dark. Light from the hall illuminated the wet bar. Peter pushed the door beyond it's second squeak and entered.

  Don't turn on the light.

  For a moment, Peter wondered who was speaking, and then realized it had to be Joseph; it was Joseph. But the voice was weak and under strain.

  Shut the door. Watch . . . your . . . back.

  Peter closed the door behind him. Joseph sat in his favorite chair by the moonlit French windows. He was wearing a thigh-length terry-cloth robe and pajamas, both white. The shadow of the window frame covered his face; the moon was high and steady and left a blackness under his chair.

  Joseph, you bastard, what in Gods name have you done? Peter said. Wheres Michelle?

  Josephs hands lay over the ends of the chair arms. They did not move.

  What . . . Have you been asleep? Peter demanded.

  I'llnever sleep again, Joseph said. I don't feel well, Peter.

  Peter had a difficult time making out his words. Wheres Michelle? he asked.

  I don't know. Listen.

  Should I call a doctor?

  Just be quiet and listen.

  Peter took a step forward, fists clenched. You have some real explaining to do. I found

  Dont, Joseph said.

  Peter stopped. Something in the voice . . . He could not see the gun, but it might still be there, hidden in the folds of the robe. Joseph, as always, was in control. How long have you been sitting here?

  I don't know. I can't leave just yet. This is for you, Peter. Listen close. It's the only explanation I have. Just after I met Michelle, a woman I knew came back with her punk boyfriend to beat money out of me. I shot both of them right where you're standing.

  My God, Peter said.

  They're down in the tunnel. Michelle helped me bury them under the tracks. She helped me pour concrete over the hole. I thought, Good woman. Faithful. Does what I ask. But I guess it broke her spirit. God help me, I triggered something.

  Peter leaned on the door, still sick with anger, confused, but strangely no longer afraid. He glanced up; lances and motes of silver danced just below the ceiling.

  I wasnt sure until a few days ago.
I might have guessed . . . But I didnt want to know. Josephs voice went reed-thin, below a whisper. She became an empty vessel. Things had been waiting around here a long time for someone like her. They got in, and they do have their fun.

  Peters throat ached. He reached up to touch it; he could feel his vocal cords vibrating. It wasnt Joseph speaking.

  It was Peter.

  I wonder who it was that I loved. Maybe theres a small part of her left, the voiceJosephs voice in his mouthcontinued. How else could she be so convincing and sweet? She must have put most of them down in the tunnel. A few days ago, they started to come back. I'm sorry, Peter. Hell of a note. Ive warned you. Watch out for Michelle. Take care of her.

  Peter stood in the growing spell of quiet. His throat relaxed. He tried to breathe. He had not seen Joseph move since entering the room.

  The twinkles on the ceiling flared and vanished.

  Darkness swirled over his head with a noise like windblown curtains, hush.

  The cry that went out of him was shameful, quavering. He wet his pants, anyone would have. But he did not open the door and run. Instead, he reached back and flipped the wall switch.

  To scare off the shadows. How useless, but the last duty owed to a friend.

  Light syruped around the room in resentful waves. The advancing front of luminance crawled up and around Josephs legs, his pajamas, his torso, and finally his head, juddering there briefly, as if pressing against some gluey obstacle.

  Joseph sat revealed. His head hung forward. A white face-cloth had been rolled and propped under his chin. Blood from his lips stained the cloth. Two neat holes pierced the hairy chest between the lapels of the robe. In the skin of his forehead, someone had scratched three words in light, bloodless strokes,

  LOVE YOU HONEY

  Peter looked down. Whoever had scratched the message had crouched before Joseph, leaving bloody knee prints.

  A straight pin glinted beside the slippered left foot.

  Peter extended his hand to touch Josephs wrist. His palm met a blunt bristling. Five more pins poked up from the skin on the back of Josephs hand.

  This was so far beyond Peters experience that the chemistry flooding his body actually steadied him. His fingers stopped trembling. A fatal curiosity took over; curious cat. Still alive, temporarily beyond fear; all the fear draining down his pants leg, dripping on the floor. All right, no dignity, what the hell, check his pulse, man.

  Peter pushed back the sleeve of the robe and reached under the wrist with two fingers. No pulse and cold to the touch. He brushed the bluish skin of Josephs lower arm. Also cold. His friend and former employer had been dead for a long time. Not seconds, not minutes.

  Hours.

  Peter pulled the toe of his shoe away from the perimeter of gelid blood. Could he believe the confession of a dead man?

  A shining lobe of blue plastic poked from the breast pocket of Josephs robe. Peter gingerly reached into the pocket and pulled out a cell phonenot a Trans. He lifted it as he might some large beetle, expecting it's carapace to crack open and wings to suddenly whir.

  The phone beeped out a tune in his fingers, Hernandos Hideaway. He jerked but did not drop it. He could easily guess who was on the other end, on the far deadly side of the universe from the rest of the human race.

  He pushed the button.

  Is that you, Peter? Michelle asked. Her voice was not very clear; she was calling from another phone. She might be in the house.

  Who else? Peter asked. He sounded hoarse.

  Did you find Joseph?

  I found him.

  He's dead?

  Peter did not know how to answer that.

  Oh, my God, Peter, he's dead, isnt he? This is so weird. I don't know what to say.

  He stared down at the cold corpse of Joseph Adrian Benoliel. Who are you? he asked.

  I beg your pardon?

  Michelle would not do this.

  The voice on the other end changed. Wouldn't she?

  No, she wouldn't.

  Would you like to speak to Michelle? Want me to rummage around and find her?

  Who are you?

  Michelle is so tiny, down inside here, like a little baby, so I helped her. Can you ever forgive me?

  Peter faced the door now, eyes wide. In the house. Nearby. I have to call the police.

  What good would they be? She's been dead and punished for a long time.

  Why did you kill Joseph? Did he make you angry? Peter asked.

  If I could feel anger, Id be like you, Michelle said.

  Did you kill my daughter? The old, sane Peter, hiding away from all the horror, could not believe he had just asked that question of Michelle. Her answer was even harder to accept.

  I ride the horse, and sometimes the horse wants to run.

  Peter looked around the room, hoping Michelle had left the gun in plain sight; he could use it if he found her. If she came into the room. If he hunted her down on the estate, or anywhere else. I don't get you, he said.

  My mount. My face. My pretty little mask, Peter.

  Oh. He needed desperately to think things through. Daniella was just a little girl.

  My horse saw how much you loved that little girl. She cried thinking about it. My horses father wasnt so loving. To feel those emotions, all tangled, got in my way.

  I still don't understand.

  I know well be going to prison, Peter. It will be wonderful in prison. So many horses without riders. So many masks to wear.

  Fury and a genuine, gut-deep panic made him shake. He could barely hold the phone, barely speak. She could be anywhere. She's outside the door.

  Tell me why you killed Daniella.

  Michelle sounded petulant, then sighed. There were only two men my horse loved and trusted. One of them was Joseph, and the other was you. All men are fathers and brothers to my horse. And all men have disappointed her.

  Thats a load of crap.

  It's true.

  The room seemed to quake around him. He gripped his forehead with one hand and looked down, dizzy with rage. When I find you, I'llkill you.

  Well, you cant, silly. It's just us, and we don't care. Maybe you'll take your revenge, and empty out. And then perhaps I will ride you. And if the police find us, prison will be lovely. So many of us, all in one place, like a family reunion. Poor Michelle. Good-bye, Peter.

  The call ended. Peter looked in dismay at the cell phones screen, small and tidy and green. So easy to talk anymore, wherever you were, whatever you might be.

  CHAPTER 40

  HE DESCENDED THE stairs into the living room. His thinking was cold and steady, like a steel pendulum swinging from one extreme fact to another. He faced a number of immediate decisions: first, whether to call the police. If he gave truthful answers to the police, nobody would believe himunless they, too, had seen what a Trans could do to the local dead lines.

  Clever, that. The lines the dead used, not phone lines, but channels of communication nonetheless. Means of escape, diffusion, passage, whatever happened to the memories and experiences and shapes that lingered after death. Arpad had discovered them, a brilliant act, but had then come to the wrong conclusions. Peter thought back once again on that memorable conversation:

  Trans reaches below our world, lower than networks used by atoms or subatomic particles, to where it is very quiet.

  Not so quiet after all. Even a little interference made the dead more likely to spark, made their sad flakes of memory linger a little longer, perhaps a lot longer. Until the shapes of the dead filled the Earth, a feast for shadows, scavengers. Attracting worse things than dust mites or worms or eels: lions, hyenas, bears. Sharks. Huge carrion-eaters seldom seen except during the horrors of war, the madness of vast human upheavals, taking advantage of a change in the weather.

  The blinking diode, the grizzly-sized invisibility downstairs. A stalker. Something worse even than the awful opportunist that had entered Michelle, that rode her and called her it's mount, that played so well at being human
.

  Intelligence without conscience. Curiosity without check or balance. Playing with them all.

  With Daniella.

  The Trans units do not work at Salammbo, inside the houses.

  The lines here are already jammed.

  By what?

  Sweet Jesus, I can't know any of this, Peter tried to assure himself, but the promise of sanctuary in ignorance rang hollow. He had pieced it together, with Josephs helpdead Joseph.

  Joseph. Daniella. The tug, the compulsion. They cannot speak for themselves; nothing moves the air. They are scraps and little more, attracted to your memories. That is how ghosts suck away your energy, trying to be real. They become real only when you see them and remember.

  It all fit. It had to fit. Trans units transfixing that which, by the dictates of any right order, should move on, dissolve, evaporate. Trivial day-to-day chatter unsettling, and then halting outright, the passage of the dead, and exposing another realm, a system of which living things were supposed to be ignorant.

  He felt the burden fall heavily on him now, and it led inevitably to his next decision: What would he do about it? What could anyone do now?

  Peter had always thought of himself as a small if somewhat talented man, charming to a point and not pushy; not a great spirit or a hero. Ordinary life, sex and friendship and marriage, had after all enticed and then defeated him.

  He slowly breathed in, breathed out.

  Thieves. Thats all they were. Thieves.

  He could deal with thieves, couldn't he? He hated thieves.

  Help, he asked softly.

  AT THE BOTTOM of the stairs, the first-floor hallways were dark. But as he turned, looking first left, then right, the lights switched on at the far ends simultaneously, then advanced toward the atrium, illuminating walls and paintings, closed doorways, and rich wool carpets, converging on Peter. Invisible things moved along the halls on both sidesthings that no longer followed their natural tendency, no longer faded, but instead had been given weight and purpose.