The Glass House

by David Rotenberg

  Yslan had but didn’t nod.

  “Whatthefucksthetruth dot com. Well that, you might say, piqued my interest. You know that he rented himself out to rich corporations as a kind of human lie detector, don’t cha?”

  “A truth detector,” Yslan said.

  “What by all that’s holy is the difference?” he shot back.

  Yslan knew in her heart that there was a serious difference but didn’t say so.

  “Well, I followed him to a few of these little sessions of his and got the videotapes of him from the jerks who hired him. And every time right before he made a notation on the transcript, he closed his eyes, then rubbed his right hand against his pant leg.” Garreth Senior paused, clearly pleased with himself. Then he added, “That right hand—like he was wiping blood from his right hand. Like the boy coming out of that damned igloo did—like the fucking child murderer he is.”

  Yslan stared at Garreth Senior. The pupils of his eyes had narrowed to tiny black pinpricks. His face was contorted in a rictus. Clearly from the moment he first met Decker Roberts he’d been obsessed with him—maybe possessed was a better description. But whatever the word, the man was sick—and the sickness clearly had started on a cold day in the Glencairn section of North Toronto when Decker Roberts emerged from a collapsed igloo while a little girl had died inside—and wiped his blood-covered right hand against his pant leg.

  Without any explanation she flicked off the light and left the room.

  • • •

  Late that night she awoke with a start. She’d figured it out—or her dream had. She reviewed it again. Decker closing his eyes. His breath shallowing. Then wiping his hand on his jeans—his right hand. He wiped his right hand.

  But he was left-handed.

  If he’d cut that girl with a garden trowel as Garreth Senior claimed, then he’d have blood on his left hand, not his right. A left-handed person would only end up with a right hand full of blood if he’d used his right hand to hold the victim down and then plunged a knife or trowel or whatever into the victim with his left.

  But he couldn’t possibly have done that under the weight of all that snow—nor could a left-handed five-year-old boy have the strength in his right hand to do the damage that Garreth Senior claimed had been done to that little girl.

  Yet there was something viscous on Decker’s hand that he wiped off—certainly something like blood. But whose blood? Who had Decker held with his right hand as he drew blood with a weapon in his left?

  She tried to envision it—holding someone down. Why down? No, just holding. So the victim was still, and Decker had his right hand on his . . . chest! And the knife in his left hand—started over his head and thrust down, or out, through the heart. The aorta in shock contracted and threw blood up through the gash—and soaked Decker’s right hand.

  She got out of bed and threw open the curtains. A star-filled night greeted her. But she was not one for stargazing. If she had been, she’d have noticed that the stars over her head were out of place. Venus was above the moon on the eastern horizon, Scorpio was rising in the west with its tail raised and third star in its torso red and pulsing like a heart—then of course there was the four-star constellation that was so aptly named the Southern Cross. Yslan didn’t know it, but she too was sliding and was now looking at the exact same sky as Decker was in Solitaire, Namibia—some seven-thousand-plus miles to the southeast.

  Two worlds sliding—attempting to align.

  Then her phone rang. It was the head of Homeland Security—he’d never called her before. As she heard his oddly detached voice, the hair on the back of her neck stood up and sweat popped out on her brow. “I need you to find a safe phone and call me.” He told her to follow the protocol, then hung up.

  3

  DECKER ROBERTS

  DECKER ROBERTS BRUSHED THE SUDDEN gush of tears from his cheeks. He was pretty sure that he was now standing beside his rented Jeep and looking at a large white man blowing the Namibian dust off his hands with an air compressor more traditionally used for inflating tires.

  Yet he knew he had been fully alive only a moment ago thousands of miles away with a scalpel in his left hand, standing between the lamp post and the Joshua tree, his hand on his son’s chest, and blood—so much blood—and his son’s terrified shriek, “Don’t do this, Father. Don’t!”

  He shook his head to try and clear it as he thought, Sliding, I’m sliding.

  For the past three days, like Tom Hanks at the end of Cast Away, he had simply allowed the rented Jeep to lead him. Of course in Namibia there weren’t that many choices.

  He’d followed Highway 1 for days—sleeping in his vehicle with the Southern Cross above him and Scorpio rising. In the morning the Hindi people’s oddly familiar mannequins appeared beside his car. In the dawn’s light, with the pale moon on the horizon, he’d left money in the pouches of the statues then gotten back in his car and driven as Inshakha had instructed him to do all those months ago.

  He’d been in Namibia before. It was his retreat from the world, and each time he’d been there Inshakha had, as if by magic, appeared at his side. They’d spent days and nights together—although never as lovers. When Yslan Hicks had come to drag him back to America to help her find who had planted those bombs at Ancaster College, she’d seen Inshakha and called her a whore. Inshakha had gone toe to toe with the powerful NSA agent and told her to “watch your mouth. You are a foreigner in a part of the world that takes slander seriously.” Then she had turned, with such grace, and walked away.

  The last Decker had seen of Inshakha she was sitting naked to the waist on the side of their rented cottage’s bathtub pressing red mud into the beauty of her face, retreating from him—from them—into the deep private reality of an African woman, a place to which he could not even consider following her.

  Decker drove and ended here—at the intersection of Highways 1 and 6—at a junction that consisted of nothing more than a petrol station, a small gift shop and a bakery that emitted the unmistakable smell of fresh-baked apple pies. There were three picnic tables but nothing else—except for miles and miles of desert in every direction.

  The place’s tattered sand-scoured tin sign hung at an odd angle and proclaimed its name: Solitaire. Solitaire, Namibia.

  The large white man clicked off the air compressor, looked up and saw Decker—and his round face turned dark and stern. Then words came from his mouth. “I’ve been waiting a long time for your coming. I’m glad you finally found your path.”

  Decker had no idea what the big man was talking about.

  “Yes, to Solitaire, to the junction of Highways Six and One.”

  “There’s a song.”

  “Really?” the large man asked, clearly not all that interested.

  “Yeah, really. But it’s ‘Highway 61 Revisited.’ ”

  The large white man didn’t respond, but Decker sensed something moving behind his eyes. What, he couldn’t even begin to guess. Then the man turned to him. “ ‘Highway 61 Revisited’?”

  “Yeah it’s the name—”

  “Of a song. So you’ve said.”

  Then, not knowing exactly why he was asking, he asked, “Do you have music here?”

  “Music is everywhere,” the large man responded as he scanned the vast emptiness, “but you don’t hear it—yet.” Before Decker could question that, the man said, “You can call me Linwood,” then he pointed to a small door behind the bakeshop. “This way. It’s time you began to learn.”

  “Learn what?”

  “Learn why you came here.”

  “I didn’t come here. I just—”

  “Of course that’s what you think but you’ve been aiming towards Solitaire for a very, very long time. And I’ve been waiting for you all that time.”

  “For me? You don’t even—”

  “We all wait for someone.”

  “What—”

  “Time to take what you would think of as a leap of faith.”

  “I’m no
t—”

  “A believer? You only tell yourself that to keep yourself safe. But you came here for something quite different than safety, Mr. Decker Roberts of the Junction.”

  Then, without warning, Decker gulped. He hung his head and out poured howls of anguish. “I abandoned my son.”

  “The boy from the Junction?”

  “Yes, abandoned him.”

  “Then find him, Decker. What are you waiting for?”

  He looked up. It was his friend Crazy Eddie speaking. He was somehow back in San Francisco outside the dream clinic—and Seth was gone.

  Decker mumbled something.

  “What?” Eddie demanded. As he took a step towards Decker his foot lift brace clacked.

  Decker mumbled again.

  “Time to enunciate, partner!” Another step. Another clack.

  “I’ll kill him.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll kill Seth—I know it. I’ll kill him.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I got close to that boy in Stanstead—I got close to that girl in the igloo. I’ll kill him, Eddie.”

  Eddie saw real fear in Decker for the first time. “Seth is your son, Decker, you hear me—your son.”

  Decker looked at Eddie. He had his arm around his daughter, Marina. Her eyes roamed aimlessly. It occurred to Decker that it would be a life’s work looking after this poor girl—it was going to be Eddie’s path.

  Eddie was speaking again. Decker only caught the last part of what he said: “. . . time for you to vacate the premises—maybe even the continent.”

  Decker looked at his friend, but it was not his friend—it was the large white man who called himself Linwood. And he wasn’t outside the San Francisco Wellness Dream Clinic—he was in Solitaire, Namibia.

  “Sliding!” he shouted as he slammed his hand against the side of the Jeep.

  Linwood stood back and watched intently. When Decker finally seemed to have himself under some semblance of control, Linwood asked, “Are you finally ready to learn?”

  Decker heard himself say, “Yes, yes I am. Please.” But it sounded like someone else had answered Linwood. With a shock he recognized whose voice had come from his lips—that of his son, Seth.

  Linwood pointed to the small door again.

  “Apple pies?” Decker ventured.

  Linwood nodded slowly, then looked at Decker from beneath his heavy eyelids. “Inshakha should not have told you.”

  Decker didn’t respond, but he thought, So Inshakha’s part of all this. Whatever this is.

  “Are you ready?” Linwood asked.

  Decker eyed the big man, then said, “I guess.”

  “Good. Give me the keys to your car.”

  “Why?”

  “Commitment is the first step on the path that you are about to follow.”

  Decker hesitated, then tossed the keys to Linwood. Before they disappeared into the bear paw the man called his palm, they glinted in the fading sun. The unlikeliness of this place—this peculiar oasis in the midst of the vast nothingness of rock and brush and sand, of far horizons, of a thin moon high in the sky all day long—settled on his shoulders like a heavy wooden yoke on a draft horse.

  Then in the distance he heard a lion roar, and it echoed in his head—and heart—and soul.

  “Does that happen often?”

  “The lions?”

  “Yeah—them.”

  “Usually only after sunset.”

  “But it’s not—”

  “Yes, well, things are changing.”

  Sliding, Decker thought, but he asked, “How? How are things changing?”

  They were outside the small door. Linwood pushed it open, revealing a tiny but immaculately clean kitchen. “Do you know the concept of one hundred thousand kowtows?”

  “No.”

  “Well, you will.”

  “When?”

  “After you bake some pies.”

  The big man opened the door and indicated that Decker should enter.

  He did and was immediately adrift in the sweetness of apple preserves.

  Over his shoulder he heard the big man say, “You will, Decker Roberts of the Junction, you will—and then you will hear the music.”

  4

  VIOLA TRIPPING

  IT WASN’T A LION THAT Viola Tripping heard, but something that slithered—something malevolent, at large, released . . . and searching for her.

  She parted the drapes by her small bed and stared out at the thick blackness of the rural Nebraska night.

  It was out there, of that she was sure.

  She slid off her bed and wrapped her robe around her shoulders—such a small robe, such small shoulders—and went into the hall.

  It was cold. She shivered.

  At the far end she cracked open the door to Sora’s bedroom. In the glow of the new moon she saw her caregiver of almost thirty years sleeping on her back. Her steady breathing and gentle snores comforted Viola.

  • • •

  In the morning Sora awoke to find Viola asleep in the bed beside her, her cheeks stained with tears, her fingers interlaced on her chest.

  She gently moved Viola to one side and slipped out from under the covers. A cold dawn greeted her. She looked back at her sleeping charge and made a decision.

  In thirty years Viola had never crept into her bed. She’d been told to report any change—and this was a change.

  She withdrew the cell phone she’d hidden in the shoe box in the recesses of her cupboard and stepped outside.

  She’d only used the thing a few times before, but she remembered the instructions the woman with the southern accent had given her and entered the fourteen digits that corresponded to the date and prepared to wait—she’d been told a connection would take time. It had in her previous calls.

  But this call was answered before the first ring. There was an odd background hum. A cool male voice said, “Yes?”

  “It’s Viola,” Sora said. “Something’s happening to Viola.”

  “Okay,” the cool voice said, then repeated itself: “Okay.”

  Sora didn’t like the voice. It was somehow neutral, way too neutral, too cool, but before she could say anything—before she could ask where the woman with the southern accent who answered all her previous calls was—the line went dead, and the cool voice was no more.

  5

  WJ

  WILLIAM JENNINGS CONNELLY COOLLY POCKETED what he thought of as his “special” cell phone. Good, very good, he thought. The boy was still bound and asleep as anyone with that kind of sedation in his system should be.

  William Jennings Connelly knew a lot about sedation—a lot. His first company patented and marketed a totally unique approach to sedation, and even after he sold the company he kept a large supply of its secret products. With the money he made from the sale of the sedation company he posted bail and then paid for the defence funds for three of the world’s most notorious computer hackers. The four of them went into business together. He supplied the money and they taught him an eccentric new approach to systems integration.

  He took out the phone, put it on vibrate as he saw his conductor enter the wings. He pulled back his long grey hair and snapped an elastic band around his ponytail. He shook his head to splay the lengthy grey strands across his back then stared out at the audience. As he did he slid his fingers across the well-oiled surface of his Andrea Amati cello and yet again sensed the ancient mystery within. An Andrea Amati cello was even rarer than a Stradivarius violin—and it, if not its mystery, belonged to him. To him, William Jennings Connelly. Well, not William Jennings Connelly anymore. Now that his parents were safely in the caressing arms of dementia, the world knew him only as WJ—just WJ.

  It took a lot of money to control personal information—De Beers money, Sung family money—but he had done it, and now he was just WJ to anyone and everyone who wanted to know. And they could search and search but they’d never find anything but those two initial
s. WJ was him—period.

  His conductor entered, accepted the audience’s applause, then stepped on the podium. He raised a baton and all twelve members of the chamber ensemble readied themselves.

  The audience closed their programs and stopped rustling.

  A moment of silence. Then, the conductor brought down his baton—and they played as one intricate, interlocking thing.

  As the music rose, WJ looked around him. He was more pleased with the aural than the visual of the ensemble. In fact they were, on the whole, an odd-looking lot. He perhaps the oddest. His sinewy six foot four inch frame and grey hair down to the middle of his back drew many an audience member’s eyes, but not as many as the pretty Chinese girl who played second violin—or was she Korean? He’d never spoken to her—or for that matter to any of them except to say hello and compliment them on their playing. He wondered if any of them suspected that it was his money that paid their salaries. Then he wondered if there were any female Chinese gymnasts who were also accomplished string players—a Chinese gymnast violin player, that would be perfect. He wondered if he’d respond to perfect.

  After the initial crescendo he began the almost seventy bars of rest. He looked down. He wished he didn’t have such tiny feet—size five shoes and over six feet tall? Ridiculous! Sometimes he wore bigger shoes with paper stuffed in the toes, but when he did he often tripped over his feet. Like a dumb clown.

  The music modulated and the violas took the melody.

  WJ knew that music at its heart had a “feel” and that, to his profound frustration, he could never feel the “feel,” so he copied the others—with arithmetic precision.

  He readied himself and made a perfectly timed entrance with the other cellist. They took the melody for six bars then the rest of the ensemble joined in.

  It was for moments like this that he bothered with the cello—to be in the midst of the sound.

  With the music all around him he could almost feel its magic. No—he could almost feel something.