by G A Chase
He took a long drink of his beer while looking at her over the bottle. “How real is anyone we meet?”
At least conducting a philosophical conversation with what amounted to a sock puppet might help Kendell know how well the simulation was working. “First things first. Is Myles operating you, or are you on autopilot?”
He looked to be savoring his beer. “Ever feel like you’re just going through the motions in life? You could be engaged, but you chose not to? I only know myself. I’m based on the person you know. My mind drifts along until someone comes along that makes me want to wake up from my complacency.”
Sanguine put down her empty bottle. “Sounds like Myles, but he usually answers your questions in a more direct fashion. That vague answer sounds more like how he’d talk to me when he doesn’t really want to.”
Endall nodded. “So if someone responds to a question by asking another question, that person is not really engaged?”
Sanguine shrugged her wings. “In my experience, when someone deflects a question, they either don’t have an answer or aren’t interested in the topic.”
Neither seemed plausible to Endall. Cardboard Myles had asked questions that were meant to engage, not deflect. “Everyone just goes through the motions at some point.”
Myles started pulling the label from the bottle the way he sometimes did when bored. “What you really want to know is if I’m self-aware. I’m not sure I can answer that question. If I think hard enough, I call in the part of me in reality. That doesn’t really qualify as self-aware as I’m focusing on my true being, not this projection. Do characters on the movie screen know themselves?”
“No,” Sanguine said. “But you’re not a recording.”
He got up and collected the empty bottles. “True. I’m just a bartender in a play.”
33
Colin spent the next three weeks trying to reacclimate to life. Nothing he did seemed to work. Past business associates wouldn’t take his calls, not that he blamed them. A call from Lincoln Laroque’s office used to mean a hostile takeover. Now that word had gotten out about the bank cutting off his access to unlimited funds, the city’s CEOs didn’t even have fear as a motivation to answer his calls. He tossed the stack of folders he’d been reading onto his desk. Like everything else he tried, they failed to do as he intended—they skidded across the glass and disgorged their contents all over the marble floor. Fuck.
He pressed the intercom button. “Claire, come pick up this mess.”
There was no answer from the outer office. Irritation was becoming a constant reminder of how much he hated people, though their presence beat their absence. Instead of storming into the receptionist’s office to yell at her for her negligence in not answering his summons, he turned to the wall of windows. He raised his hands, hoping to see his cloud of bats. As he expected, they didn’t materialize.
One of his biggest lessons, having returned to life, was that business bored him to death. If only that were literally true.
He got out of his office chair, walked over the scattered papers, grabbed the iron walking stick he’d fashioned in hell, and exited his office.
Claire was busy typing something on her computer.
“Didn’t you hear me on the intercom? My office is a mess. Clean it up.”
She hit a key, and a page ejected from the printer. Without saying a word, she handed him her resignation.
“Perfect.” He tossed the paper onto her desk and headed for the elevator.
He fumed the entire way down. She’d been a good secretary, but after four years of her working for him, he couldn’t recall a single detail about her personal life. He wondered if it was even worth trying to replace her. Nothing about the business he’d worked so hard to build interested him any longer. The whole experience of being a titan in the community felt like it belonged to someone else. He’d been hell’s devil, and now he couldn’t even command a lowly office worker.
As he walked out of the elevator and through the lobby, he realized he had no idea where he was going. He just needed to walk. The iron cane cracked the marble tiles as he swung it along.
“Hey,” the lobby receptionist yelled. “You’re going to pay for that damage.”
He doubted it was even worth explaining that he owned the building. “You’re fired.” He continued out of the front doors, not interested enough to turn back and see if she’d taken him seriously.
He spent the afternoon wandering the Warehouse District. The upscale restaurants and art galleries beat the Quarter’s family-friendly food establishments and touristy gift shops, but he still looked in the dirty windows of each run-down building, hoping to see the completely empty rooms he remembered from hell. “How is it that I miss you, old witch?”
An elegant woman glanced at him as if he were a vagrant talking to himself. He tapped his ear, pretending he was wearing a hidden phone headset. Once she’d walked away, he looked over his long coat and purple paisley vest in the window’s reflection. As the most powerful man in New Orleans, the eccentric attire had worked to distinguish him from the other rich businessmen. Now he just looked like another charlatan out to hustle a quick buck.
He checked his watch and was still somewhat amazed to see that the hands had moved. The simple magic of the earth’s rotation, which he’d struggled so hard to accomplish in hell, was as accepted as breathing by everyone he passed on the street. Fools.
At the corner of Poydras and Magazine, he reluctantly turned toward the river. Fuck you, Luther Noire. Considering the power he’d wielded from the abandoned World Trade Center’s vaults, the tower showed a disappointing lack of damage. Even exploding a dimensional bomb in the heart of your cement tomb didn’t faze you. Back amongst the living, he’d lost his control of the structure. He didn’t even know if the control room he’d built in the old circular restaurant still existed or was only a figment of his hell.
In the past, self-pity wasn’t a condition he had tolerated, but that had been when he had a measure of control over his environment. The walk along Decatur to Frenchmen had become a nightly pilgrimage. Listening to Polly Urethane and the Strippers at the Scratchy Dog wasn’t just about seeing Kendell again. Though she was the most real person he’d ever met, the fact that she wouldn’t talk to him made being in her presence a physical pain. Masochism wasn’t his objective. Something about the club drew him across town each night like a fishhook he couldn’t dislodge.
He stopped in front of an empty lot with a concrete floor left over from a torn-down building. The smells of pizza and beer from the neighboring restaurant turned his stomach. Artists had set up tables in the vacant space to distinguish themselves from those willing to sell their wares on blankets along Decatur’s sidewalks. He wandered in to kill a few minutes. Anything beat the air of desperation that accompanied being first in the door at the Scratchy Dog.
Hippie girls sold handmade soaps and jewelry made from feathers. Grungy dudes sat next to their paintings. Their attempts at nonchalant disdain failed to mask their need to make a sale. Torn, dirty jeans, paint-stained hands, and lack of personal hygiene told the true story.
He stood far enough from the displays to avoid being drawn into the banter between artists and their customers. By the time he’d eavesdropped on the third encounter, he thought he could have scripted the exchange—always the same questions and answers. He wondered how the bohemian merchants kept from losing their minds at the monotony.
In the back corner, away from the noisy crowd of tourists, a series of black-and-white pictures made him stop. The camera exposures had been set for so long that everyone and every vehicle had disappeared from the image. All that was left on the film was the French Quarter devoid of life. The photographs gave him a sense of peace he hadn’t noticed while in hell. He flipped through the stack of prints until he found one that had captured a vagrant hunched over on a park bench in Jackson Square. The homeless man had sat still for so long the extended exposure of him hadn’t even blurred.
&
nbsp; “That dude never did wake up. I was almost worried he’d died.”
Colin turned to see a man holding a pizza slice. “You’re the artist?”
“Is it art if I’m just capturing what I see?”
Colin suspected the question was his typical response, meant to draw potential customers in for the kill. “Probably not, but I’ll take this print just the same.” He pulled out his business card along with a wad of cash. “Frame it, and send it to my office.”
The image continued to haunt Colin as he left the street gallery. People were like mannequins in a cheap department store—creepy things to be avoided. But when they were missing, the emptiness highlighted Colin’s sense of life’s futility. It didn’t matter whether someone was a homeless beggar or the city’s richest businessman. Status made no difference when a person was sitting on an empty bench in an empty world.
People were already milling around the Scratchy Dog’s dance floor and ordering drinks when Colin made his way to the comfortable chair next to the sound-mixing console. Though he hadn’t requested preferential treatment, somehow the clean, high-backed well-upholstered chair was always empty when he walked in. He preferred watching the gyrations of the college kids on the dance floor to joining in on the revelry. Being in the middle of the inevitable flirting and grinding only distracted him from the music. Not that Polly Urethane and the Strippers was a great band, but in spite of the activity and noise, he found peace in the club as if he belonged there, though he couldn’t figure out why.
The band struck up the usual set list. He’d given up trying to make eye contact with Kendell. She would know he was there, just as he knew Myles was glaring at him from the bar. Some conflicts didn’t require outward manifestations. Even being despised didn’t disrupt his enjoyment of being present among people enjoying a night of dancing and drinking.
His appreciation wasn’t solely about the music. When members did what they loved and patrons reflected the energy back to the stage, the feeling was palpable. He didn’t need to work up a sweat to be a part of the experience.
As the night wore on, the dance floor filled with people. He stood to stretch his legs and get a better view of the women in their full musical glory. Polly was spinning around like Stevie Nicks, singing “Black Magic Woman.” Her tambourine hit Kendell’s elbow with such force that Kendell’s guitar pick left her fingers and flew over the heads of the dancers. Colin caught the small triangle of plastic as if it were a Mardi Gras throw meant just for him.
* * *
Out in the courtyard, Kendell focused on her beer to avoid making eye contact with the band.
“Fuck!” Polly wasn’t so much pacing as stomping from one end of the courtyard to the other.
“It wasn’t your fault, Polly,” Kendell said.
“The hell it wasn’t. If I hadn’t been so carried away with the music, I wouldn’t have hit your elbow. I know the way his mirror reality works. What I did here in life happened in hell. I let him through the fucking second gate.”
Kendell got up to stop Polly’s ranting. “You don’t understand. It is not your fault. When we agreed to play again, we opened the door to Colin. The Endall side of me saw him not only enjoying the music but being a part of the whole scene. He passed the band’s test. You couldn’t deny him passage. Maybe it was inadvertent, but that’s the way life works sometimes.”
Polly sat on one of the metal chairs with her arms between her legs in a very unladylike fashion. “What do we do now?”
Up until then, Myles had been strangely quiet. “The problem is not just that he’s passed through the second gate. The question is, does he realize he passed through the second gate?”
Everyone went deathly quiet.
“If he did,” Kendell said, “he would know he’s still in hell.”
Lynn stood next to the back door to make sure the private band meeting wasn’t disturbed. “He might not know. He could just be holding onto the guitar pick as a memento of his night on the town. We all know he’s got a little crush on Kendell. It’s not like we set off fireworks just because he passes through one of the gates.”
“Fuck!” Polly yelled again.
Myles stood and started retracing Polly’s steps across the courtyard. “For once, I’m in complete agreement with Polly. We’re fucked. We need to call in Sanguine. If Colin realizes the game we’ve been playing on him, Endall will be in serious trouble.” He stopped in front of Kendell. “I know you want to keep an eye on Sanguine, but if I were Colin, kidnapping Endall would be my first move. Even if Lynn’s right and he doesn’t know he’s passed through the gate, that’s not a risk I’m willing to take with your soul. He’s not dumb. He’ll figure it out eventually.”
“What would your second move be?” Kendell asked. “We didn’t just give him a window into life—we gave him a virtual representation of what we’re doing. A smart person might use that insight to figure out a way to escape. But he’s also managed to pass through two of the seven gates—something we didn’t really think would be possible. Would he try another prison break or continue working toward parole?”
Scraper downed the last of her Jameson’s. “We’re talking about Colin Malveaux. Has anyone considered that he may not want to leave?”
Kendell’s head began to pound. “What do you mean?”
“He’s the devil in a hell that we just made far too comfortable. In the arm-wrestling match for control of the World Trade Center, we tricked him into thinking he’d lost. Imagine him with”—she started ticking off items on her fingers—“one, unlimited power. Two, the supernatural skills he thought he’d lost. Three, full view of what’s happening in life. And four, access to the woman of his dreams. Personally, I’m not sure that’s a position I’d want to give up.”
Kendell felt the Endall side of her cower like a frightened child. “I’d like to be brave and argue I need to stay in hell—that I can deal with Colin—but since it’s just you guys, I’ll confess Scraper’s description scares the hell out of me.”
Minerva leaned against the brick wall next to Scraper. “So we’re just going to leave Sanguine to deal with Colin?”
Myles had lost some of the tenseness in his shoulders once Kendell had acquiesced to his idea of her leaving hell. “Maybe not. If we’re worried that Colin has an advantage in seeing our mirrors in his hell, maybe we can use those same mirrors to our advantage. I’ll need to talk to Professor Yates. Anyone have any thoughts on how to contact Sanguine?”
Kendell put her hand on his arm. “Leave that to Endall. Sanguine hasn’t left her alone for more than half an hour since they teamed up in hell. I’m just worried about our avenging angel’s response.”
* * *
Sanguine did her best not to fly off in a rage while Endall explained the band’s latest fuck up. “Those women are going to be the death of me.”
“It’s not their fault. No one thought Colin would actually learn anything. But now that he has…”
“I have to get you out of hell,” Sanguine finished. “The lure only works so long as we keep the bait out of the mouth of the fish. And you, little one, he’d swallow whole.”
Endall chewed on her thumbnail. “I hate leaving you alone to face Colin.”
“We don’t know if he has figured out about still being in hell. If I do have to face him, it will be without you moderating my actions. This realm is still our creation. He might have had control of his little Erector Set, but Luther once again has the batteries. And Luther has the keys to his playpen. Colin will have to do a lot of explaining to regain access to what he built.”
“I so much wanted to live up to my name,” Endall said, feeling more insecure than usual—the flip side of her enthusiasm onstage.
“Ending Colin once and for all was never your destiny. It’s just nice to know there’s a side of you that understands me better than Kendell lets on. Cheer up. We won—at least for the moment. Now, I’d better reunite you to her before Myles inhabits that puppet of himself and does som
ething stupid.”
“When will you come home?” Endall asked.
She sounded so much like a little girl that Sanguine nearly lost control of her emotions. “I need to discover what Colin is up to. With my ability to read the future, I see three likely directions. Scraper could be right that Colin will accept his place in hell. All I have to do is stay out of his way, and he’ll think he’s in charge. That path branches off, though. Once he’s figured out that those around him are just projections and not real people, boredom will set in. Then he becomes dangerous. He’s not the type to slowly go through the gates once he becomes restless. On the other hand, for the most part, he doesn’t give a damn about others, so he may not even care that they’re not real. If he reaches that point of awareness but uncaring, and he and I cross paths, he might choose to attempt the remaining gates as his way of challenging me. He wouldn’t be looking for redemption as much as proving he can defeat all of us.”
Endall wrapped her arms around her stomach as if she were about to be sick. “Don’t forget, Myles gave him the ability to empathize. Since he can see our improvement to hell, that characteristic must have kicked in. What’s the third option?”
“If he sees you before I get you back to where you belong, he’ll become obsessed with hunting you down. That look of vulnerability you’re unable to hide will work like a drug on him. He’ll become addicted to dominating you just as Baron Malveaux was addicted to turning women into prostitutes. If that happens, there will be no stopping him from his original idea of punching a hole between hell and life so he can partake of both worlds. That’s why we have to get you out of here before he realizes he’s still in hell.”
Endall looked at the door and rocked in her chair. “Can you fly me to Delphine’s shop?”
“He’d see us for sure from his penthouse. One look at me flying, and he’ll know he’s in hell.”
