by Glen Cook
I told him, “First we’ll talk about who’s been trying to kill you.”
Doom let out a howl. Everybody jumped. A flash filled the room. I’m no pro but that didn’t feel right. “You all right?” I asked.
He gasped, “It’s fighting me. But I’ll get it here. Stay out of my way and don’t bother me.”
It took him a few minutes more.
Eleanor materialized at the foot of Stantnor’s bed. But not as Eleanor. Not right away. First she did a good Snake Bradon, then a less credible Cutter Hawkes before surrendering to Doom’s will. I compared her to the portrait they said Stantnor stared at all the time. It didn’t look much like her and nothing like the woman in Bradon’s painting.
Stantnor’s eyes got huge. He sat up straight. “No!” he squeaked. He threw up an arm to shield his eyes. “No! Get her away!” He started whimpering like a whipped child. “Get her out of here!”
“You said my job was to make you face the truth no matter how unpleasant that truth might be, General. One truth I’ve uncovered is this. I’m going to enjoy making you face it. The woman you tortured and murdered—”
Jennifer burst out, “He killed her? My mother? It wasn’t a doctor?” She staggered.
“Keep her under control, Morley.” Morley left the door, moved to support her. She started blubbering. Words dribbled out but none of them made sense.
Stantnor sputtered like he was going to run a bluff. Spittle ran down his chin. He couldn’t talk. He was too rattled. He looked like he might have the stroke Jennifer had predicted.
I faced Eleanor. “Go now. Rest. You’ve done enough. It doesn’t become you. Don’t darken your soul any more.” Our eyes locked. We stared at one another till the others grew restless. I said, “Please?” And wasn’t quite sure what I was pleading for.
“She’ll rest easy, Mr. Garrett,” Doom said, gently. “That’s a promise.”
“Turn her loose, then. She doesn’t need . . . ” I shut my mouth before I said something that might cause me more trouble than I could handle. I closed my eyes, got myself under control. When I opened them Eleanor was little more than a wraith.
She smiled for me. Good-bye.
“Good-bye.”
I took another minute before I faced the old man. He was gasping and wheezing but less distressed. “I brought along a little something for you to remember her by, General. You’ll love it.” I took down the junk portrait of Eleanor, flipped it away, replaced it with Bradon’s masterpiece. “Isn’t that better?”
Stantnor stared at it. And the longer he stared the more terrified he became.
He screamed.
I looked at the portrait.
I damned near screamed.
I can’t tell you what it was. It hadn’t changed in any obvious way but it had changed. It told Eleanor’s story. You couldn’t look at it and not be crushed by her pain and her fear of the thing that pursued her, that mad shadow that wore the face of a young Stantnor.
I tore my gaze away just before Doom did it for me. He told me, “You still have work to do.” His voice was soft and calm. It reached way down inside me, like the Dead Man’s can, and gentled that part of me about to stumble over the brink.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“I want him to know he has to spend the rest of his life looking at that.”
“Not now. Let’s go on.”
“You’re right. Of course. Peters, get his attention away from the painting for a minute.”
Peters turned the old man’s head. I watched madness fade from Stantnor’s eyes . . . No, it wasn’t madness. Not exactly. He’d just been focused on something far away, that only he could see. On his own vision of hell. He was back now. For a few minutes, at least.
“I have another present for you,” I told him. “You’ll like this one, too.” To make sure he paid attention I turned Eleanor’s portrait to the wall. I replaced it with Snake’s last portrait of Jennifer. “Your lovely daughter, so like her father.”
Jennifer screamed. She threw herself forward. Morley caught her in a painful comealong. She didn’t notice the pain.
Cook stopped feeding the fire, elbowed Morley aside, took Jennifer into her arms, took the knife away from her, controlled her, held her, wept over her, murmured, “My baby, my baby. My poor sick baby.” Nobody else said anything. Everybody knew. Even the General knew.
“There’s why your stable burned. That painting. She sat for Bradon several times. But Snake Bradon had an eye that could see the true soul. Which is probably why he retreated from the world. A man with his eye would see a lot of awful truths.
“I look for truth but this time I didn’t see it soon enough. Maybe I didn’t want to. Like so many of the darkest evils, this one came in a beautiful package. Maybe the painting of Eleanor preoccupied me too much. Maybe I should have studied this one more closely.”
Stantnor interrupted.
“Eight murders, General. Your baby killed eight mostly good men. Four she lured to the swamp on the Melchior place.” Once I’d accepted Jennifer as the villain the pieces had fallen together. “Took a while but I finally figured what they had in common. They were all chasers. She pretended she was catchable. She got them out there and killed them and dropped them in. That got her past the stumbling block I came up against whenever I wondered if she might be the killer. How did she move the bodies? I missed the obvious answer, that she got them to move themselves. The heaviest work she ever did was shove Chain off the fourth-floor balcony and drop a suit of armor on Kaid.
“Maybe I was slow because the murders weren’t the kind you associate with women. I just didn’t face the fact that in a house full of Marines everybody might think like Marines and be straightforward and bloody. Who’d picture a woman being daring enough to take on a trained commando with a Kef sidhe strangler’s cord?”
I looked at Jennifer, thought of our stroll to the graveyard. She’d planned to kill me out there, I knew now. I’d offered her an unexpected moment of kindness. That had saved my life and had cost her her chance to get away with everything.
“I know who and how. But I sure as hell don’t understand why.”
She cracked. She laughed and wept and talked a yard a second and never made a lick of sense. It seemed to have to do with a fear that, if there were any heirs but her and Cook, parts of the estate would get sold off and once it was dismembered she’d be forced to leave for that deadly world she’d visited only once, when she was fourteen.
I was wrong about one thing. She hadn’t committed eight murders. She’d committed eleven. She’d done in the three men whose deaths had seemed natural or accidental. She admitted it. She bragged about it. She laughed because she’d made fools of everybody till now.
Stantnor stared at her the whole time, aghast. I knew what he was thinking. What had he done to deserve this?
I started to tell him.
“Garrett!” Morley took hold of my arm.
“What?”
“It’s time to go. The job’s done.”
Doom had gone already, his part complete, Eleanor laid to rest. Cook was trying to comfort and control Jennifer and to work out some separate peace with herself. The girl wasn’t the daughter of her flesh, but . . . Stantnor had become fixated on his daughter’s portrait, seeing deeper than anyone but Bradon had. Maybe seeing the hand he’d had in creating a monster. I had no pity for him. I did try to find it. It just wasn’t there.
Then he had one of his fits.
This one went on and on and on.
“Garrett. It’s time to go.”
The old man was dying. Rough. Morley didn’t want to stay for the show.
Peters just stood there, numb, doing nothing. He didn’t know what to do. I did pity him.
I shook off the hold emotion had on me. I told Morley, “Stantnor owes me. I spent my whole fee and then some getting him his answers. It don’t look like he’ll hang around to be billed.”
He looked at me weird. That kind of cold remark wasn’t in character.
“Don’t,” he said, though he had no idea what I was going to do. “Let’s just go. Forget it. I won’t charge you for my time.”
“No.” I snagged the painting of Eleanor. “My fee. An original Bradon.” The General didn’t argue. He was busy dying. I looked at Peters. He just shrugged. He didn’t care.
Morley snapped, “Garrett!” He was sure I was going to do something I’d regret.
“Wait a damned minute!” I still had a responsibility here. “Cook, what’re you going to do?”
She looked at me like I’d asked the dumbest question possible. “What I always done, boy. Look after the place.”
“Get hold of me if I can do anything.” Then I followed Morley. I didn’t think another thought about the old man. If there’d been a doctor outside who could have saved him, I doubt it would have occurred to me to mention his distress.
Peters was at the vestibule door when Morley and I got there, carrying paintings and my stuff. He was staring at the great hall the way I’d stared at Bradon’s painting of the swamp and hanged man. He had a shovel in one hand. He had graves to dig. I wondered if anybody would bother giving Stantnor a marker. He said, “I don’t think I can say thanks, Garrett. You came when I called, but I don’t think I’d have visited you if I’d known—”
“I wouldn’t have come if I’d known. We’re even. What’re you going to do?”
“Bury the dead, then go somewhere. Maybe back into the corps. They’ll need veterans with Mooncalled running amok. And it’s all I know, anyway.”
“Yeah. Good luck. See you again someday, Sarge.”
“Sure.” We both knew we’d never see one another again.
A terrible scream came from upstairs. It went on and on till it seemed no human throat could have produced it. We all looked up. Peters said, “I guess he’s dead.” He said it with a complete lack of passion.
The scream came again. Now it was filled with mad rage. Cook boomed, “Miss Jenny, you come back here!”
The girl had cracked completely. She flew out of the fourth-floor hallway carrying a dagger, screaming. Shocked, I realized she was yelling my name.
“Get moving, Garrett,” Morley said. He’d seen berserkers before. Even a ninety-five-pound woman could tear me apart.
She was so far out of her mind, she didn’t know where she was. Realization hit her too late. She hit the balcony rail full speed.
The heroic knight caught her in his lap. Broken, she dribbled down off him, wound up at one of the dragon’s feet. She looked like the monster’s prey. The hero had come to her rescue moments too late.
But this hero had been way too late to save anybody.
I turned and walked. Morley stayed behind me, just in case I did some damnfool thing like try to go back.
Morley and I didn’t talk much on the way home. Once I muttered something about finding another line of work, and he just told me not to be a damned fool. I asked if he’d filled his pockets while he was there, or planned to drop back in some midnight. Usually if I ask something like that he just looks at me like he hasn’t got the faintest idea what I’m talking about.
“I wouldn’t take anything out of that place if you paid me, Garrett. Not if you begged me. There’s a darkness in every stone, every thing, in there.”
We didn’t talk again till we were coming up Macunado Street toward my house. Then he said, “Go in there and get roaring drunk. Falling down, puking drunk. Get the poison out.”
“That’s the best idea you’ve had in years.”
43
Dean let me in. He looked older and leaner, though it’d been only a few days. “Mr. Garrett. We were concerned, not hearing from you for so long.”
“We?” I grumbled. He was going to fuss over me.
“Him.” He jerked his head toward the Dead Man’s room. “He’s been awake since you left. Expecting you to ask for help.”
“I handled this one alone.” Boy, did I handle it.
“Oh.” He’d gotten the sense of my mood. “Guess I’d better draw one.”
“I might drink a whole barrel.”
“That bad?”
“Worse. Find me a hammer, too.” I eased into my office, checked the spot where I meant to hang Eleanor.
Dean went. He moved with a swiftness I should remember next time he went at his customary snail’s pace. He was back with a beer, a hammer, and a cup of nails in less than a minute. I drained the beer mug. “More.”
“I’ll start a meal, too. You look like you could use one.”
Old sneak. Going to get something on my stomach before I started my serious drinking. “I did miss your cooking where I was.” I drove a nail into the wall. Dean brought beery reinforcements before I unwrapped Eleanor. This time he brought a pitcher as well as a mug.
I unwrapped the lady and hung her, stepped back.
It wasn’t the same picture.
Well, yes, it was. But something had changed. The intensity, the passion, the horror weren’t there. But it looked the same. Except Eleanor seemed to be smiling. She seemed to be running to something instead of from something.
No. It was the same. Nothing had changed but me. I turned my back on it. Snake Bradon hadn’t been that great a painter.
I glanced over my shoulder. Eleanor smiled at me.
I downed another mug.
Dean scurried off to get something cooking before I downed enough to pass out.
The Dead Man dragged me into his room almost against my will and dragged the story out of me. He didn’t criticize, which was unusual. We didn’t get into an argument, despite my best efforts. Instead of climbing all over me for my mistakes, for not having recognized that Jennifer was crazy and a killer earlier than I had, he made thoughtful sounds in my mind. When I finished he meandered off on an extended review of the latest news from the Cantard.
I got interested despite myself.
Glory Mooncalled had attacked Full Harbor. He’d postured and threatened too much. He’d had to prove he wasn’t all wind. He’d done his damnedest, launching night attacks from the sea and air, using Cantard creatures. He’d tried to capture the city gates so he could get his ground troops inside. And he’d gotten his ass whipped. Just as I’d predicted.
“There goes the myth of his invincibility,” I told the Dead Man.
He responded with a huge mental chuckle. Not at all. Now they will chase after him, to finish him off. Into his country.
“Oh.”
So. If he whipped them out there, there wouldn’t be enough defenders to hold the city next time he attacked. Maybe. And our boys would chase him. In a mob. We don’t have enough competent commanders. Our last really capable man retired three years ago.
I am curious, Garrett. Why would the woman hit you in the head in the sergeant’s quarters? You had rendered yourself immune by plying her with your adolescent charm. He couldn’t resist getting in a small needle here and there.
“I don’t think she wanted to kill me. She just wanted to get the copy of the will before I did.”
Why?
I had the feeling he’d figured it out and wanted to see if I had. “For exactly the opposite of the reason I assumed at the time. She wanted to destroy it. If she could get rid of the copies, she wouldn’t need to kill people. There’d be no evidence there were any other heirs. The law would pass the estate to her. No dismemberment, no need for her to leave.”
And how did she know where to find the copy?
“I think she was behind the wall listening when I talked to Peters. I think a lot of the time she was supposed to be in her rooms, she was creeping around in the walls, listening in. Look, I really don’t want to talk about it. . . . I have one for you. Why did Eleanor pretend to be Morley? And how could she do it so slick that I never suspected a thing?”
She did it because she wanted to know more about you. Your fatal charm again. You had caught her eye. How is quite simple. Especially for one with her antecedents. She simply opened your mind and made herself a mirror. She did not
have to know a thing about Mr. Dotes, she just had to make you think she did. You did all the work. Almost like a dream.
There was an implication, remote, that I didn’t like. If Eleanor had been inside my head, she knew all about why I was there. She probably could have told me about Jennifer any time. She could have saved . . . I didn’t want to think about it. “That’s a little much to swallow.”
Watch.
Suddenly that fifth of a ton of dead meat was gone, and in his place was a guy named Denny Tate who was so real, we talked about things the Dead Man couldn’t possibly know.
Solid proof. Rock solid. Denny Tate had been dead more than a year. A good choice by the Dead Man. I couldn’t call it a trick. He wasn’t somebody who could be sneaked in for a little sleight of eye. And Denny was one of the few people important to me who’d died untimely without violence. The silly sack had fallen off a horse and broken his neck. “Enough, Old Bones. I’m a believer.”
Denny Tate vanished. What replaced him was ugly as sin but I didn’t tell him so. Not today.
My mood hadn’t vanished. I almost asked him to conjure Eleanor.
Man, a guy could set up a hell of a racket faking calling up the dearly departed.
Think about something else, the Dead Man suggested.
“I’d love to, Chuckles. But it isn’t that easy.” Hell. I couldn’t do anything right. Not even get drunk. I was barely light-headed.
You need a distraction.
“Right.” So conjure me a miracle, Old Bones.
Somebody hammered on the front door.
The Dead Man is dead. In the flesh, anyway. But I swear he looked like he was smiling.
Dean hollered, “Can you get that, Mr. Garrett? I’m right in the middle, here. I’ve got both hands full.”
Muttering, I stomped down the hall and flung the door open without bothering to look first. “Maya?”
“Hi, Garrett.” Bright, perky, like she’d never been gone, except maybe to step around the corner. She walked in like she belonged. Which she did.
As I started to close the door I caught a glimpse of Morley Dotes holding up a wall down the street, smiling.
That slick bastard. He’d sent Dojango ahead to set this up. I bet he knew where Maya was all along. Maybe they all had.
