“Kingston …” he reflected. “He was Coroebus, I think—he was after the surfer. Check.”
“Also, some guy named Vasquez sent pictures of the redheaded twins. He found them in Ontario.”
“Vasquez found his Twins? Good year indeed.”
The document now looks like this:
“ ‘On field’ means the researcher is traveling to the probable location,” Caleb explained. “ ‘Quit’ means he has given up. You can always do that if you’re completely lost or just exhausted. Many people just quit around this time of year. It’s like taking a holiday. Busying yourself with other things is supposed to make nights easier.”
“ ‘Elpenors are early quitters,’ ” I quoted.
“That’s Society jargon,” he acknowledged. “The Soul is always a very brief vision—you can hardly scrape anything from it—so whoever lands with it ends up taking an early vacation. This year it was in West Africa, I think.”
Shirtless man peers over his shoulder. He feels me.
“What does ‘gone’ mean?” I asked, tapping on the sixth line.
“That the subject is probably dead. Quite often, your final act is the one by which the Eye nominates you.”
The book falls out of my hand. A fountain sings outside the Moorish window.
I pointed at the triple question mark on the Prometheus row. “Prometheus is number 18.” I’m holding two fives. Poker face. “The skeleton, right?”
“Right. Hard to tell, isn’t it?”
I had to smile at the tired resignation in his words.
“But … how do you accept that?”
“I have no reason not to. I just found a Phoenix. I entered the cottage and everything—what is left of it, at least. It was not a god’s dream; it happened. The Eye sees everything happening on Earth. Actually, farther: An astronaut on the moon became the Nobleman in 1969; we never could tell whether it was Armstrong or Aldrin. We know who JFK’s assassin was: the Eye made him King in 1963. There are secret streams of events you and I ignore running underground, a parallel history with its own battles and villains. And heroes: Recently, a kid prevented a terrorist bomb from going off in a crowded station in London; no one noticed; probably saved hundreds of lives: Watcher, 1991. So, the Eye says somewhere, right now, some people are playing poker with a skeleton. Yes, I accept that.”
I looked back at the ledger page.
“ ‘Betty’?” I pointed.
“Oh, yes, Betty. She’s one of the Eye’s favorites. Also one of the most traumatic almost every year. ‘Heracles always quit,’ ” he epigrammed. “The Juggernaut’s visions are too far-fetched to put in context. Especially Betty’s. Her deeds, her life, her … universe is so otherworldly, you just don’t know where to begin.”
I plummet down to Earth. The highest altitude a pair of Puma training shoes ever reached. I crash-land on the rooftop.
“How can you be sure it’s a woman? I can’t picture her face.”
“We have all seen her already. Besides, we know her shoes.”
“How come I see that vision in the first person, and I do so when they pull my eyeball out, but then, in the Monster vision, I feel I am the victim, not the killer? And in the Twins, I can see both. It’s like the camera changes.”
“You must not think in television terms; it’s … Well, it’s not a camera. You can see everything, really; with practice, you assume some control to focus on the details you want. I think by default the brain just assumes the role it relates to. And most people witnessing a murder empathize with the victim, not the killer. We have seen Betty’s face other years; I guess this year there were no witnesses of her action but herself.”
“Why did you name her Betty?”
“The senior members say it’s her name. As legend goes, one year, in a vision, somebody said, ‘Betty,’ and she turned. She is a peculiar case, though. Curtis, our historian, must have more accurate data, but I don’t think we have seen more than two or three people who make it into the Twenty more than once in a lifetime. Whereas Betty … If I am not mistaken, she has been the Juggernaut sixty-six times since 1900.”
“That makes her, like, a hundred years old,” I objected.
He looked at me again, eyebrows arching naively.
“As I told you: realities you’re totally unaware of.”
The clock struck three. Caleb put down his pen and stood up.
“Whether we hold this year’s meeting or not,” he said, “Curtis Knox must be contacted immediately.”
“By all means.”
“And if we were to hold it, invitations ought to have been in the mail a week ago.”
“You’d better get to work, then.”
“And the exact time of the solstice must be found out to calculate the time of the showdown.”
“Go ahead.”
“And logistic preparations must be made.”
“Niamh and I will take care of everything.”
“And this doesn’t mean the game is not over,” he pointed out, inching a little closer. “Once they are all informed, the Society shall decide.”
“If the game’s over, I keep the Eye,” I said. “No reason for you to have it.”
He deliberated for 2.83 seconds.
“Deal.”
And we shook hands.
VIDEO RECORDING
* * *
BEDROOM SAT DEC-9-1995 23:59:00
NIAMH is sitting on the bed, all alone, her voice recorder playing on her lap, HELP curled up at her feet.
CALEB (REC): And this doesn’t mean the game is not over. Once they are all informed, the Society shall decide.
A. (REC): If the game is over, I keep the Eye. No reason for you to have it.
[2.83 seconds blank.]
CALEB (REC): Deal.
[Niamh victoriously pulls the whistle cord on an imaginary steam locomotive.]
SECURITY VIDEOTAPE: INTERROGATION ROOM VIRGINIA STATE POLICE, AREA 35 OFFICE, EMPORIA
* * *
12/22/1995 14:02
A bald GIRL sits alone, facing the door. She wears a bulky anorak over an undershirt and heavy-duty boots. Her legs are naked. A vending-machine sandwich is neglected on the table before her.
[Door opens; enter Deputy TED Miller in uniform and Detective MORGAN Summers in plain clothes, reading from a report.]
MORGAN: —roadblocks are on, but not nearly quick enough.
TED: Hey, we did what we could. The Ponopah sheriff was way out of his league. [Leans on the table, back turned to the girl.] Maybe we should give the troopers a chance; I don’t feel like pulling out a statement from Miss Chemotherapy here.
MORGAN: Shut up.
TED: I’m serious. Did you know the house was rigged up with cameras? Well, she says she forgot to change the tape this morning.
MORGAN: There’s no need to be rude.
TED: It’s okay; she can’t read me from there. She’s deaf-dumb.
[The girl springs onto the chair and pitches the sandwich at Ted. Most of the bread bounces off, but lettuce and ham stick to the back of his head thanks to the adherent power of industrial mayo. He hardly flinches, his mistake sinking in as tomato sinks into his shirt.]
MORGAN: [Reading, quietly.] Actually, she’s just dumb—and I think they prefer the term “mute.”
TED: [Sighs for patience.] Yeah, well.
MORGAN: Maybe I should take care of her.
TED: Be my guest.
[Ted leaves the room, not even glancing back. Door closes behind him.]
[The girl sits down again. The detective takes a chair and relocates it to the suspect’s left. He sits down, lays down the report and another pile of papers he was carrying.]
MORGAN: Okay, Niyam … Is that how you pronounce it?
NIAMH: [Not looking, shakes her head, mouths something.]
MORGAN: Come again?
NIAMH: [Now looking up, mouths her name.]
MORGAN: “Niff.” “Neeve!” I see. Okay. [Reading the report.] Well, Neve, I understand you
waived your two phone calls … [He mentally ascertains the absurdity of what he just said, then resumes:] So, we’re supposed to appoint a lawyer for you, but our juvenile was off today; he’s on his way now. And we don’t have a sign interpreter either, but … we really need a statement now.
[He waits for an answer. She just stares at the table.]
I have a daughter your age. [Pause.] She doesn’t talk to me either.
[He leans back, then pushes the bulk he was carrying toward her—it turns out to be a whole pack of blank copy paper, which he tops with a pen.]
So, Neve, I think you have a considerable amount of prose to write. Do you think you could start ahead, and let your attorney check later?
NIAMH: [She snorts: first sound she utters. Then signs assent and takes the pen.]
MORGAN: Good. Thank you.
[She starts writing. At first, the detective seems to inspect her hand for a minute. Then he stands up, choosing to be useful.]
I’ll get you another sandwich. And some pants.
[Morgan exits the room. She keeps writing.]
December 21
VIDEO RECORDING
* * *
KITCHEN THU DEC-21-1995 17:00:00
The red-clothed counter is populated by a colorful banquet of garnished dishes like stars parading on a red carpet. A hefty cookbook is open between the casserole and the tuna-filled eggs. The oven is on. On the stove, pasta is boiling along with another two steaming pots. NIAMH is shaping meatballs. Her hair is completely buzz-cut, an ashen shade on her skull.
At her feet, tail wagging at more than ninety beats per minute, HELP waits for anything edible to fall on the floor.
[Niamh taunts him with a meatball, gives two short whistles. Help stands on his hind legs, yearning for the bite.]
[DOORBELL.]
[Help forgets about the appetizer, barking himself silly. Niamh tries to make him sit, to no effect.]
A.’S DIARY
* * *
After Edward Cutler came an Asian man—Ken Matsuo. He is a second-generation member and the second-youngest at thirty-eight. He also looked the least Victorian so far. Whereas suits seem to pull Caleb and Cutler back in time, Matsuo’s looked fashionable and slick, the kind that belongs in post-Oscar parties. I regretted having nothing better than jeans for the big evening.
“You’re only the second to arrive; what’s wrong with you?” Caleb greeted him while they hugged. Apparently, winners are usually the first to come in, eager to share their success.
“And you must be the new Mr. Wells,” Matsuo said, bowing courteously before offering his hand. His smile reconciled a mournful reminder for the late host and an optimistic view on the new one. I liked him. “I had an easy and yet difficult task this year,” he explained. “I was—”
“Tyche, I know. We got your fax. You chased the Greek Scrabble player. Not much to begin with.”
“Even small countries look enormous when your only clue is a kitchen.”
Cutler rejoined us and I guided them to the dining room. Niamh and I wanted to make sure that our preparations lived up to my predecessor’s. They weren’t disappointed. The table looked splendid with the low lights and the dusk behind the windows, and that peculiar blue glow behind the fourth window, which is blocked by the swimming pool.
“This is Help,” I announced on the entry of the barking hurricane, inviting the guests to let him sniff their pants and get acquainted. “You must excuse him; he gets excited in the presence of other vertebrates. And this is my partner, Niamh Connell.”
If they were baffled by her new hairstyle (or lack thereof), which she chose to adopt only yesterday, they hid it pretty well. Cutler was caught a little off guard, I think: He seemed to freeze for a second, a hand stretched out, staring at her as though he’d just seen the last thing he expected to meet here tonight. Which perhaps she was: a minor, a woman, and a cook, all in one person. But then, while shaking her hand, he was genuinely nice. He’d struck me as the kind of uptight gentleman who would frown disapprovingly at hippies in San Francisco (where he comes from), but he proved to be no challenge to Niamh’s natural charm. He looked well over sixty, short but strong and good-humored. Most likely because he had won.
“Am I miscounting, or are there twenty-one seats?” noticed Matsuo.
“You’re not miscounting,” I answered. “This year we don’t ditch the cook. She knows everything anyway.”
Niamh skipped to a new page on her notepad:
Don’t worry. I won’t speak.
The doorbell rang again, and Help had a new seizure. Caleb went to open the door and ushered in Curtis Knox—a tense moment I was willing to avoid.
“Well, I think you two know each other already,” Caleb said when we met in the foyer.
“Good evening,” I said, shaking his hand. “Did you get that thing in the mail you were expecting?”
“I get lots of interesting things in the mail these days, yes,” he acknowledged. “Thanks for asking.”
Niamh greeted him too, then excused herself, gesturing that she had to put something in the oven, or give someone a ride in a rickshaw. Caleb asked Knox about Philip Beauregard, who still had not confirmed; it was Caleb’s first concern at the moment.
“I’m afraid I don’t have any news,” Knox said. “I hadn’t contacted anyone until two weeks ago; I had been waiting for a signal from Ambrose. And then, just as I reached out to Kingston, Stillwall, and Black to expose the problem, you returned.”
“It has been a peculiar year,” Caleb acknowledged. The euphemistic choice of the word didn’t make up for his tone. “And yet a good one,” he explained to us all. “Five founds this year.”
There were approving ohs and nods from the others, except Knox, who spotted the perfect moment to bring forth the folder he was carrying.
“Six. Throw in a Nobleman too.”
The ovation grew louder. We moved on to the music room, where Knox spread the contents of the folder over the piano. Among other things, there was a picture of a gravestone with a crescent moon, one of a Moorish house with arched windows, some Arabic newspapers, and a book.
“His name was Yusuf el-Tahtawi, a math teacher in Alexandria, Egypt. He died in his house at the age of sixty-nine upon reading the last verse in a compilation of poetry of Al-Andalus. His edition was different, but I think it’s this one.”
I couldn’t make out a single character.
“Six!” exclaimed Matsuo. “We matched the standing record!”
“How rare is a Nobleman?” asked Cutler.
“I think Beauregard found one, like, ten years ago.”
“How come you didn’t report until now?” I asked Knox.
“Well, I knew Ambrose wasn’t here, so why bother?”
“The finding is quite recent, then,” put in Matsuo.
“Yes, I only was on field last month. I’d found his obituary on the Internet.”
I excused myself while the others praised the new era of information.
I locked myself inside Ambrose’s office, picked up the phone and Ambrose’s red notebook, and dialed a number in Lawrenceville. I was hoping Knox had servants too.
“Hello?”
“Hello. Could I speak to Curtis, please?”
“I am sorry, Mr. Knox is away for a long weekend. Can I take a message?”
“Oh, I suppose he’s still in Egypt.”
“No, sir, he returned from Egypt two weeks ago. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking, sir?”
“Oh, really? How long has he been away then?”
“Exactly a month, sir. From November the sixth to December the fifth.”
“I see. Okay. Thank you. Please tell him I called.”
“Sir, I didn’t catch your—”
I hung up.
And probably swore in mumbles.
KITCHEN THU DEC-21-1995 17:43:28
NIAMH is stirring the contents of a pot on the stove.
[A. wanders in, gazing at the food; he leans on the sink, p
ensive. She offers a spoonful of chowder to him.]
[A ignores the invitation.]
A.: Be nice to Knox. He’s not the bad guy.
NIAMH: [Astonished; her nive has faded away. She shakes her head in disagreement.]
A.: Knox went to Egypt the day after his first visit, November the sixth, and returned one month later. The break-in here was on November the seventh. He didn’t do it.
NIAMH: [Tosses the wooden spoon in the pot, goes for her notepad.]
A.: I know, we said he could have hired someone, but no. Would you hire a housebreaker to steal something for you the same day you go on a trip? It’s stupid. You’d wait until you come back; it’s safer here, in our house, than in the hands of a rental burglar.
NIAMH: [Frozen, hasn’t had time to write a single line.]
A.: We need another suspect. [Beat.] It’s okay; they keep coming; we’ll soon have a roomful of them.
NIAMH: [Starts writing again, shows notepad.]
—Maybe I’m overly suspicious, but Help going MAD.
—Yeah, I noticed. We should get him a room too. Put him away in the office, just in case one of them tries the safe again.
AUDIO RECORDING
* * *
[In the background: clink of glasses and silver and several conversations by the far end of the table.]
CUTLER: —nyway, but … I thought that it’s the audience that makes it the best song in the world. The record is a different experience; it’s evocative. But when I went to the club and saw her in person, and saw those people dancing to her beat, like … well, it was ecstasy. Like a voodoo ritual. There I saw it. She’s a genius not because of the merit of her composition, but because of the way she reaches into people’s souls, into their primitive core.
The Supernatural Enhancements Page 21
