MATSUO: I’d say it’s quite balanced.
KNOX: I’d say the loved one is more often a woman.
A.: That makes sense.
KITCHEN THU DEC-21-1995 23:51:02
CUTLER and VASQUEZ, in the same position we left them.
[Enter LONG, carrying an empty decanter.]
LONG: Gentlemen. [Heads for the liquors.]
VASQUEZ: Hey, Silas, you gotta listen to this.
LONG: [Uninterested.] I heard it already. It’s crazy.
CUTLER: It’s not! Just look at her face!
LONG: Edward, really, stop it. It’s impossible.
VASQUEZ: I never saw her face.
CUTLER: Look, I’ve been playing this game for thirty-three years. I am well trained. I can focus. I saw her face then, and I saw it again today!
VASQUEZ: How can you be so sure? How long’s it been, five years?
CUTLER: Four. I was Leonidas; I was after that black smiling hunter-gatherer girl in the desert, and right after that it was her!
LONG: Edward. Please listen to me. Do you know what the odds are of someone you’ve seen through the Eye just turning up by pure chance?
CUTLER: Well, I’ve seen quite a few already: twenty a year, for thirty-three years—
LONG: [Interrupting.] Twenty times thirty-three against SIX BILLION! It’s impossible!
[Enter NIAMH. The conversation is interrupted. She smiles at the guests on her way to the fridge.]
VASQUEZ: Hello.
[The others just nod courteously; Cutler and Vasquez pick at the leftovers. Niamh gets a bag of ice from the freezer and exits with a new good-bye grin.]
[Once she’s out, the conversation is resumed.]
VASQUEZ: Who was Hector that year?
CUTLER: Hyde just reminded me: It was Beauregard.
VASQUEZ: Damn.
CUTLER: [To Long.] Look, you don’t believe it, let’s check the Archives.
VASQUEZ: What for? The file will be incomplete: She was a quit.
CUTLER: There will be a recording.
[Long checks his watch. Then looks at Cutler.]
LONG: The Archives. Down in the vault.
[Cutler stays in affirmative silence. Long sighs, pours himself another brandy.]
MUSIC ROOM THU DEC-21-1995 23:52:33
FORD, KNOX, MATSUO, A., and NIAMH remain silent, drinks in their hands.
[A door opens off frame. Enter a new group of Victorian gentlemen. One of them carries a pool cue.]
HANDHELD CAMERA
* * *
Like amontillado seekers, the Victorian men flow along the flanks against the garden lights sifting through the basement windows, footsteps drumming on the concrete floor. The vanguard turns left around the wine racks, ranks closing in, clearing up again shortly after as they arrive at the shiny stainless-steel vault and form a semicircle around it by the aqueous green-blue light of the flooded end of the basement.
The camera tunnels through the crowd to reach the first row, right in front of the oblivious blond-mustachioed general standing ceremoniously by the steel door, watching the formation of gentlemen in suits, and the camera scans the men behind the general, zooming and panning through Stillwall’s white muttonchops and Vasquez’s corsairlike hair, and the slanted eyes of Matsuo, who smirks and winks at the camera before returning his attention to the general, who is just now receiving from A. the four-sided key.
And the key is placed and twisted in the cruciform lock, and the door coughs its hydraulic wheeze, and quickly the men on the right flank gather to pull it open, and the camera looks into the black depths of the vault as A. and the general step in and plunge into the blackness, and it hurries to follow them watching the Chucks jump over the step, and fades to black.
The light switch snaps. And the army, now parchment-colored in the medieval light of the spherical chamber, aligns again around the central stand topped by a blanket, which the general pulls to introduce the Eye to a public sigh of recognition, the crystal ball droning self-consciously, breathing imperceptibly, a mist of dark oceans and galaxies swirling across its surface. And over the Orb, Knox’s blue eyes glare into the camera and he says,
“Welcome to the rest of your sleepless life.”
Knox, as the historian, or perhaps unrelated to that role, was the one in charge of channeling the recall into a blank sphere, for which another supporting stand (another birdbath upside down, I’d say) had been pulled forward. In order to record, one needs to touch both spheres at the same time.
Caleb checked his watch and waved the others to gather. It’s easy to get distracted in a room you step into only once a year; Cutler and Vasquez and some others were skimming through some unsorted files.
“Gentlemen,” warned Ford, “the sun will rise in Amr at exactly …”
And suddenly something in the Eye faded out.
Do you know that feeling when a background noise you weren’t aware of suddenly stops? This happened, but not only inside the vault. It was like a sound that had been going on for years, that I had listened to unconsciously all my life, was stolen from Earth.
“Quick, your hands.”
The Eye is roughly the size of a volleyball, so twenty people cannot possibly place their hands on it at once; our fingertips would have to do (I guess they have, all these years). I shouldered my way in between Matsuo and somebody else; then Niamh squeezed in, after leaving the camera propped outside the circle, on a little desk used to revise the files. Her miniature hand hesitated in the vicinity of the sphere; her eyes queried me; I signed it was safe to touch now. The electric charge was minimal, the kind that gives metal the feel of velvet. It was awkward, but not unpleasant. Across from us, Knox, standing sideways, stretched his left arm backward to reach the blank sphere.
Caleb calls this minute “the recap phase.” We spent most of it in silence.
I was about to bring up what Ambrose Wells wrote in his posthumous letter to Knox: “That some year, maybe not this one, hopefully not the next, but some year, it will be so dreadful, we will not last a single night.”
“Fifty bucks says the Juggernaut’s not Betty this year,” said Vasquez.
“Deal,” said three voices at once.
“Fifty the Mother’s in Yugoslavia,” said Kingston.
“Deal.”
“Fifty the Nobleman’s an American.”
“Is that unlikely?” I whispered to Matsuo.
I never got the answer; the Eye spoke first.
—the jolt sweeps through their bodies, snapping their spines straight, shoving them apart while tying their hands together harder, and they twitch again in the first second, Niamh’s legs almost failing, bald head pulled back, but her stretched arm stays anchored on the center of the circle with the others, eyes closed, and no one moves, or perhaps they do; maybe they’re shaking slightly, trembling, but it might be that the camera has paused, and the halted head is reading the same frame in a loop, or maybe they don’t, because you can see A. pulling his head farther back at some moment and separating his lips, and then there is almost a collective sigh, at which they all seem to realize at once that their lungs are still working, and some of them choose to take some oxygen in quickly, until a general gasp cuts their breath away, and A.’s arm is now clearly shaking between his frozen torso and the middle of the circle, whence a new gasp is generated. And then a jerk of pain. And a snort. And a jerk. And a sudden multivoiced cry. And then nothing. And then—
The current spit us back to crash against the walls.
Everyone rubbed their faces, folding. I understood what the buckets were there for.
“Caleb, you liar!” I cried. “You said it would only last a minute!”
“It did,” said Matsuo, checking his watch. “Actually, less: about fifty-five seconds.”
“It seems longer because your brain is being fed more stimuli per second than it gets from the senses,” Knox lectured.
Niamh’s hands grabbed her bald head like spiders climbing a rock.
Luckily no one felt an urge to use the buckets. People cleared their throats, wiped their sweat, welcomed air into their bodies again.
“That was Betty, wasn’t it?” polled Vasquez, fingers raking his hair.
“Yes.”
“I feared so.” And he pulled out his wallet.
VIDEO RECORDING
* * *
BEDROOM FRI DEC-22-1995 02:55:36
A. writing in bed.
[Enter NIAMH, closes door behind her.]
A.: Did you change the tapes?
[She nods. He continues to write. Niamh sits on her side, takes her shoes off, her skirt, her leggings, her sweater, her shirt. She finally sits on the bed, staying in her undershirt, smiling to herself, looking particularly zingy and not in need of rest.]
[A. notices.]
Are you not taking notes?
NIAMH: [Shrugs indifferently, then points at his notes.]
A.: [Understanding.] Yeah, you have mine already. You should go to college someday; you truly have the spirit. Was there anything you recognized?
NIAMH: [She shrugs again, shakes her head.]
A.: Yeah. It was a long shot.
[He continues to write. Niamh looks straight at the camera with a mischievous snigger.]
[She then snatches his pen and, reaching across the bed, she turns his side lamp off.]
[A. massages the bridge of his nose, tired, while Niamh gets in the bed. They pull up the sheets; then his eyes meet hers.]
[Quoting.] “Welcome to the rest of our sleepless life.”
[Niamh remains quiet for a moment. A lively nive begins to blossom.]
No.
[She pops out of the bed to pull the bolt across the door. Turns around, a definite smile now on her mouth.]
Niamh, we talked about this. No.
[She switches off her lamp. DARKNESS.]
[A sudden whine from the bedsprings. An agitation of blankets.]
Niamh, NO! [Softer, remembering the guests.] Niamh, I’m telling Aunt Liza.
[The clothes slowly settle.]
[…]
Okay, I’m not telling her this.
THE MORNING AFTER
BEDROOM FRI DEC-22-1995 06:24:28
The camera must still sit on the dresser, now half-tumbled off a book or some low support, for the image is tilted a few degrees to the right, and all blue. Morning twilight hardly brims in through the tight shutters, somewhat dispelling the darkness around some of the canopy and the mattress.
[A body twitches, the shock wave shaking the bed to its foundations.]
[Heavy sniveling.]
A.: What time is it?
[A digital watch screen glowworms in the dark.]
[Sheets stirring; a switch is snapped on.]
[Again.]
[Again again again again.]
Try your lamp.
[A single, equally unproductive snap.]
[A.’s blue silhouette gets up, opens the window, then pushes the shutters open. The bedroom is now completely charted in ashen chalk: canopy, sheets asprawl, two useless bedside lamps, everything save some deep shadow regions in the corners, together with A.’s complete profile near the window and the bald-headed girl sitting up on the bed.]
NIAMH: [Suddenly alert.] Shh!
[Index finger raised like a dog’s ears.]
A.: I didn’t hear anything. [Suddenly he looks straight into the camera, points at it.] How come that thing’s working?
NIAMH: [Retrieves her notepad from the bedside table, writes, shows.]
A.: [After reading.] We have an emergency outlet? Cool.
[He rubs his face, but stops midaction.]
[Looking around.] I did hear that.
[He and Niamh exchange looks.]
[Niamh sprightly scuttles off the foot of the bed and toward the dresser, in panties and a loose tank top. In no more than one and a half maneuvers, she slips into one of A.’s shirts, turns on her voice recorder and fits it into the breast pocket, grabs the handheld video camera.]
Don’t forget your proton pack.
[She laughs a blank, widemouthed laugh, jumps into some shoes, and capers for the door; tries to open it, remembers to draw the bolt back, tries again, and exits.]
HANDHELD CAMERA
* * *
Dark.
Night-vision mode toggled on. Video is enhanced to a green rendering of a corridor, darkness pushed back to the attic stairs, beyond the door to the study, on which A. is now knocking. He waits for an answer, shivering lightly, wearing nothing but a shirt and jeans. He calls in a low voice,
“Caleb?”
and leans his head closer to the door, eyes checking the camera, naked floorboards groaning under his bare feet, and then he says,
“He’s still out of it. Better check the circuit breaker,”
as he passes the camera, which turns a hundred and eighty degrees and glides to the other end of the corridor into the vast stair hall sunken in the heure bleue pouring through majestic windows,
“and you should let Help out before he pees on Ambrose’s chair.”
and the marble floor makes a squelchy sound under A.’s feet, but when he reaches the wooden stairs the steps creak gently, and so they do under the Chucks as well, descending into a complete darkness that the night vision has to fight off. And when it does, A. is revealed unexpectedly close, hands on the walls, right-hand fingers finally finding a corner and guiding the body down the final steps to the second floor landing. And the landing has no windows, but the library doors are open, and so are the ones at the far end, and the shutters along the gallery are all open, so that the image enhancement is weakened again and the green dye is dispelled, natural colors trying their best to glow in the dull light of early winter morning, the camera encouraging them, hovering into the library away from the squelchy steps, zooming in on the closer shelves, on the leather spines of books, but the letters on them look all astigmatic and disordered like letters do in dreams, so she pans away to let the books sleep. And she returns to the darker landing and looks both ways, first toward the faint light in the smoking room, then to the black doorway into the south-wing corridor where the luckiest guests sleep, and after that it resumes its way to the stairs. And then, after a regular footfall, it stops.
And remains stopped.
And she breathes.
Then the camera moves on, perhaps slower, into the dark stairway, but the night vision takes longer than usual to set, and the darkness resists and whispers eerie thoughts into the microphone, and the breathing on this side is slow paced, humanlike, but deeper, emptier, like gentle waves washing onto a beach of very fine sand. And finally the image enhancement switches on, exposing the open hand on the wall, a loose-fitting sleeve perching off the arm; then the camera descends to the platform between both floors and gazes over the hall, which is too dark for colors at this time, and too solemn anyway most of the day, and the camera, devoid of night vision once again, is unable to decipher the high ceiling, and it desists altogether as it reaches the ground floor.
“Hey Niamh!”
says a voice in the distance.
“Something happened to the kitchen cam.”
Now the camera must lean close to the wall to reveal the closed door under the stairs, camouflaged with the paneling, but on even closer examination, on squeezing the most lumen out of any wandering photon in this corner of the house, it turns out that maybe the door’s ajar half an inch, and at a half-hearted push of the hand it opens with a moan of very ancient wood, and some sifted twilight pours out. And on the carpeted floor rises a short series of steps, but the Chucks hesitate to tread on them, and the breathing billows.
A very small window at the top of the steps illuminates this hallway of the servants’ quarters, and when the camera turns left into a tributary corridor, the night vision again takes a while to come back; only after a few more sea-wave breaths the sensor awakes, but the encompassing shadows are hardly pushed back more than three or four yards, enough to reveal the firs
t two doors left and right. And the camera inches forward, and so the darkness recedes. But if the camera withdraws, as much the darkness reconquers.
And the Chucks have noticed this, and walk now very slowly, fearing to step outside of the tenuous pool of light in the center of the frame, and they make no sound at all on the carpet, although the sea-wave breathing is now slightly louder, if not faster, as though it took more effort to keep it on a leash. And long before reaching the door on the right, the hand stretches forward and knocks gently and waits for an answer, not for too long, before knocking again now with all four knuckles. And impatiently the fist unfurls and the resulting hand grabs the handle, perhaps hoping for a bolt to stop her, but there isn’t—breathe—there is only dark and some slits of filtered light behind curtains—blue curtains, after the light-enhancement mode goes to sleep again for altogether insufficient reasons. And the camera stares into the dark, crying for light, but there is none, and only through will the camera makes out the shapes of men sleeping on the twin beds.
And then the light comes back, a whole lampful of it, shining yellow and unnatural in the blue twilight, artificially rendering the whole room of the servants’ quarters, the blood-splashed beds, the nonbreathing men sleeping with their eyes open staring at the camera.
And the waves break the pattern to pieces. They accelerate, they curl backward, they collapse into one another, and the camera turns around, jumps out into the corridor, waves surrendering to panic, hand pushing a new door open, the slam sounding like the first real sound in decades, and then the room light is switched on, and Vasquez’s body is sprawled on the carpet, a dead hand reaching for the door, facedown, drowned in his blood, and the breathing is at its loudest, maddest, desperately trying to inhale enough air to finally throw out a wild, thunderous WHISTLE that saturates the microphone and bursts through the walls, and the camera runs out into the corridor again, feet drumming on the carpet, WHISTLE, longer, and then possibly out into the hallway, down the steps, just bouncing off the walls and the carpet and the ceiling, not knowing where it is, and WHISTLE, and A.’s voice far away, and then the landing, and the mercenary in a balaclava and a GUNSHOT.
The Supernatural Enhancements Page 23
