Grudgingly, McQuiddy did as instructed.
As the web dissolved, a more protracted process than it had been to ensnare me, Amorise studied my face. What she saw there must have pleased her, for she smiled and allowed herself a laugh, a mere spoonful of sound.
"I've chosen well," she said. "You will create a beautiful text."
· · · · ·
Je te deteste …
Je te deteste …
Je te deteste, Amorise …
· · · · ·
Had they not been given me to say, I would have said those words on my own, repeated them a thousand times as I did that night and into the morning, for I hated Amorise. Whenever I said them I hated her more, for no change followed upon them. Whether Villon or a transformed David LeGary, or a syncretic being comprised of the two, I was trapped in the role Amorise had designed for me, thanks to her witchery … and what else could this be but the product of witchery? Science did not rely on kisses for an empirical result. My thoughts were iron flails demanding a target. I strode about my apartment, lashing out at end tables, framed photographs, sculptures, and chairs, wrecking the accumulation of a life to which I had ceased to relate. At one point, giving in to a longing I was unable to suppress, I called Joan Gwynne's office; but she had not yet come in to work and I couldn't pry her home number out of the secretary. I flung myself onto a couch and scribbled down some thoughts and then realized that what I had written formed the first few verses of a bitter poem concerning my previous relationship with Joan. I crumpled the paper, tossed it into a corner, and continued to drink, to destroy the artifacts of David LeGary's trite existence, and then drank some more. And when morning came dull and drizzly, like an old gray widow hobbling out from the dark, her cold tears freckling the sidewalks, in all my drunkenness and disarray, I went down to Emerald Street to seek my satisfaction.
"Mister LeGary," said the blonde woman, Jane Eisley, who had dealt with me the previous afternoon. "We've been trying to call you."
Something about her seemed familiar, in the way that the individual members of the crowd the night previous had seemed familiar, but this resonance did not interest me. "I broke my phone," I said grimly. "Where is Amorise?"
"I'm afraid she no longer works here," Jane Eisley said. "But I have good news. We checked the machine she used to treat you. It was inoperable. The power leads were burned out. She could have done nothing to you. That's why we had to let her go. She received payment for work she didn't do. I have your refund here."
She held out a slip of paper that I supposed was a record of a transfer to my credit line. I knocked her hand away. "Where is Amorise?"
"You've no reason to act this way!" She fell back a step. "Take the refund. She didn't do anything to you."
"The hell she didn't! She doesn't need a fucking machine. Give me the address!"
When Jane Eisley refused to cooperate, I pushed past her and went along the corridor searching for the office. At the very back lay a room with a desk atop which a computer was up and running. I searched the files for Amorise's address. It was listed under the name Amorise LeDore, and I recognized it to be a house on Vashon Island whose defense system I had installed six weeks before. I recalled that I had not dealt with the owner, but her lawyer, who had referred to her merely as "my client."
The lawyer had been Carl McQuiddy.
Just off the office was a room containing a number of lockers. The name "LeDore" was written on the third one I came to. The door was loose, and I managed to pry it open. Inside were a pair of athletic shoes, cosmetics, and a slim leather-bound volume that I assumed to be an address book. I pocketed it and went out into the corridor. Jane Eisley was at the front of the shop, talking on the phone. I tore the phone from her grasp and said, "Don't cause me any trouble, or my lawyer will smother you." She made a shrill response that I, in my anger and haste, failed to register. I slammed the door behind me with such force, it called after me in a fruity computerized voice that I would be charged for any damage that had been incurred.
· · · · ·
On returning to my apartment, I found that the leather-bound volume I had taken from Amorise's locker was no address book, but rather a compendium of arcana entitled Against Nature,authored by someone who called themselves Novallis. I asked the computer to search for information relating to the author—it could supply none, but informed me that in Europe during the Middle Ages, dabblers in the black arts often adopted Latinate noms de plume. The book itself was of ancient vintage—the pages waterspotted and brittle, the leather cracked. A strip of green silk served as a bookmark, lying across the opening of a section called "The Sublime Act." It was written in archaic French, but thanks to my knowledge of the modern language, I understood that it described some sort of complex magical operation, one involving the manipulation of a large number of people in order to produce what Novallis referred to as "the Text." Once the Text had been created, those involved in the operation would live out their natural spans (unless taken prematurely by act of God or man) , but their essence (élan vital) would be collected by "The Host," who would convey them through the years, keeping them safe for a period of time Novallis termed "the Interval," at which point the Sublime Act would need to be performed again in order to ensure the rebirth and survival of its participants. There was a great deal of stress laid upon the consideration that the subjects must be perfectly suited to their roles, and finally a good bit of nonsense about the Many becoming Three, the Three becoming One, and the One becoming Zero. Also a long section whose essential theme I failed to comprehend, though the word "retribution" was frequently used.
Having deciphered this much, I tossed the book aside, went to my workbench, and called up my designs for Amorise's house on my computer. If I were, indeed, infected by the soul of a dead poet, one spat into my body by a centuries-old witch—and it seemed such was the case—I refused to be her pawn. I did not intend to produce a text, and more, I resolved to put an end to the Sublime Act, and to Amorise herself. It was not merely anger that inspired me. As I examined the plans, determining what I might need to neutralize my defensive system, I experienced a feeling of revulsion in reaction to the Sublime Act, an apprehension of sacrilege, of unholy practice—I thought this might well be Villon's reaction and not LeGary's.
The message wall bonged, and John Wooten appeared. Sitting in his study, wearing a black dressing gown. He looked worried, and his first words to me were, "David, we have problems."
"What are they?" I asked, returning my attention to the plans.
"I had a call from an attorney representing the Villanueva family. They're planning to refile in the basis of new evidence."
"The suit was dismissed," I said.
"Yes, but not with prejudice. They have the right to refile." He leaned back, lowered his chin to his chest so that his jowls flattened out like a fleshy ruff framing the lower portion of his face. "They're also urging the district attorney to institute criminal charges. Negligent homicide. Reckless endangerment."
"That's ludicrous!"
"Perhaps. But it's a problem nonetheless." Wooten folded his hands on his belly. "What new evidence could they have, David?"
"You know, John," I said, my temper fraying. "This is not my concern. You're the lawyer. Find out what they have."
"I'm trying to do just that. It would help if I knew what there was to find."
"Nothing!" I slapped the palm of my hand hard against the workbench. "These fucking people! They could have heat sensors, motion detectors … but normal security isn't enough. It doesn't satisfy their urge to be trendy. So they hire me to devise clever little toys they can show off to their friends …"
"Calm down, David."
"House pet assassins! Robotic freaks! Then when two Mexican rich kids don't bother to read the manuals and zap themselves, I'm to blame for what happens? It's bullshit!"
"I agree," Wooten said. "But you're the standard of the industry, David. I doubt the Villanuevas can win in court. Th
ey've already lost once. But you have to expect to be the target of litigation now and then."
"You know what I expect?" I said. "I expect you to handle the Villanuevas. You're the fucking lawyer. I don't want to be bothered. If you can't do it without calling me every five goddamn minutes, I'll get someone else."
"It would be unprofessional of me—if not unethical—to fail to consult you."
"All right. You've consulted me. What else?"
Wooten appeared puzzled.
"You said there were problems," I said. "Give me the rest of it."
He was silent for a short count, then he said, "François …"
I looked up at him, calmer, as if he had spoken to some deeper part of me, though I was still angry at his intrusion. "What?" I said gruffly.
"Nothing … Never mind." He broke the connection.
· · · · ·
I continued my preparations for breaking into Amorise's house, but my anger had cooled somewhat, and by mid-afternoon another passion had taken its place. Everywhere I aimed my thought I met with the image of Joan Gwynne and the ghost of Martha Laurens. I saw Joan's long legs, those amazing eyes, the lush curvature of her lips. I tried to suppress these yearnings, but they surrounded me like perfume, and finally I called her office again, intending to threaten the secretary. But this time she put me through without hesitation. Joan was sitting at her desk, dressed in a dark blue business suit. She smiled on seeing me, but it was a troubled smile.
"I was going to call you," she said.
"After the way I broke up with you … and then last night, I don't know why you would," I said. "I was rude. I …"
"I understand. It's all so new … so strange."
"Can we meet somewhere? I want to make it up to you."
Her expression grew more distressed. "I don't know."
"Dinner," I said. "We can go anywhere you like."
She put her head down a second. "I have …" She sighed, as if arriving at a decision, and glanced up at me. "I'm involved with someone, David. I don't know what to do about it. I want to see you, but I'm not sure what's right here."
"Are we not involved?" I asked, recalling what I had heard about her lesbian lover.
"So it would seem. But I …" She shook her head, signifying her bewilderment. "You have to give me time to sort things out."
"How long?"
"A day or two. I'll call you."
Try as I might, I could not sway her. I ended the call and paced about the apartment, feeling like a fool for being so besotted by a woman with whom I'd had only fleeting intimacy in the present, no matter how deep our relationship in the past. But I no longer wanted to deny the connection, and I decided to send her flowers. As it was late in the afternoon, I thought I would send them to her home. If it aroused the suspicions of her lover, then so much the better. Once again I called the office and asked the secretary for her address. At first she refused to provide it, but when I told her my purpose she relented. She read it to me, and I did not have to write it down. The address was on Vashon Island.
Joan lived with Amorise.
I was, for several seconds, absolutely blank, and the thoughts and feelings that rushed in to fill the blankness, though framed by an overarching anger, were touched with admiration at the neatness of the web in which I had become stuck. Every strand led to Amorise, and I realized she was inviting me to come to her. She had contrived her design so that everything I wanted was under her control.
Close upon this recognition came a powerful sense of loss and a comprehension that—although I had walked away from Joan the night before, and no matter the source of the attraction—those feelings were as sharp in me as the touch of fire. I could not, for several minutes, compose myself, realizing that Amorise had placed Joan beyond my grasp. This recognition overwhelmed any logic that might deny or ameliorate its truth. My brain had turned to iron, penetrated by a single white-hot thought that had no voice or means of expression … at least not at first. For as I sat at my desk, unable to move or even to contemplate movement, words came to me, almost without any awareness on my part, and I found myself scribbling on the sides of a circuit diagram:
The black dog who carries my heart in its jaws
Firmly so as not to drop it into puddles or pissholes
Having been marked by God for this special task
To remind me that Love is such a caring beast.…
· · · · ·
I wrote dozens of lines, perhaps eighty or ninety all told, an entire poem of such acid and fulminant bitterness, I felt drained from having given it birth, and when this fever of creativity lifted, I had the fleeting impression that I was not sitting in my apartment but rather at a wooden table sticky with spilled food and drink, and above me were smoke-darkened beams, and on every side was the brightness of human activity, people laughing and conversing. Even after this brief confusion fled and I recognized myself to be seated at my workbench, it seemed that I could perceive a variant architecture of thought inside my head, gothic arches of compulsion and buttresses of emotion whose antiquated sweep and form were different from yet somehow akin to my own. It was the clearest sense yet I'd had of the spirit wedded to me by the Sublime Act, and as it faded, submerged once again into the turbulent soul we were together, my hatred for Amorise swelled to monstrous proportions, increased by the knowledge of what she had done not only to me, but to Villon.
I began to study the plans of the security system I had designed for her. It was likely that she had made modifications, but I doubted she would have had time to install an entirely new system. Once inside I could lock the house and prevent her from escaping, but she would then retreat into the panic room and call the police. Of course I could cut her lines, jam her outside communications, and I could override her alarms and counterfeit an all-is-well signal to the private cops that patrolled the neighborhood. That would leave us in a stalemate—Amorise in the panic room and me standing by the door. But a stalemate might be all that was required. My actions might convince her that I would not do her bidding … not this time around. Afterward I could take a short vacation, or a long one, and let Wooten handle the fallout. One way or another, though, I intended to make a statement with Amorise.
· · · · ·
The house was a twenty-eight-room structure of gabled gray stone facing the water—in the moonlight it had an air of somber opulence, like a hotel for vampires. Amorise had not tricked up the external security, and I was able to penetrate the grounds without difficulty. It was after one in the morning, and I watched the house from amid a stand of old-growth firs, dressed in burglar black, my breath smoking in the cold damp air. In my pockets were a freon spray, a scrambler, a laser torch, and an ultrasonic whistle. I had coated my skin and clothing with an agent that would dissolve macrowebs on contact—I had set several booby traps utilizing such webs and I could not be certain that Amorise had not altered their locations. There were a couple of lights on downstairs, but I believed that was for show. I doubted anyone was awake. Keeping to the shadows, I made my way to a side window. When lifted by an intruder, the bottom of the window would, once weight was placed upon the sill, extrude a hidden blade and slam down with the force of a guillotine. It was exactly as I had created it, not modified at all. I deactivated the mechanism, and after I had climbed inside, I overrode the alarms with my palm console and locked the house down. This all seemed far too easy. I switched on my penlight, bringing bulky sofas, a pool table, and an oriental carpet up from the shadows, and scanned the immediate area for electronic activity, finding none.
I had made my entrance into a smallish game room, but the living room beyond was as big as the lobby of a grand hotel, with a marble fireplace, five groupings of chairs and sofas ranging its more than one-hundred-foot length. The air was scented by a half-burned cedar log in the hearth, and the area was filled with security devices, all coded so as to prevent remote disabling, each keyed to ignore those people whom its detectors registered as familiar. I moved into
the room and a cleaning robot—a flat black shape capable of prospecting for dust beneath the furniture—came trundling across the carpet toward me, spitting blue tongues of electricity. I jumped aside and immobilized it with a freon spray. As I went forward, I was attacked by a lamp cord of so-called "intelligent plastic" that tried to garrote me, whipping up into the air like a flying snake. I immobilized it as well. Most of the security devices in the room were centered about a vault set in the left-hand wall—I gave it a wide berth and continued on cautiously, a scanner in one hand, laser torch in the other, searching for any potential threat. I managed to negotiate the room without further incident, but as I stepped out into the main entryway, at the foot of a curving marble staircase, one of the larger cleaning units, a domed white shape the size of a wastebasket hurtled at me, visible in the moonlight spilling through the windows flanking the front door. I eluded its rush, and as it turned back toward me, I swung the laser torch over the top of the dome, where the control package was housed, burning a seam along the right quadrant. It kept coming. I held the torch steady, burning smoking lines across the entirety of the machine, but in the instant I disabled it, it succeeded in brushing against my leg, transmitting a shock that threw me onto my back and left me stunned. I lay for a moment, gathering myself. Apparently Amorise had been able to make more significant changes than I had believed possible. I wondered why I wasn't dead—the unit I had just disabled carried a lethal voltage. Then I had a revelation: Amorise must have reduced the charge. She could not afford to kill me. Not, at any rate, until I produced the Text. I felt suddenly foolish. What was I doing here? I could thwart Amorise's intentions simply by leaving town. It was only my anger—Villon's anger, I thought—that had brought me to the house.
Anthology of Speculative Fiction, Volume Two Page 42
