by Ellen Datlow
“Behold the Moorehead Estate,” Beasley said as he parked by slamming the brakes so the truck skidded sideways and its tires sent up a geyser of dirt. “Howard and Toshi bought it from the county about fifteen years ago—guess the original family died out, changed their names, whatever. Been here in one form or another since 1762. The original burned to the foundation in 1886, which is roughly when the town—Orren Towne, ’bout two miles west of here—dried up and blew away. As you can see, they made some progress fixing this place since then.”
Partridge whistled as he eyed the setup. “Really, ah, cozy.”
There were other cars scattered in the lot: a Bentley, a Nixon-era Cadillac, an archaic Land Rover that might have done a tour in the Sahara, a couple of battered pickup trucks, and an Army surplus jeep. These told Partridge a thing or two, but not enough to surmise the number of guests or the nature of Toshi’s interest in them. He had spotted the tail rotor of a helicopter poking from behind the barn.
Partridge did not recognize any of the half-a-dozen grizzled men loitering near the bunkhouse. Those would be the roustabouts and the techs. The men passed around steaming thermoses of coffee. They pretended not to watch him and Beasley unload the luggage.
“For God’s sake, boy, why didn’t you catch a plane?” Toshi called down from a perilously decrepit veranda. He was wiry and sallow and vitally ancient. He was dressed in a bland short sleeve button-up shirt, a couple of neck sizes too large, and his omnipresent gypsy kerchief. He leaned way over the precarious railing and smoked a cigarette. His cigarettes were invariably Russian and came in tin boxes blazoned with hyperbolic full color logos and garbled English mottos and blurbs such as, “Prince of Peace!” and “Yankee Flavor!”
“The Lear’s in the shop.” Partridge waved and headed for the porch.
“You don’t drive, either, eh?” Toshi flicked his hand impatiently. “Come on, then. Beasley—the Garden Room, please.”
Beasley escorted Partridge through the gloomy maze of cramped halls and groaning stairs. Everything was dark: from the cryptic hangings and oil paintings of Mooreheads long returned to dust, to the shiny walnut planks that squeaked and shifted everywhere underfoot.
Partridge was presented a key by the new housekeeper, Mrs. Grant. She was a brusque woman of formidable brawn and comport, perhaps Beasley’s mother in another life. Beasley informed him that “new” was a relative term as she had been in Campbell’s employ for the better portion of a decade. She had made the voyage from Orange County and brought along three maids and a gardener/handyman who was also her current lover.
The Garden Room was on the second floor of the east wing and carefully isolated from the more heavily trafficked byways. It was a modest L-shaped room with low, harshly textured ceilings, a coffin wardrobe carved from the heart of some extinct tree, a matching dresser, and a diminutive brass bed that sagged ominously. The portrait of a solemn girl in a garden hat was centered amidst otherwise negative space across from the bed. Vases of fresh cut flowers were arranged on the windowsills. Someone had plugged in a rose-scented air freshener to subdue the abiding taint of wet plaster and rotting wood, mostly in vain. French doors let out to a balcony overlooking tumble-down stone walls of a lost garden and then a plain of waist-high grass gone the shade of wicker. The grass flowed into foothills. The foothills formed an indistinct line in the blue mist.
“Home away from home, eh?” Beasley said. He wrung his hands, out of place as a bear in the confined quarters. “Let’s see if those bastards left us any crumbs.”
Howard Campbell and Toshi were standing around the bottom of the stairs with a couple of other elder-statesmen types—one, a bluff aristocratic fellow with handlebar mustaches and fat hands, reclined in a hydraulic wheelchair. The second man was also a corn-fed specimen of genteel extract, but clean-shaven and decked in a linen suit that had doubtless been the height of ballroom fashion during Truman’s watch. This fellow leaned heavily upon an ornate blackthorn cane. He occasionally pressed an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose and snuffled deeply. Both men stank of medicinal alcohol and shoe polish. A pair of bodyguards hovered nearby. The guards were physically powerful men in tight suit-jackets. Their nicked up faces wore the perpetual scowl of peasant trustees.
Toshi lectured about a so-called supercolony of ants that stretched six thousand kilometers from the mountains of northern Italy down along the coasts of France and into Spain. According to the reports, this was the largest ant colony on record, a piece of entomological history in the making. He halted his oration to lackadaisically introduce the Eastern gentlemen as Mr. Jackson Phillips and Mr. Carrey Montague and then jabbed Campbell in the ribs, saying, “What’d I tell you? Rich is as suave as an Italian prince. Thank God I don’t have a daughter for him to knock up.” To Partridge he said, “Now go eat before cook throws it to the pigs. Go, go!” Campbell, the tallest and gravest of the congregation, gave Partridge a subtle wink. Meanwhile, the man in the wheelchair raised his voice to demand an explanation for why his valuable time was being wasted on an ant seminar. He had not come to listen to a dissertation and Toshi damned-well knew better … . Partridge did not catch the rest because Beasley ushered him into the kitchen whilst surreptitiously flicking Mr. Jackson Phillips the bird.
The cook was an impeccable Hungarian named Gertz, whom Campbell had lured, or possibly blackmailed, away from a popular restaurant in Santa Monica. In any event, Gertz knew his business.
Partridge slumped on a wooden stool at the kitchen counter. He worked his way through what Gertz apologetically called “leftovers.” These included sourdough waffles and strawberries, whipped eggs, biscuits, sliced apples, honeydew melon, and chilled milk. The coffee was a hand-ground Columbian blend strong enough to peel paint. Beasley slapped him on the shoulder and said something about chores.
Partridge was sipping his second mug of coffee, liberally dosed with cream and sugar, when Nadine sat down close to him. Nadine shone darkly and smelled of fresh cut hayricks and sweet, highly polished leather. She leaned in tight and plucked the teaspoon from his abruptly nerveless fingers. She licked the teaspoon and dropped it on the saucer and she did not smile at all. She looked at him with metallic eyes that held nothing but a prediction of snow.
“And … action,” Nadine said in a soft, yet resonant voice that could have placed her center stage on Broadway had she ever desired to dwell in the Apple and ride her soap-and-water sex appeal to the bank and back. She spoke without a trace of humor, which was a worthless gauge to ascertain her mood anyhow, she being a classical Stoic. Her mouth was full and lovely and inches from Partridge’s own. She did not wear lipstick.
“You’re pissed,” Partridge said. He felt slightly dizzy. He was conscious of his sticky fingers and the seeds in his teeth.
“Lucky guess.”
“I’m a Scientologist, Grade-Two. We get ESP at G-2. No luck involved.”
“Oh, they got you, too. Pity. Inevitable, but still a pity.”
“I’m kidding.”
“What … even the cultists don’t want you?”
“I’m sure they want my money.”
Nadine tilted her head slightly. “I owe the Beez twenty bucks, speaking of. Know why?”
“No,” Partridge said. “Wait. You said I wouldn’t show—”
“—because you’re a busy man—”
“That’s the absolute truth. I’m busier than a one-armed paper hanger.”
“I’m sure. Anyway, I said you’d duck us once again. A big movie deal, fucking a B-list starlet in the South of France. It’d be something.”
“—and then Beasley said something on the order of—”
“Hell yeah, my boy will be here!—”
“—come hell or high water!”
“Pretty much, yeah. He believes in you.”
Partridge tried not to squirm even as her pitiless gaze bore into him. “Well, it was close. I canceled some things. Broke an engagement or two.”
“Mmm. It’s okay, Rich. You
’ve been promising yourself a vacation, haven’t you? This makes a handy excuse; do a little R&R, get some you time in for a change. It’s for your mental health. Bet you can write it off.”
“Since this is going so well … how’s Coop?” He had noticed she was not wearing the ring. Handsome hubby Dan Cooper was doubtless a sore subject, he being the hapless CEO of an obscure defense contractor that got caught up in a Federal dragnet. He would not be racing his classic Jaguar along hairpin coastal highways for the next five to seven years, even assuming time off for good behavior. Poor Coop was another victim of Nadine’s gothic curse. “Condolences, naturally. If I didn’t send a card … .”
“He loves Federal prison. It’s a country club, really. How’s that bitch you introduced me to? I forget her name.”
“Rachel.”
“Yep, that’s it. The makeup lady. She pancaked Thurman like a corpse on that flick you shot for Coppola.”
“Ha, yeah. She’s around. We’re friends.”
“Always nice to have friends.”
Partridge forced a smile. “I’m seeing someone else.”
“Kyla Sherwood—the Peroxide Puppet. Tabloids know all, my dear.”
“But it’s not serious.”
“News to her, hey?”
He was boiling alive in his Aspen-chic sweater and charcoal slacks. Sweat trickled down his neck and the hairs on his thighs prickled and chorused their disquiet. He wondered if that was a massive pimple pinching the flesh between his eyes. That was where he had always gotten the worst of them in high school. His face swelled so majestically people thought he had broken his nose playing softball. What could he say with this unbearable pressure building in his lungs? Their history had grown to epic dimensions. The kitchen was too small to contain such a thing. He said, “Toshi said it was important. That I come to this … what? Party? Reunion? Whatever it is. God knows I love a mystery.”
Nadine stared the stare that gave away nothing. She finally glanced at her watch and stood. She leaned over him so that her hot breath brushed his ear. “Mmm. Look at the time. Lovely seeing you, Rich. Maybe later we can do lunch.”
He watched her walk away. As his pulse slowed and his breathing loosened, he waited for his erection to subside and tried to pinpoint what it was that nagged him, what it was that tripped the machinery beneath the liquid surface of his guilt-crazed, testosterone-glutted brain. Nadine had always reminded him of a duskier, more ferocious Bettie Page. She was thinner now, probably going gray if not for the wonders of modern cosmetics. Her prominent cheekbones, the fragile symmetry of her scapulae through the open-back blouse, registered with him as he sat recovering his wits with the numb intensity of a soldier who had just clambered from a trench following a mortar barrage.
Gertz slunk out of hiding and poured more coffee into Partridge’s cup. He dumped in some schnapps from a hip flask. “Hang in there, my friend,” he said drolly.
“I just got my head beaten in,” Partridge said.
“Round one,” Gertz said. He took a hefty pull from the flask. “Pace yourself, champ.”
Partridge wandered the grounds until he found Toshi in D-Lab. Toshi was surveying a breeding colony of cockroaches: Periplaneta americana, he proclaimed them with a mixture of pride and annoyance. The lab was actually a big tool shed with the windows painted over. Industrial-sized aquariums occupied most of the floor space. The air had acquired a peculiar, spicy odor reminiscent of hazelnuts and fermented bananas. The chamber was illuminated by infrared lamps. Partridge could not observe much activity within the aquariums unless he stood next to the glass. That was not going to happen. He contented himself to lurk at Toshi’s elbow while a pair of men in coveralls and rubber gloves performed maintenance on an empty pen. The men scraped substrate into garbage bags and hosed the container and applied copious swathes of petroleum jelly to the rim where the mesh lid attached. Cockroaches were escape artists extraordinaire, according to Toshi.
“Most folks are trying to figure the best pesticide to squirt on these little fellas. Here you are a cockroach rancher,” Partridge said.
“Cockroaches … I care nothing for cockroaches. This is scarcely more than a side effect, the obligatory nod to cladistics, if you will. Cockroaches … beetles … there are superficial similarities. These animals crawl and burrow, they predate us humans by hundreds of millions of years. But … beetles are infinitely more interesting. The naturalist’s best friend. Museums and taxidermists love them, you see. Great for cleansing skeletal structures, antlers, and the like.”
“Nature’s efficiency experts. What’s the latest venture?”
“A-Lab—I will show you.” Toshi became slightly animated. He straightened his crunched shoulders to gesticulate. His hand glimmered like a glow tube at a rock concert. “I keep a dozen colonies of dermestid beetles in operation. Have to house them in glass or stainless steel—they nibble through anything.”
This house of creepy-crawlies was not good for Partridge’s nerves. He thought of the chair and the woman and her tarantula. He was sickly aware that if he closed his eyes at that very moment the stranger would remove the mask and reveal Nadine’s face. Thinking of Nadine’s face and its feverish luminescence, he said, “She’s dying.”
Toshi shrugged. “Johns Hopkins … my friends at Fred Hutch … nobody can do anything. This is the very bad stuff; very quick.”
“How long has she got.” The floor threatened to slide from under Partridge’s feet. Cockroaches milled in their shavings and hidey-holes; their ticktack impacts burrowed under his skin.
“Not long. Probably three or four months.”
“Okay.” Partridge tasted breakfast returned as acid in his mouth.
The technicians finished their task and began sweeping. Toshi gave some orders. He said to Partridge, “Let’s go see the beetles.”
A-Lab was identical to D-Lab except for the wave of charnel rot that met Partridge as he entered. The dermestid colonies were housed in corrugated metal canisters. Toshi raised the lid to show Partridge how industriously a particular group of larvae were stripping the greasy flesh of a small mixed-breed dog. Clean white bone peeked through coagulated muscle fibers and patches of coarse, blond fur.
Partridge managed to stagger the fifteen or so feet and vomit into a plastic sink. Toshi shut the lid and nodded wisely. “Some fresh air, then.”
Toshi conducted a perfunctory tour, complete with a wheezing narrative regarding matters coleopteran and teuthological, the latter being one of his comrade Howard Campbell’s manifold specialties. Campbell had held since the early seventies that One Day Soon the snail cone or some species of jellyfish was going to revolutionize neurology. Partridge nodded politely and dwelt on his erupting misery. His stomach felt as if a brawler had used it for a speed bag. He trembled and dripped with cold sweats.
Then, as they ambled along a fence holding back the wasteland beyond the barn, he spotted a cluster of three satellite dishes. The dishes’ antennas were angled downward at a sizable oblong depression like aardvark snouts poised to siphon musty earth. These were lightweight models, each no more than four meters across and positioned as to be hidden from casual view from the main house. Their trapezoidal shapes didn’t jibe with photos Partridge had seen of similar devices. These objects gleamed the yellow-gray gleam of rotting teeth. His skin crawled as he studied them and the area of crushed soil. The depression was over a foot deep and shaped not unlike a kiddy wading pool. This presence in the field was incongruous and somehow sinister. He immediately regretted discarding his trusty Canon. He stopped and pointed. “What are those?”
“Radio telescopes, obviously.”
“Yeah, what kind of metal is that? Don’t they work better if you point them at the sky?”
“The sky. Ah, well, perhaps later. You note the unique design, eh? Campbell and I … invented them. Basically.”
“Really? Interesting segue from entomological investigation, doc.”
“See what happens when you roll in the mud
with NASA? The notion of first contact is so glamorous, it begins to rub off. Worse than drugs. I’m in recovery.”
Partridge stared at the radio dishes. “UFOs and whatnot, huh. You stargazer, you. When did you get into that field?” It bemused him how Toshi Ryoko hopscotched from discipline to discipline with a breezy facility that unnerved even the mavericks among his colleagues.
“I most assuredly haven’t migrated to that field—however, I will admit to grazing as the occasion warrants. The dishes are a link in the chain. We’ve got miles of conductive coil buried around here. All part of a comprehensive surveillance plexus. We monitor everything that crawls, swims, or flies. Howard and I have become enamored of astrobiology, cryptozoology, the occulted world. Do you recall when we closed shop in California? That was roughly concomitant with our lamentably overpublicized misadventures in New Guinea.”
“Umm.” Partridge had heard that Campbell and Toshi disappeared into the back country for three weeks after they lost a dozen porters and two graduate students in a river accident. Maybe alcohol and drugs were involved. There was an investigation and all charges were waived. The students’ families had sued and sued, of course. Partridge knew he should have called to offer moral support. Unfortunately, associating with Toshi in that time of crisis might have been an unwise career move and he let it slide. But nothing slides forever, does it?
