The Judas Glass (19 page)

I didn't have time to talk.

“I'm not going to be able to keep you here,” he said.

I gazed upward at the underbelly of the house, the flooring overhead, the bedrock outcropping at one end of the basement, supporting the weight of the house. I asked, “Where were you?”

“Your tone of voice could use some improvement, Richard. I've never been a big proponent of manners. I'm not that much of a hypocrite. But every now and then I could use a little in the way of courtesy, just a little effort to be civil.”

I wanted to tell him what I had done, and at the same time I knew I never would.
But I didn't hurt Stella's baby. I never wanted to
.

There was so much I could have said. But I had to turn away. I could only shoulder my way into my burrow under the floor. Even here I could feel morning in the timbers of the house. The sun pressed down over the peaks of the roof, a weight, a heavy blanket, and every nail bit a little more deeply into the studs and floorboards, bearing the burden.

Words are only breath when you speak them. They only do harm, bless, question, when they are made of air. When they are kept within they are made of blood, and dark, holding up their many branches like woods of quiet trees.

All that day of darkness I was filled with things to say I knew I would never utter. I curled in the smell of wet bedrock, and waited.

I woke. It was not like the waking of a normal man, that first stirring, drowsiness, perhaps a return to dreams, perhaps a mandatory rising, yawning from the bed.

I was glad to retreat from sleep's hole.

I stumbled upstairs, across the kitchen, into the broad dining room. It was evening. Dr. Opal leaned on his elbows, his eyes bright, a bowl of something at his elbow, soup, the liquid drained, vegetables stuck to the sides of the bowl.

I sat at the other end of the table. I did not lean forward. I did not want to be reminded of my absence in its polished surface.

“I have some clothes for you,” he said, indicating a dark jacket hanging from a door doob, pant legs trailing on the floor. “Although you look like you don't really need them.”

“You visited Susan last night,” I said.

His tone was not apologetic. “I needed company.”

“You didn't mention anything to Susan, did you?”

He put his hand on his soup spoon. “Of course not.”

“She didn't wonder,” I said, “what you were doing climbing into her bed for comfort at what—midnight? Three in the morning?”

“Even if I mentioned to Susan that I had an old friend visiting me, a nephew, say, getting over a terrible experience, she would not pry.”

“But that's not what you told her, is it? You didn't say anything.”

“I asked her for some Benadryl and some codeine, and I went to sleep.” He let me think about this, and then he said, “I don't like being treated with suspicion, Richard.”

I was right to be suspicious. “I'm sorry.”

He acknowledged my apology with a nod.

“Did you talk to Connie today?”

“She remembered the mirror after a little prodding. She's had a lot on her mind. She says the mirror was a gift from Rebecca's brother Simon. After your death Simon called, and with some embarrassment asked to have the mirror back again. He took it with him when he moved to Crescent City, on the coast up near the Oregon border.”

“I know where Crescent City is,” I said. “We all went steelhead fishing there once. You and my father. And me.”

Dr. Opal's eyes looked bloodshot, but his gaze was steady and he looked like a man who had spent the day making up his mind. “Salmon of
some
kind,” said Dr. Opal. “Maybe sockeye.”

“It was steelhead. That means the mirror somehow fell into the hands of Rebecca's family at some point over the years. I wonder how that happened?”

“I wonder why you take such an interest in it,” he said.

I should have paid more attention to this remark, but when I offered no reply, he added, “Connie is pregnant. The laser surgery worked.”

“I'm so happy for her,” I said. It was an automatic pleasantry. I was happy at the news. Surprised, too. Not at Connie, with her intrepid march toward anything she wanted. I was surprised at science, at medicine—that a doctor at Stanford could succeed after all else had failed. I felt a flash of cold envy, too. Toward Connie. Toward Dr. Opal, with his new love, the woman with the ample medicine cabinet and apparently no hesitation in helping him take care of either a party mess or a hangover.

Dr. Opal was watching my reaction carefully. “Steve Fayette is the father.”

I had to laugh. “Steve always had luck.” What I meant was: life had come easily to him.

Something about my response satisfied him. “And the investigation of Rebecca's death goes forward. They have some leads. I like talking like that—
leads
. It's all lab work, you know. Doctors, cops. We all wait around for a lab technician to get off his lunch break.”

“You spoke to Joe Timm?” I asked impatiently.

“After a day of trying and failing. It turns out an old friend of mine was the heart specialist who did Mrs. Timm. Strings were pulled, hints dropped. Timm called me, and told me, just between the two of us, that the San Francisco cops are staking out a duplex in the Sunset District, on Noriega. It's rented by someone who studied music in Salzburg at the same time Rebecca was there.”

“A musician?”

“A man named Eric Something.” He gave the last word the authority of a surname, so that I misunderstood for a moment.

“You have been busy,” I said, with my old manner, the way I used to speak to him.

“So have you,” he said. His face was alight with suspicion.

“You loved my mother,” I said.

He did not speak for a moment. “Your father was one of those people who are so self-centered they are geniuses of egomania. He could have sold self-esteem, bottled it.”

“He was a good doctor.”

“He had a phenomenal memory.”

“What would my mother want you to do now?”

“Universities have kept secrets before. The University of California and Stanford have both used a degree of tact when it came to nuclear matters. I think I could organize a very fine team of scientists who could help you and at the same time keep you invisible.”

There was the woman at the party, Maura
. But I didn't
hurt Stella's baby. Why would I harm an infant?
“All I want is a little more time.”

“Why? What's going to change?”

“Am I asking for so much?”
You know you can trust me
.

He closed his eyes. He opened them, blinking. “You'll stay with me tonight,” he said. “You won't go out. We'll play chess.”

I had a shadowy memory, rainy days, various companions getting out the chess pieces, rooting around in the game drawer for a pawn, telling me what a great game it was.

I felt a little sorry for Dr. Opal. I wouldn't need the clothes he had bought. I wouldn't need his help, his advice. His love for me was misplaced, so much wasted effort, but I couldn't tell him this.

“There was always something special about you,” said Dr. Opal.

I stepped to his side, the smell of his soup nauseating me, chicken broth and peas, a strip of egg noodle like adhesive tape on the pale blue bowl. I put my arm around him and I could feel the bones of his shoulders, the thinness of his upper arms though his shirt. How much longer did he have, this wonderful doctor, this man who was out of his depth, now, lying to himself, pretending to be reassured. Did he have ten years of health left? Not even that many, I told myself.

With a chill, I realized what I was thinking.

Lie down
, I told him.
Lie down and rest
.

Emergency vehicles clustered around the house where the party had been held the night before. Uniformed figures stood around, conferring, waiting for technicians. A flash ripped the dark, someone taking photographs of an object caught in the branches of a tree, one arm thrust up from the bundle like a fencer's lunge.

At first I walked. Taking my time. What did I expect? What was done was done. I liked the sound of that, adolescent finality. I could pretend for an instant that I was free of all responsibility. Then I began to run.

28

I wandered far. That now-familiar feeling was returning, that feeling of being mummified inside. The street was wide and lined with squat buildings, car stereo shops, pottery seconds, fire insurance offices.

I was in a time that belonged only to myself. Cars, when they passed, were quaint, like the vehicles in historic sepia prints, relics. The profiles of the drivers looked out of date, a species all but extinct.

In these mottled shadows from shop windows and streetlights I passed few pedestrians, men striding swiftly, others huddling on benches, on curbs. It could not be late at night, but aside from a few furtive figures and the occasional car, the avenue was empty.

I smelled it before I saw it—lighter fluid, an odor I remembered from picnics at the beach, my father trying to fire up a hibachi so we could grill the hot dogs, the charcoal refusing to burn. It was a smell reminiscent of Frisbees and sunlight.

Sounds came from a short alley between two one-story buildings. Three young people were laughing. They were dressed identically in black leather, the kind motorcyclists wear, zippers gleaming. The lighter fluid squirted from a can, saturating some clothing and a sleeping bag piled in a shopping cart.

Another person stood to one side, one hand out, beseeching them. The laughter continued. A match sputtered, refused to light. The owner of the shopping cart was saying something. He was a bald man with a shaggy beard clad in a thick sweater and baggy, loose-fitting pants. He looked like a someone from another era, a serf from a land of famine, a day laborer who followed the muddy highway.

“Come
on
,” said one of the young people, a stocky youth with blond hair. I had the general impression of physical power, the young people built to be pioneers or soldiers.

Another match caught fire, a red jewel that swung upward, through the air, touching the sodden fabric of the sleeping bag and fizzling out. For a long moment the bearded man examined the things he owned, patting them, reassuring himself that they were intact.

The fire started without a sound, spreading quietly in a quicksilver web over the mound of possessions, and then the skeleton of the shopping cart filled with light.

The bearded man beat against the flames with his hands, gingerly picking through the burning objects, cursing the pain. He was stubborn. The other three looked on with interest, applauding with something like genuine appreciation. The bearded man found what he sought. He tossed a smoldering object into a puddle, a small radio, and another object joined it, a box of what looked like fishing tackle, monofilament and a few brightly colored lures.

The three young people were etched by the firelight, observing the bearded man. One of the figures shook the can. Lighter fluid squirted again, this time splashing the clothing of the man with the beard. He did not notice, and even when he felt the fluid seep through his clothing he did not appear to connect the sensation with any personal danger. His manner seemed to indicate that he had weathered indignities before, and that he knew that this, too, would pass.

I could not move quickly enough. When I cried out they did not hear me. Another match refused to light. Fingers persisted, fumbling. This time the entire matchbook was set alight, a tiny, burning pamphlet of fire.

The burning booklet leaped through the air. Flames fingered upward along the bearded man's pantleg, and he sat down, rolling, smothering the fire.

A hand shook the can. There was plenty left. One of the young men saw me as I approached. “What are you looking at?” he said.

The blond one said it, too. “What are you looking at?” It was a challenge, an invitation. One of the young people wore lipstick, and had a full figure. She laughed, and there was a steady, arrogant quality to her. This victim didn't really matter. The bearded man was comic. Perhaps their encounter even held a kind of justice. They were young and strong, and he was not.

It was the sight of his possessions still burning, everything he owned, that angered me most. I seized the arm of one of the young men, the one trying to get a cigarette lighter to spark. I took his arm, like an importunate usher.

“Get your hands off me,” he said in a tone of outrage.

I did what he asked. I held up both my hands, palms out. Everything would be fine. It was closing time, and we could all go home.

He worked his lips together, puckered, and was about to spit into my face, when something about me dried the spit in his mouth.

“I won't hurt you,” I said.

He kicked me. His heavy black book struck my knee, right on the cap. It was a good place to kick an opponent. The blow paralyzed my right leg. He was good at what he was doing, kicking me again in the other knee as I stood rooted, not falling, but not quick enough to defend myself. He took a swing, an awkward right cross, and I was slow to react. One side of my face lost all feeling.

I drew him toward me with the dash of a man demonstrating the tango in slow motion. I spun him around, whirling him by one arm. I drove his head into the wall.

It was not a very thick wall, stucco, cheap construction. The blond one was upon me, a clumsy tackle. I did not go down. He punched me, digging an elbow into my ribs, gouging my face. His thumb dug into one eyeball, my vision lost in a burst of flashing color.

I picked him up and held him high over my head. The young woman joined the struggle, kicking me hard in the groin. I turned away and slammed my burden against the stucco, so hard the wall came away in chunks, chicken wire and tar paper.

I blinked, clearing my vision. The young woman was on my back and she had something around my neck, a length of rope or a bicycle chain, an impromptu garrote. While she clung to my back, I seized the blond young man, slamming his skull against the ground until his hair was gray and scarlet. Then, before I knew what I was doing, I sank my teeth into his neck.