Resurrection Man (15 page)

*   *   *

A friendly game.

*   *   *

There was a soft tap on the door. "Dante?" It was Sarah.

Quietly Jet turned the knob. "Surprise," he murmured.

"You again! What's going on?"

"An angel in converse with the spirit realms." Jet blinked the candleflame from his eyes until he could make out Sarah's pajama'd form, looming in the hallway like a white flannel ghost. "What brings you here, O specter of the night?"

"Couldn't sleep," she said shortly. "Or rather, the sleep was fine: it was the dreams I couldn't stand. I was going downstairs to get some hot milk and I thought I would see if anyone was awake."

" 'Anyone' meaning Dante," Jet murmured dryly. "I doubt you were looking for me."

"You don't have to be such a touchy bastard."

Sarah shuffled into the room and peered at her brother. Dante showed no signs of noticing either of them. "What has he got in his hand?"

"Fishing lure," Jet said. "It's tied up with Pendleton's story somehow."

*   *   *

The two of them at the table, Jewel's friend smiling, smiling. Jewel herself lying, in the bed, wearing nothing but one of his shirts. Young, so smooth and young: it made him drunk to look at her, by God; it made the laughter bubble in his chest. And she would laugh back and prod him with one naked foot; she could just reach his chair from the bed. On the table by the pack of cards a glass of champagne, pale pale gold, and the bubbles rising in it like his luck. That's how it was. That's how it felt before the first deal.

*   *   *

"Pendleton, Pendleton," Jet murmured. "My father."

Delicately, he licked his lips. "Curious. I don't believe I've ever said those two words in that particular order."

"What do you know about him?" Sarah whispered.

"He left," Jet said flatly.

During the long, uncomfortable silence that followed this reply they watched Dante stroke the back of the lure, lightly, with the fingers of his right hand. Finally he picked it up and held it before his eyes. It dangled over the candle flame, faintly jingling. Light gleamed on its carapace and glinted on its thin barbed legs.

*   *   *

A dead man's hand. Aces and eights: what Wild Bill Hickok was holding when they shot him in the back. Should be enough to win at Stud, but somehow a shiver went through Pendleton as slowly he picked up his cards. It was hot in the room, but he was cold inside. Something trickled down his cheek, pale pale gold; as if he were sweating out the fine champagne, leaving him stone-cold sober, his face as gray as ashes.

What could happen? So he'd bet his firstborn son, so what? The joke was on the stranger; Pendleton didn't have a son to lose.

Wasn't going to either—not with Jewel.

He realized this suddenly, looking over. He had always seen how young she was, how fierce and alive. Always before, it had made him feel young too.

Not now. Now gray age streaked his fine black hair. It sat in his belly like a cold gray stone. Now he held a dead man's hand.

He lost his nerve at that moment, so cleanly he could hear the snap. He'd had a lot of nerve, once. He had followed Crowley like a textbook, mastered his tricks with countless hours of practice. Brought his will to bear, and made of illusion a careful science. "A wizard needs nerve," he'd told Jewel.

Pompous ass.

She had grinned like she was grinning now, utterly beyond him. He had made himself a wizard, but Jewel was an angel. Her generation had been born into this world of wonders. She talked to her dolls, she told him once, and they talked back. She never stopped to wonder at that. How amused she had been, at his surprise. How many times had be seen that look in her, that amused contempt? As many times as he had thrust it away, buried it, slicked back his graying hair and made grand promises of the miracles he would teach to her.

Him teach her! She would melt him like wax if he got too close.

She prodded him with her naked foot and laughed. She must know it was over for him. His nerve had broken and she must have heard the snap.

He stared down at his cards while cold sweat beaded on his forehead.

Aces and eights.

*   *   *

"Do you think Dante's really going to die?" Sarah murmured. "Soon, I mean."

"I hope not; we just got through burying him. It would be very inconsiderate of him to keel over while I still had shovel-blisters on my hands."

"Don't be flip, Jet. Not about this."

They stood together, watching Dante. Sarah stirred. "What about the larval sac?"

"Maybe there isn't one in his real body. Even if there is, it didn't give him any trouble before last night."

"But he thinks he's going to die."

"He's been running from himself for thirty years," Jet said. "Now he's facing himself at last and it's got him scared shitless. Just because he feels like he's going to die, that doesn't mean he will."

Sarah said, "Maybe it does, if you're an angel."

"It's not my fault!" Jet hissed. "God damn it, just because I made him take a look at his life, that doesn't mean I made the problem. The problem was there!"

"No one said it was your fault."

"He spends his whole life drinking and screwing while the world is falling to pieces around him, but the first sign of trouble and everyone looks at me. I'm the only one willing to tell him to get off his ass, that's all. I'm the only one to break the news he isn't living in a fairy tale."

Sarah's shrewd gaze flicked from Jet to Dante and back again. Jet turned away from her measuring eyes. Slowly Sarah nodded. "I see. You're scared shitless too."

*   *   *

And so, furtively, he tried to gather what will he had left and cast the little card spell that had once made him so proud. It had taken him months to learn, hundreds of hours of practice, visualizing with cards in his hand, flipping back and forth through Crowley's books, concentrating until his mind felt like a dishrag. Jewel's Card, he called the trick. She laughed when he showed it to her.

But it had gotten him out of a few tight jams before. Bought them this pale gold champagne and paid for this hot room in a swank hotel, for that matter. He concentrated on the cards in his left hand, on the useless four of clubs.

Desperately hoping Jewel's friend wouldn't notice.

"I call."

Life emptied from his left arm like water suddenly draining from a sink, leaving his fingers cold and gray and lifeless. Shaking with fatigue, Pendleton laid his hand slowly on the table. "Full house," he whispered. Now instead of two pair and a four of clubs, he had two pair and the ace of diamonds. Jewel's Card. "Full house," he said again. "Aces over eights."

*   *   *

"Can you imagine it?" Jet murmured. "The whole pregnancy, all nerves and hope and hideous discomfort, and then labor, so agonizing you think you're going to die from the sheer pain—and for what? For nothing. Your baby ripped away and this... thing, left in its place. Worse than retarded because it isn't yours. And your husband's gone, and you're living on your brother's charity, and everyone knows." With thin white fingers Jet touched the butterfly on his cheek, traced the diamonds on its outspread wings. "Everyone knows."

Sarah said, "Shut up."

"I wonder why she didn't strangle me."

"Jet!"

"Or pop me in a sack and toss me in the river. At first they wouldn't leave her alone with me—did you know that? Even so, she had her chances: but she never did it."

"You were still her child," Sarah said, her voice crushed down to a whisper. "That counts for something, you know. You can't imagine how much that means."

"I don't know. Was I her child?" Jet shook his head, strangely vulnerable. "What goes on in someone's heart? I don't know. I've watched you people, watched you all my life and I still don't know. It used to drive me crazy, wondering; wondering what you all were thinking, wondering what you were feeling. I gave up, in the end."

"Who are 'we'?" Sarah asked tartly. "Are you into your tiresome 'I'm not a member of the human race' thing again?"

Jet smiled thinly. "If it's tiresome for you, just think how tired it makes me."

"It's the act that counts, Jet. Whatever Sophie felt, she didn't strangle you. She could have, but she didn't. And I'm glad," Sarah added, awkwardly.

Softly, Jet laughed. "Yeah, you probably are, at least a little. I'm sorry. You have problems of your own. You don't need to listen to me being maudlin."

"Actually, it's sort of refreshing to hear you whine," Sarah remarked. "Usually you just complain about us. This makes you seem more—"

"Human?" Jet said dryly.

Sarah grunted. "Oh no, Jet. I'd never accuse you of that."

*   *   *

For the longest time, Jewel's friend didn't say a word. Just glanced from Pendleton's hand to his own. "Nice," he said at last. And slowly, very slowly, he folded his cards facedown on the table.

"Well, that's enough don't you think?" Pendleton babbled, leaping up. "Would you care for a little more champagne?"

"Two hundred years, was it?" Jewel's friend said. "Two hundred years of life I owe you."

Pendleton shrugged. "Oh well, whatever." His hand shook as he poured himself another tumbler of champagne. It went down like ice water.

"Think that's enough?" Jewel asked teasingly. "You won't be able to walk, let alone take me dancing."

"M-maybe you're right," Pendleton said. "Why don't you and, and—"

"Albert," Jewel suggested, laughing merrily. "Oh, definitely Albert."

"Fine. Why d-don't you and Albert go on ahead? I'll find you later. I—I just need a few minutes to let the buzz out," Pendleton stammered: but he had never been more sober, not in the six months he had known her. He was straight as a casket and sober as a corpse. "Don't, uh, don't worry about the bet," he added. "Just a friendly game, after all."

Albert smiled. Coolly, like a well-bred tiger. "I never forget my debts," he purred.

The instant they headed downstairs Pendleton packed, shoving a few clothes into his suitcase, leaving behind his gold studs and his sharp hat. His three Crowley books, their margins thickly scrawled with notes, he shoved into the elegant fireplace and sprinkled with fluid from his gold-plated cigarette lighter. They burned up like moth-wings.

In ten minutes he was ready, struggling into his long coat. Sweat stained his white silk scarf. Door or fire escape? Don't be a fool, he told himself. No point panicking now. They'll be in the ballroom. Even if she sees you, so what? Tell her you're going out for a pack of smokes.

Not the elevator: too cramped. Go down the stairs; you can dodge onto a landing if you hear footsteps.

He was stuffing his fine leather gloves into his cashmere coat pockets when his eye fell on the stranger's cards, still facedown on the table.

He stood as if paralyzed. Then, suddenly, he reached out and tipped them over.

A royal straight. Not a flush, but a five-card straight, good enough to beat any hand under a full house. Pendleton's heart thudded painfully in his chest.

A royal straight. With the ace of diamonds at the top.

*   *   *

"Christ!" Sarah swore, staring at Dante.

Jet spun around, following her gaze.

Dante sat before the bureau mirror, rocking back and forth, eyes closed, lips pressed thin as if in pain. His right hand was curled into a fist around the barbed lure and he was squeezing, squeezing until his knuckles turned white. Blood welled between his fingers. "Dead man's hand," he whispered.

*   *   *

Portrait

Christmas 1960.

It's written on the back of the picture in Mother's neat round hand. A black and white shot, not in the best of condition. It looks bleached: the black has faded to gray, and the white border is yellowing. Even though I did not take this photograph, it is one of the most precious in my collection.

There are two couples standing in front of the fireplace: Gwen and Anton Ratkay on the left, Aunt Sophie and Pendleton on the right. The two women are seven and a half months pregnant; flanked by their husbands they stand in three-quarters profile so their bulging tummies almost touch.