Shade City (12 page)

The big man slipped through the open door and barred my way. He didn't say anything—he just looked at me with a grumbling face. I took another step back, expecting him to attack again.

"It's all right," came a soft voice from inside. "The lawyer told us about him."

Of course. After my first visit to Mr. Glickman's office, he had probably informed his client about my inquiries. That's why he was all too ready to hand over the address when we spoke on the phone. Alexander McAllister was expecting me.

"Well, come on," said the distant voice. "Let's have a look at him."

Bedros creased his forehead and moved to the inside, motioning me to follow.

The loft had a high ceiling, spacious for the building. It was organized meticulously but had the musty smell of a tomb. The sun streamed in from high windows, but most of the lights were off and curtains were drawn over the main windows. For all the inherent pomp and luxury, these were depressing conditions to live in.

Bedros led me to an especially dark corner of the room where I saw Alexander sitting in a wheelchair, scratching a head of newly cut tan hair. He was cleanly shaven as well. The perks of not being a vegetable, I supposed.

"You'll have to excuse me," he said, beckoning with his hand weakly for me to come closer. "It has been some time since I have been myself. I still cannot manage to stand." The feeble man spoke in a whisper, as if the very act of conversation taxed him.

"It's fine, Alexander. Don't trouble yourself." I stepped closer and Bedros took up a post right above the man's shoulder.

"That's enough," he said through his thick accent.

Alexander McAllister looked slightly distressed. He regarded the current proceedings with a certain amount of apathy. To me, it looked as though Bedros was much more interested in what I had to say than he was. I would have preferred the bodyguard leave us alone, but that didn't look like it was happening.

"I'm failing," said Alexander, "to bring your name to my lips." The man coughed softly and returned his hand to his lap.

"My name's Dante. You didn't know me. I... I was a friend of your daughter."

The man's eyes melted and he seemed to lose what little firmness his posture had. "I see."

"I..." I started, not really sure what to say. "I had just been checking up on you to see how you were doing. When I heard that you'd been discharged, I had to come."

The man nodded but his dull eyes showed no emotion. "Of course. How kind of you."

Alexander was colder than I had expected. He didn't volunteer any information or even feign friendliness. He just sat and stared with a silent patience that must have been thrust on him by circumstance.

"May we talk in private?" I asked, breaking the silence.

"No," interrupted Bedros. I looked to Alexander for a decision but he barely blinked in response. Maybe my presence was an intrusion. I couldn't imagine what he would need to confront in order to get his life moving again. But there was something else. Something off. Something I was missing.

I felt I was losing him with every moment that passed. My inaction was spoiling my impression and my window was closing. Maybe I panicked, but I had no other cards in my hand. I reached into my pocket and withdrew the brass watch.

Alexander's eyes lit up for the first time. I spun the face around to make sure he got a good look at it. Then he predictably held out his hand. "May I?"

I smiled casually and approached him. Bedros stepped forward, hovering right over the sick man now, and I leaned in cautiously. As I handed Alexander McAllister the watch, I brushed his wrist.

There was no foreign agent inside him. No second shadow. He was free from influence, I thought, and then shot a glance at Bedros. Well, at least from within.

"Hamilton 940," he recited as he opened the case and spun it around. "Railroad grade. This is an antique."

"You recognize it? It was Aster's."

"I remember it well," he replied. "My father had given it to me. My child, she loved it so. She always had a heart for old things."

I watched with curiosity to see if Violet would speak to him. Of course, I might never have known if she did. I only heard her voice in my head. If she spoke to someone else, could I overhear? My test ended with disappointment. If Alexander heard his daughter at all, it didn't register in his eyes.

"Perhaps I could purchase this from you?" he asked softly, then broke into a fit of coughing.

I tried to put together words to respectfully decline. They didn't come.

Seeing my hesitation, Alexander spoke again. "My girl. She was such a troubled one. The years between toddler and teenager fly by. A great metamorphosis occurs. I think I failed to recognize her struggle. Or rather, I failed to acknowledge it. Looking back, of all of Aster's manic emotions, sadness always took precedence." Alexander rubbed the timepiece in his hands as if it could bring her back. In a way, it did, as a memory jogged loose. "The girl liked trains. I can't tell you why. The business didn't run in our family and we rarely rode them. But there was one time—I can clearly recall vacationing in San Diego. My wife and I took her down in a first-class cabin. Red carpet. White tablecloths. It was the height of pampering. Yet little Aster kept wandering off. I eventually found her outside, in the access path between cars. She wanted to be outdoors. To feel the wind on her face. When I found her, I was naturally upset, but her precious look swayed me. I stood there with her for the rest of the trip, and she clutched this railroad watch the entire time."

Suddenly, Alexander had the look of a man who couldn't afford sentimentality. Before I could say anything, he rescinded the offer. "On second thought, it would be too painful to have the constant reminder of a happier time. You can keep the watch." He gently handed it back to me, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

Now that I had appealed to his emotions and softened his demeanor, I hoped he would open up to me.

"Are you okay, sir?" I asked, trying to communicate the severity of my question with my eyes. Bedros watched me like a hawk. I tried to motion towards the bodyguard in a way that might be cryptic to a non-native speaker. "With everything?"

The man in the wheelchair took a long breath and nodded slowly. "I am as okay as a man in my position can be, son." Again, I couldn't draw any subtext from his words. He spoke plainly and seemed to either not be aware of or not care about the danger he was in. I was losing him again.

"Alexander, do you know much about your father's life?" The question appeared to aggravate Bedros. Alexander was a more difficult puzzle.

"Of course. He was always supportive of me, especially when I started my family." Alexander took a moment to recover himself. He strained just to breathe. "But so much of my life is a jumble now. It's hard to recollect specifics. Why do you ask?"

"How did Finlay acquire his fortune after getting out of prison?"

Bedros stomped forward. "Time to rest. You go now."

"But—"

"Time to rest. You go now."

"Alexander. How did Finlay get his money?"

Bedros advanced on me. The man in the wheelchair lowered his head and shook it softly. "I know the rumors. They may be true. Unfortunately, that is a subject I am ignorant of."

The bodyguard placed his hand on my shoulder and nudged me. His second shadow was insistent. Determined. Desperate. He didn't want me asking these questions.

As I was shoved away from the tired man, my appeals became more urgent. "Alexander. Your money is in danger. You may be. Why is Bedros watching you?"

My protests were pointless. Alexander paid little attention to my meaning. It was all the favor he could muster by raising his head to me again.

"Don't worry about my assistant," said Alexander. "I hardly remember why I hired him, but my attorney says he's been by my side the six years I was in Keck. He's merely following the instructions of my private physician." The man rubbed his forehead and looked winded from the encounter. "I must agree with him about the rest. This exchange has exhausted me. I thank you for your concern and the memories."

"Yes," said Bedros. "Physician instructions. You go."

I swatted the bodyguard's hand from my shoulder and stepped away from him. He stood like a brick wall between me and Alexander. I sighed as I looked at the nearly broken man. I couldn't help him by pressing his health. I kept several steps between myself and Bedros on the way out of the loft. As the large man closed the door, I shot a knowing wink his way, but his expression didn't surrender his intentions.

I held the chain of the pocket watch as I spun it in my hand, walking towards the elevator. Violet chose not to say anything.

This family was tough to read.

 

 

 

The next day found me restless. I hit my programming deadline for the week. It was rushed but it worked, and I rationalized it by deciding to spend more time on the project next week.

The Red Hat party wasn't until the following night, but being cooped up inside just didn't feel right. There was too much turning over in my head that didn't make sense. It didn't help that Violet was being especially tight-lipped. Not only was she mad at me, but she was intent on keeping her secrets. With Alexander under guard, I had one place to turn.

It was usually sunny in November, but the day was overcast with a haze that seemed a fitting portent for my destination. I sped north on the 5 in my Z. I-5 is what we would have called it in Miami, but the west coast likes to drop their Interstate labels. I had a bit of a drive ahead of me, about an hour and a half without speeding, and I was confident I could make good time.

The city of Bakersfield was one of those last resort types of destinations that nobody should ever willingly subject themselves to. Work, finances, or complete apathy were the only valid reasons I could imagine for staying in the dreary place. While it didn't have the desert stigma of smaller communities like Lancaster, Bakersfield was bigger and should have offered more than it did. Instead, it was content with its mediocrity, and I found myself getting depressed just thinking about it.

Incarceration. That was another valid reason one might end up in Bakersfield. Although Catriona McAllister was technically a patient at the Willow Gardens Mental Health Center, as I saw the perimeter of fences and guard gates, I realized that it likely operated more closely to a prison. Like brother, like sister, I figured. Except Catriona had never recovered.

"You're talking to me now?" I asked snidely. The drive was pleasant enough but the city wasn't, and the only reason I was here was because of Violet's lack of cooperation. As I pulled into a parking space, I figured there was no reason to hide what I was doing. She already knew enough. "Don't you want to meet your only other living relative?"

"That's not true, Violet. Your grandaunt, Catriona, is living here." I walked on the long sidewalk leading up to the main lobby. Besides the guards that I'd seen, there were no other souls in sight, inside or out.

"This is what we do."

"This is my way, Violet. Why you wouldn't want to save Alexander is beyond me."

I smiled sadly. I wanted to give the girl the benefit of the doubt. She was only twelve. I wondered if she had ever even known about her crazy grandaunt.

"I'm sorry, but we're talking to Catriona."

* * *

I told the staff I had just married the grandniece of a patient and wanted to check in on the new family member. I was prepared to rattle off a string of names and associations to legitimize my visit, but the employees just nodded dismissively. After a short wait on a plastic chair, I was introduced to an administrator and led to the second floor.

"Mrs. McAllister never has visitors," he explained. "She can be a bit... incomprehensible."

I nodded grimly and wondered what an entire life in an institution like this would have been like.

"Is she violent?" I asked.

"No, no, not at all. She had a history of harming herself but that was decades ago. She is mostly just withdrawn and distrustful of reality. She needs to adhere to a strict routine every day simply to function. To tell you the truth, I have some worries about what a visit might do to her, but we need to consider the possible benefits as well. Friendship and warmth can be efficacious."

I started to have second thoughts about my purpose here. It was awkward enough in Alexander's loft to meet a complete stranger with little reason. Here, with a sick, old woman, was I justified? I decided that employing tact was paramount.

My escort unlocked a gate leading into a cafeteria area. The emptiness of the halls finally gave way to sparse groups of senior citizens. He walked me through another door to a smaller, more intimate, lounge area. Here, an ancient woman sat with her back turned to the few other occupants. She was staring out of the only window, enraptured by the gray sky. The orderly pulled up a chair.

"Good afternoon, Cat." The woman made a faint noise, like a grunt, but remained still. "You have a visitor." The man motioned for me to sit and I did. "I'll be right next door," he said, "if you need me."

Catriona was ninety-six years old. The wrinkles on her face spoke of much suffering. Her long hair was thin and ghostly white. Her head swayed back and forth ever so slightly on her neck. She looked to be a woman near death, worn out—but not in ill-health. Her eyes, their green-gray color, were a comforting mix of piercing and assuring, and they slowly looked me over.

"Catriona," I started, unsure how to proceed.

"Pure," she barked out. "Pure. No one calls me that." She jutted her head one way, and then the other, before facing me again.

"I'd like to introduce myself. I'm a friend of the family."

"We're no friends," she answered. "The wicked have no friends. The wicked are not pure." Her eyes narrowed. "Are you Finlay's little boy?"

She was confused. Did she even know what horrors had befallen the rest of her family? I leaned forward to calm her.

"Are you Finlay's boy?" she asked again, drawing back. "Are you cursed? You stay away from me!"

"It's all right, Catriona" I said, sliding my seat backwards to reassure her. I looked around the room and saw a man sleeping in an old chair and another old woman glancing at me. She had an unsettling stare.

"Cursed!" screamed the other woman.

There were some whispers in the other room, then the administrator appeared and pulled her away. I took a breath and turned my head back to the man. He was now awake, silently watching me.

"No," I said to Catriona, "I'm not Alexander." The old woman didn't panic or make any rash actions—she just stared at me distrustfully. I sat and smiled, trying to appear patient. Friendly. "I'm not Alexander."

Catriona seemed content after a few moments and resumed her vigil of the sky. I thought she mumbled something but couldn't tell for sure. I checked the door again to see if I had caused any trouble. Everything was quiet. The man on the seat had his eyes closed again.

"Is Alexander cursed, Catriona?"

She answered without her gaze leaving the window. "My mother always said she would give me her pearls one day. When we found her body, they were missing. Years later, my brother gave them to his wife as a wedding present. She died giving birth to that boy. Those were my pearls."

I sighed inwardly. She was rambling but wasn't exactly incoherent.

Suddenly, I felt fingers on my shoulder. I spun around and saw a deathly thin black man standing behind me. His cheeks were sunken in and his eyes looked like large white globes suspended in the air.

"Do you have a square?" he asked.

I brushed his hand off my shoulder. "What?"

The man sleeping on the chair woke up. "Who's smoking?"

"No—" I uttered, watching him try to stand up. "Sit down," I instructed, then turned to the skinny man. "And you, leave me alone." He stepped away from me. "Get out of here."

I waited until he left the room and the other man had closed his eyes again. Catriona hadn't reacted to any of it. When I turned to her, she was still admiring the sky.

"We like cigarettes here," she said. "We trade them for pills."

I spun my chair to face the entrance and took a deep breath. "What curse, Catriona?"

"The wickedness," she answered, "in our family. We hurt people."

"How?"

"I'm not crazy," she insisted. "I'm not well. My thoughts get jumbled sometimes. But I know things. I've seen things."

She had a conviction that made me believe.

"What do you see?" I asked.

Catriona moved her eyes to me again. "A familiar face."

I scratched my head in frustration. "We've never met before," I said slowly, to make sure she understood.

"I see an old watch," she said. "A vile thing."

I jerked back. I usually managed to keep a cool head, but her insight was penetrating. I pulled the Hamilton from my pocket. "This watch?"

"Yes. Why must you keep such an old thing?" The gaunt woman turned her head to the window once more. "I've left it all behind, don't you see, and I am alive."

She was mad, jumping between bouts of fear and disinterest, but her mind was still intact. She seemed to have powerful memories, however disjointed. Through patience and roundabout conversation, I was determined to get what knowledge of her family I could.

"Tell me about it," I said.

* * *

* * *

Her story was muddled with wild observations and horrid expositions of her treatment. She focused on inane memories and glossed over key events. Eventually, however, I thought I had a thorough understanding of her life.

I removed my palm from Catriona's skeletal hand. I was sitting close to her now. Any fears she had of me had long since dissipated. The woman seemed to have inklings of the Dead Side and shades but held little true understanding. She wasn't taken now, but in all likelihood, she'd had brushes with ghosts in her difficult past.