The Faceless One (24 page)

“Steven!” Liz said in a shocked tone, trying not to laugh.

Bobby fell back against his father, his delight erupting into a high-pitched laugh, each bright burst like glints of sunlight on a pond in summer. Steven tickled him, and he laughed even harder, wiggling on Steven’s lap, the joy and the clean smell of his son chasing all thoughts of money and death from Steven’s mind.

Jake Sparks turned up an unmarked drive that featured a single white balloon tethered on a length of black ribbon. They drove up a dirt road that had been layered with gravel. Immense trees flanked the drive, obscuring whatever lay ahead. Steven saw deer from the window, three does and a fawn. He wanted to point them out to Bobby, but they were quickly lost in the grays and greens of the old forest.

Pollard’s house slowly came into view. It was a big house made mostly of glass, supported by large columns of natural stone. Slate steps led up from the drive, which was flanked by moss and ferns. The roof was low and pitched, and Steven could see the slightest suggestion of solar panels. In front of the house was an English garden featuring a large pond surrounded by willows. Butterflies and hummingbirds darted among the flowers. The whole scene was peaceful and lovely.

Other cars were parked near the side of the house, and Jake Sparks pulled his Land Rover in next to a BMW. Most of the cars were new and expensive.

“We’d have really stuck out with our beat-up Chevy,” Steven whispered to Liz, then realized they could now buy any of these cars if they had a mind to.

Their host stepped out onto the front step as they neared the house. Charles Pollard was a small man with bright red cheeks and wispy gray hair that swirled around his head and ears like frozen smoke. He looked like an oversized elf to Steven. He was dressed in charcoal slacks and a navy silk shirt. Seeing Steven, he smiled sadly and stuck out his hand. They had met once two years ago, when he had accompanied Daniel to a conference in Los Angeles.

Pollard greeted Sparks, then looked at Steven with a sad smile.

“Steven, good to see you, though I wish the circumstances were different.” He shook Steven’s hand, his grasp firm but not crushing.

“Hello, Charles. You remember Liz, and this is our son, Bobby.”

Liz shook Pollard’s hand. Bobby shyly hid behind his mother. Pollard bent down, his elfin smile kindly.

“Hi, Bobby, I’m Charles Pollard. This is my house. Would you like to come in?”

“Okay.” Bobby stuck his hand out in imitation of his father, and Pollard shook hands, delighted. Pollard stood and smiled at Steven and Liz.

“There are some refreshments on the back patio. We’ll be starting in half an hour.”

Steven, Liz, and Bobby, who clutched tightly to his mother’s hand, followed Jake Sparks around to the rear of the house and the back patio. This looked out over rolling meadows that
continued down toward the sea, the grass gradually giving way to dunes. The sky was a magnificent blue, the blue of waters in the tropics. A single wisp of cloud like a shred of cotton hung in the air as if a banner or the abandoned sail of a skyfaring vessel.

A large buffet table featured cold sandwiches, cheese and fruit platters, sliced vegetables with ranch dressing, chips and salsa. At the end of the buffet table were wine, beer, and mineral water, and soft drinks were in large galvanized tubs of ice. Steven found a Hawaiian Punch and a tuna sandwich for Bobby, and took a Moulson’s and a roast beef sandwich for himself. Liz took some fruit and cheese to go with her white wine. Jake Sparks took several sandwiches and a Rolling Rock, and excused himself to go talk with one of the other anthropology professors from NYU, an overweight man with thick glasses who was smoking a pipe.

Some small tables had been set up on the lawn. Beyond these was a podium with rows of folding chairs before it. The podium featured a large portrait of Daniel and was surrounded by bouquets of flowers. With all the greenery and the ocean in the distance, it was a beautiful setting. Much more appropriate than a church.

Steven and Liz settled Bobby at one of the tables, and the three of them ate their lunch. Bobby wanted to explore, and Steven had to tell him several times why this was not appropriate. There was no one they could have left the little boy with, and Steven felt it was important that he be there to honor his uncle.

A few ducks wandered down near the edge of the lawn, and Liz took Bobby down to feed them with a few crusts of bread from their sandwiches. Steven took their plates and empties to a large trash can set a discreet distance from the food.

As he was throwing the trash out, the overweight man in glasses approached him.

“You’re Daniel’s brother, aren’t you?”

“Steven Slater,” he said, sticking out his hand.

“Max Tully,” the man said, ignoring his hand. “I teach physical anthropology at NYU.”

Steven nodded politely. The man’s breath reeked of wine and pipe tobacco. He swayed ever so slightly, and Steven realized he was drunk.

“Daniel was a brilliant man. Brilliant. We were on a dig together. But you probably know that.” Tully cleaned his pipe out over the trash can, the charred tobacco falling over the plates and napkins, black ashes dark against white paper, like a negative of falling snow.

“I didn’t know that,” Steven said. He hoped Tully wasn’t going to smoke here. He couldn’t stand the smell of the tobacco’s fruity sweet pungency.

“University would send more than one expert if the dig was old enough. We went to Alaska together.” Tully removed a pouch from his coat pocket and began to fill his pipe with Borkum Riff. He tamped it down with a practiced flourish, then put the bag back into his pocket. He removed a lighter from the same pocket and lit up, puffing like a bellows until the sickly
sweet smell filled Steven’s nostrils.

“That was Daniel’s last dig,” Steven said, remembering. “He was pretty excited about going.”

Tully nodded. “He send you anything?” Tully asked suddenly, peering at Steven with an almost accusatory air.

“No,” Steven said in reflex. Then, considering, “Like what?”

Tully waved this off, as if it were irrelevant.

“Your brother was quite rich, I take it.”

This non sequitur seemed both rude and strange.

“That’s hardly a secret.”

“And how did he come by so much money? We professors don’t make much unless you’re someone like Carl Sagan or some other media darling.”

Now Steven was getting angry. The man seemed to be implying some kind of impropriety on Daniel’s part.

“I don’t know that it’s any of your business, Professor Tully, but my brother was one of those people who saw the opportunities in various social media companies. He was also smart enough to get out before the bottom dropped out.”

“And you, Mr. Slater? Are you smart enough to get out before things go bad?”

“Watch me,” Steven said, and walked away, fuming.

“Daniel was not the saint you think he was, little brother,” Tully called after him.

Steven considered going back and punching the man, driving a fist into his massive gut or moon face. But he was here to honor his brother, and his son was present. He was a better man than Tully. He calmed himself, recognizing that, after today, he’d never have to see Max Tully again.

Steven went down to where Liz and Bobby were feeding the ducks. Bobby would hold out his hand and shriek as the ducks nibbled the bread from his fingers. He looked up at his father, face flushed with happiness.

“Look, Daddy, they like me!”

“You’ve got a way with animals there, Tarzan.”

Liz saw his face and knew something was wrong. “What’s up?” she asked.

“Just an unpleasant encounter with one of Daniel’s colleagues.”

“You okay?”

He let out a long, slow breath. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

They saw people begin to sit in the folding chairs, and Pollard gave him a friendly wave. They persuaded Bobby that the ducks would be there later, and Liz wrapped the remaining bread in a napkin and stuck it in her purse. Bobby was not happy with this arrangement, and neither
were the ducks.

They took their seats in the front row, Steven pointedly ignoring Tully’s gaze.

Pollard spoke first.

“I first met Daniel Slater nine years ago, when he took my seminar on settlement patterns among Plains Indians. He took exception to some of the accepted theories of the time and made no secret of the fact that he thought I was an idiot and a pawn of the white man’s conspiracy.”

The group chuckled. Daniel’s crusades for indigenous people and his outspoken manner were widely known.

“I told him that he might want to read the book before he made such pronouncements. Of course, he already had, and eventually went on to write his own book on the subject. That his work is the standard reference today is a testament to Daniel’s commitment to anthropology, his passion for knowledge.”

There was a low, rude snort in the audience, and Steven had no doubt it was Tully. Pollard went on.

“Daniel and I became friends over the years, and I was delighted when he became part of the faculty at NYU. His zeal, his thirst for knowledge, and his devotion to his students were nothing short of remarkable. His loss is a tragic one. Our college has lost an important teacher, the field has lost a brilliant theorist, and I have lost a good friend. We will miss you, Daniel.”

Pollard paused, then looked at Steven and nodded. Steven squeezed Liz’s hand. Bobby stared at him with wide eyes.

Steven went to the podium and looked out over the group. He tried to ignore Tully, whose look was nothing short of venomous.

“Many of you knew Daniel as a learned archaeologist. But I knew him as my big brother, the one who said we should dig to Pellucidar.”

He told them of that ill-fated expedition to appreciative smiles and laughter.

“Then, on his first real dig with the university, Danny discovered a previously unknown series of cave paintings by the Chumash. He told me entering that cave made him feel like Howard Carter in the tomb of Tutankhamun, and that it surpassed his boyhood dreams of finding a lost civilization like Lemuria or Mu.

“That find set the stage for his career. He loved digging, loved discovery. He always wanted to unearth the lost city, the ancient civilization, the secret places he had read about. He took me a lot of places, mostly through comics and books. It is because of Daniel that I love to read. It is because of him that I love to explore, if only through the pages of literature. Daniel was a digger, insatiably searching for treasure and knowledge, knowing often they were one and the same. He used to tell me …”

Here his voice broke, and he realized he missed Daniel so damn much, that he would
always miss him. He pulled a handkerchief from his coat and dabbed his eyes. He looked out at Liz, her eyes shining with grief and with love for him. Bobby, concerned for his father, kept looking from Steven to Liz, seeking reassurance. Steven felt protected by their love, and continued.

“He used to say, ‘Nothing is buried forever. You only have to know where to look and you’ll find everything.’ I wish with all my heart my brother were still here. Still, the love he had, the passion for life, they are alive in me, and I hope I’ve passed these on to my son. Wherever Daniel is, his legacy continues on. We know where to look …”

His voice broke again, and he gestured to his own heart. “We look in here,” he said, his voice barely audible.

He left the podium, blinded by tears. There was some kind of disturbance to his left, and he saw Jake Sparks trying to get Max Tully to sit down. Tully bulled past him and up to the podium.

Tully looked at them, his face slightly pink. On him it did not look healthy.

“They say you should not show disrespect for the dead,” he began, “yet that is what Daniel Slater did on a daily basis. Consequently, I don’t see why I owe him any respect at this moment.”

“Max, I don’t think this is the time,” Pollard said, moving toward the podium.

“You all have been fooled by a charlatan, a fake,” sneered Tully. He looked at Steven. “Even his own family doesn’t know what a self-serving bastard he was.”

That did it. Steven stood. Liz grasped his sleeve, but she saw on his face there would be no stopping him. She let go of his shirt. Steven moved up to the podium.

“Sit down,” he said, his voice low and full of menace.

“Are you afraid of the truth?” Tully asked.

“I’m afraid of what my boy might see if you don’t shut your mouth and sit the fuck down,” Steven said through clenched teeth, hoping Bobby wouldn’t hear.

Pollard was now at the podium. “I think you should go, Max,” the older man said.

“I think these people deserve to know the truth!” Tully said, his voice rising.

Screaming came from the audience—a shrill wailing filled with abject terror.

Before Steven turned, he knew who it was.

The person screaming was Bobby.

* * *

Bobby had been watching the ducks when it happened.

He liked feeding the ducks, liked the funny little buzzing quacks they made, the way they pecked with their bright beaks at the bread. Mommy had said they were mallards, and he thought they were much prettier than the white ducks he had seen at the petting zoo back home.

He was watching them, hoping they wouldn’t fly away before he got to feed them again. His daddy moved in his seat, and Bobby turned to watch him go up to the front of the group.

He looked back at the ducks.

They were all bloody and still. Their feathers scattered before a gentle breeze.

Mr. Manyteeth was squatting among them, and he was choking one of the ducklings, its tiny quacks growing weaker. Bobby turned to tell his mommy that the monster was hurting the ducks.

His mother looked at him, her face a skull covered with gray and leathery strips of flesh. Her eyes were empty sockets, tiny orange embers down in the very depths of them, and they exuded an acrid smoke that smelled like singed hair.

“Bobby,” she said, and pale maggots spilled from her mouth onto her lap and his arms.

Bobby shrieked, his small body consumed with terror. He looked up at his father, screaming for him to rescue him, help Mommy.