Dead Lines, A Novel of Life... After Death

  Are you sure you're all right? Joseph asked.

  Pretty sure, Peter said. He would confess his worries to Michelle, but not Joseph; thats how it was.

  Joseph checked him over through narrowed eyes, and for a second, Peter wondered what was going on. Josephs look as much as said, What do you know? Well, Joseph drawled, pulling back this scrutiny, one last errand, and then Id like you to put all this behind you. Go through that gate, and don't come back.

  Peter was surprised into a moment of silence.

  It's not about you, Joseph continued. My past is about to return and sit on my lap, and it's not pretty. Ive made some fairly big mistakes, one in particular. I should have known . . . producers instinct. But cojones ruled.

  You're sounding a little scary, Mr. Benoliel.

  As I said, this doesnt concern you, Joseph said mildly, as if speaking to a favored child. Do this for me. Go back to Sandaji. She apparently has some questions, her handmaid was vague about what sort. Maybe she needs your masculine services. Even Mother Teresa must have had her moments.

  I doubt that very much, Peter said, drawing his brows together.

  You have time to go see them, for me?

  I think so, Peter said.

  This evening?

  Okay.

  And what will you do if they clue you in to some cosmic mystery, some further answer to my original question?

  Tell you all about it. If you don't lock the gates.

  I'llnever lock the gates on you, Peter. But it's time for you to move on. Still, if they clue you . . . He nodded and set his jaw. Call and tell me. And if something happens to me . . . watch out for Michelle.

  Of course I will, Peter said. But nothings

  I mean it, Joseph said. Promise me you'll humor an old man. You'll watch out for her.

  Peter nodded, at a loss what to do now. Joseph waved him off and stared blankly out the window. Tie up the loose ends. And thanks, Peter.

  My pleasure, Peter said. As he opened the door, Josephas he often didissued a dramatic set of parting words. Don't believe what you read in the papers.

  Right, Peter said.

  MICHELLE LOOKED BACK at Peter as they walked down the long front steps below the veranda. Joseph and I havent had sex in years, Peter. I'm okay with that. Theres been far too much sex in my life. But this other stuffthis broodingthat worries me.

  Thanks for sharing, Peter said.

  What, afraid of the fate that lies in store for all old men?

  Peter sniffed.

  I assume you're leaving soon to go to that Sandaji woman. Can you drive me over to Jesus Wept?

  Sure. Or we could walk.

  She looked up. It's going to rain. That womans creepy, don't you think?

  I don't know, Peter said, detecting a hint of covetousness he had not heard from Michelle before. Is everyone a little off these days? Phil was the starting pistol. Then Sandaji. Then me. Now Joseph and Michelle. Were all in Wonderland.

  Anyway, drive us over and leave from there. I'llwalk back. I want your opinion.

  Peter wondered how much time Michelle spent at the other house. This was the first occasion she had invited him to see what she was doing. How she occupied her time when Joseph was being moody . . .

  Despite his tastes in womenhe thought without apology that twenty-five to thirty was the age range of perfectionhe had never had much faith in May-December relationships.

  Peter opened the Porsches door for Michelle.

  Ive always loved this car, she said, slipping into the low seat with otterlike grace and pulling in her legs. I hate our Arnage. It's a boat. Her lip curled. I feel embarrassed driving it.

  Sell it, Peter advised. You could buy ten or twenty of these, and I could use the parts.

  Michelle smiled. A whistling freshet lifted her hair. An offshore deck of mottled clouds was moving inland. Sprinkles fell by the time they swung around the low hills and U-turned by the huge bronze statue of El Cid that dotted the long exclamation mark of oleander hedge. They approached the Mission-style mansion down a sloping drive.

  Did you know theres enough poison in that oleander to kill a small town? Michelle asked. Make a note for your next mystery.

  I havent written a mystery in years, Peter said. That had been Phils forte. Involved, complicated mysteries with what seemed to the average reader a large number of loose ends. They had not sold well.

  I could help, Michelle offered. The look she gave him just as they pulled up by the row of five garage doors was at once speculative and blank. She tossed back her hair in a way that Peter knew from experience meant a woman was considering making a pass. The blankness, he suspected, was a combination of not wanting to show her hand too early and possibly of not being certain or happy about her plans. Something drove her forward anyway. You should do what you need to do, she told him. Ive known you for years, Peter. Old friends. And now I do mean old. Time is running short.

  It really was Wonderland. For the first time with Michelle, Peter felt acutely uncomfortable. He had long ago learned how to turn down passes both overt and covert from women of all walks in life without arousing too much resentment. Still, the fact that he was thumbing through his mental three-by-five card file of polite rejections was disturbing. He had always thought Michelle was too smart and too classy to advance this little card onto the table.

  Joseph would smell it on them both, even if it never went beyond a simple passhe would know it right away, producers instincts.

  Still, where women were concerned, Peter had always been dangerously curious. He followed Michelle up the two tiers of steps to the huge, wrought-iron-studded door. Michelle swung it open with a shove of one fine, long-fingered hand; it was not locked.

  Welcome to my beast, she said. They entered the mansion. Their footsteps, crossing the black slate floor, sharpened in the sonic retrospect of the entry, transformed into a suggestion of razors. I just can't figure out what to do with this place. The more I spend and the harder I try, the uglier she gets.

  Enough light filtered in from high windows over the front door to light their way, but the circular foyer was still gloomy and unwelcoming. Staircases descended in heavy swoops to each side. Iron railings on the stairs and along the balustrade were a marvel of dark, eye-snagging difficulty.

  Michelle swung her arm up to the balcony. See what I mean? she said. I could hang klieg lights up there and she would still depress me. But you should have seen what she was like before. The fire made such a mess of her. Ive torn down walls, opened up rooms, painted, fixed floors . . . Like most old ladies, you can lift and tuck, but you can't hide bad bones. Still, Ive always thought she has potential. Don't you?

  Peter tried to conceal his unease.

  Michelle walked to the center of the foyer. Her voice seemed to fan out and come from all around. Joseph once told me something terrible happened here, but he won't say what.

  Murder most foul, Peter suggested.

  Yes, well, more likely an orgy went wrong. Lost innocence, drugs, Coke bottles. Fatty Arbuckle stuff. She smiled. But it's not in the history books or the newspapers, so who knows? Maybe you can pry it out of him. Then she made a moue. On second thought, forget it. He's not up to sad stories.

  Joseph hasnt told her about ending my employment, Peter thought.

  You know the tunnel between the houses? With the tracks and little cars?

  Ive never been down there.

  I think were going to fix it up. Clean it out and make it run again. Michelle gave him another blank look. For the first time, Peter felt that she was lying, and he could not begin to guess why.

  Come into the kitchen, Michelle suggested. It's the best place.

  Id better not, Peter said. His curiosity had evaporated. Ive got to run my errand.

  Be that way, Michelle said lightly enough, returning to stand close. Did you bring your Trans?

  He hadnt. I think they're having network problems, he said. The truth was, he had simply forgotten it on the way out of the house. br />
  Well, maybe that explains it, Michelle said. I havent told Joseph, but the units don't work inside either of the houses. Wouldn't want him to think weve bet his money on a lame horse. Are you all right?

  Just cold. Id better get moving, Peter said.

  Michelle wrapped her arms around herself. It is chilly. And she does show better when the sun is shining.

  Outside, she became Josephs Michelle again, comradely and straight. She patted his arm. Don't let that woman bum you, she advised, standing by the drivers door as he buckled himself in. Sandajis turned Joseph into a pill, I'm sure of it. Trying to get more money, I bet. I just don't like her.

  Peter said he would do his best to protect Joseph from predatory gurus. He tried to smile but his face just wouldn't cooperate, so he gave her a wry grimace and a wink. Then he backed up and left Michelle standing on the long, cracked concrete drive, before the huge old house with it's high Alamo-style peak and second-floor rows of narrow, deep-set black windows.

  Not like eyes. Like the gaps between stained teeth.

  CHAPTER 34

  JEAN BASLAN OPENED the door. Without a word, she let him in and motioned for him to wait in the living room. He carefully sat on an antique Morris chair and folded his hands. He heard her short hard heels clicking across the dining room and down the hall.

  Peter turned his head at a small sound behind him. An extremely elderly man stood by a square pillar supporting one half of the archway into the living room. He wore a blue cardigan buttoned at the belt, loose, baggy pants, and a white shirt, and above his high forehead, a brush of gray hair jutted. Round glasses covered rheumy gray eyes. Narrow shoulders slumped like folded wings and long arms hung with elbows bent slightly, hands gripped as if practicing a golf swing.

  With a small, shy smile, he stepped gingerly around a spray of dried flowers in a large ceramic vase and sidled along the edge of the coffee table.

  Sandaji will join us shortly, he said, his voice soft and deep. My name is Edward Schelling.

  Pleased to meet you, Peter said, standing and offering his hand.

  Schelling shook his head apologetically: no touching. Brittle bones, he said. Compared to you, I'm like a piece of glass. He let himself down onto the couch with a release of locked joints, and slumped alarmingly to one side before sitting upright again. He managed all this with great dignity.

  It's been many years since Sandaji last spoke to me, he said. Something of a privilege now, that we should be afforded an audience.

  Costs some people plenty, Peter said.

  Schelling raised his brushy white eyebrows in agreement. For being such a spiritual woman, security in this life is very important to Sandaji. Still, let us not be catty. He paused and leaned his head back to inspect the woodwork on the ceiling. Do you remember being told that she is not a psychic?

  I remember. Peter needed to understand what was happening here. Was he still representing Joseph, or had that relationship been tossed aside? You're an old friend?

  I am not an acolyte, if thats your question, Schelling replied. He lifted his shoulders briefly, then let them sag back. They might have been connected by springs, or weighed down by time. We were married once, in another life. Sorry, I'm not being clear. In this life, but before she was Sandaji.

  Peter silently opened his mouth, Ah.

  She will not be staying here much longer. The house and what is in it have become too much for her. Still, it will be a major inconvenience to move. This is an important time of the year. Many visitors.

  Sorry to hear that, Peter said.

  May I ask you an odd question?

  Peter lifted the corners of his lips.

  Are you psychic?

  Peter drew back. No.

  Have you recently experienced suspicions, odd feelings . . . sensations? Or induced the same in others?

  I'm sorry, Mr. . . . Peter had forgotten his name.

  Schelling. The old mans eyes were very bright. He reminded Peter in some ways of a superannuated Dashiell Hammett, or perhaps Faulkner.

  I'm not sure why you're asking, Peter said.

  Both men turned their heads. Sandaji walked with slow dignity into the entry, as if seeking distance and time to inspect Peter. Schellings neck crackled. He pulled back his shoulders with more conviction and stood. Peter followed suit.

  She wore a green velvet gown with a dark bronze belt, as if trying out for the role of Ophelia in a geriatric version of Hamlet, and she looked thinner, older; the beautiful radiance from that first meeting had diminished. Still, even with the force of her presence so reduced, it took Peter several seconds to notice Jean Baslan standing to one side, hands tightly clasped.

  Having performed her inspection, Sandaji finished her walk into the living room and offered her hand to Peter. Is Edward giving you the proper third degree? she asked, her stance belying her tone: light and conversational. Peter clasped her hand and felt something like reassurance pass between. Uneasy, he rejected it without even thinking. He had dealt with charismatic women before; he had also watched them disrobe and assume undignified postures.

  Schelling observed their touch with bleared, sad eyes.

  Sandaji stepped around the table to the couch. She took a seat as her former husband stepped aside, his bony knees cracking.

  Were getting along famously, Schelling said. They stared at Peter with lips pressed together, hands clasped in their laps, like children in the principals officetwo shy, wise children, a matched set. Figurines in a bizarre antiques shop.

  Joseph Benoliel asked me to come visit him, Sandaji said. After my troubling experience here, with you, Mr. Russell, I wondered if it was wise to comply.

  Mr. Russell says he is not psychic, my dear, Schelling explained. I assume that means he is not responsible for the continuing disturbances.

  Sandaji raised her hand in rather abrupt dismissal and focused on Peter, leaning slightly forward while still keeping her back straight.

  For the last two days, Ive been seeing ghosts, she said, her beautiful eyes fixed on Peters. Memories drifting like smoke, but pervasive. Impressions from outside the house, bits of interior dialog, not words so much as images or smells, rarely sounds. And other sensations I cannot explain at all. My body feels moments of exaltation and sadness, moving within me, from other moments in other lives. As well, phantasms of other bodiessensations within my organs, my muscles, on my skin. Often, I itch without cause. It can be embarrassing.

  Despite his concealed distress, perhaps because of it, Peter could not help laughing. That is weird, he said.

  Sandaji joined his laughter for an instant, charmingly, and then with a long flutter of her lashes, straightened her face. I have seen myself, as I will be or have been in this house. That frightens me, because of stories my great-grandmother told me when I was a little girl. She warned that seeing yourself is tantamount to learning you will soon die.

  Remarkable, Peter said. The hair on his neck was now fully erect.

  Mr. Benoliel offered us another large sum of money to come out to his estate. Apparently, something is troubling him. After I made my decision, I enlisted the aid of Mr. Schelling. Has he told you that he is, in fact, psychic?

  Were not on such intimate terms yet, Peter said. He looked at Schelling. Are you going out there? he asked.

  Oh, we have already made our visit. Yesterday, Schelling said.

  Peter stared between them, mouth open. I was just there. Joseph didnt say anything about you.

  I presume he wishes all this to be kept close to home, Sandaji said. But by sending you, I presume he has also given permission for us to speak. He places some confidence in you. He has been disturbed recently, but he could not tell us why, or by what.

  What did he see? Peter asked.

  Sandaji lifted an eyebrow at this choice of words, but did not answer.

  Sandaji is not alone, nor is Mr. Benoliel, in being disturbed, Schelling interrupted. Today, Jean and I witnessed a child standing right here in this living room. He
was clutching a toy fire engine. His clothing was not of the latest fashion, and he was most certainly neither alive, nor physically present.

  Peter glanced up at Baslan. She nodded, face pale.

  Usually, even with my abilities tuned to the strongest degree, I see nothing more than wisps, hints, figures in the corner of my eye, Schelling continued. This time, however, it was as if we had both put on a new pair of glasses. Our little boy was as vivid as you are right now. What I saw made me want to weep. An intimacy, a truth . . . Schelling shook his head, his eyes growing even more watery. Most remarkable.

  Peter swallowed hard. The pause between this sentence and the next seemed unbearably long, and he did not know if he could bear to wait, or stand to hear whatever might come from Schellings lips.

  The elderly mans voice dropped to a soft, rumbling stentor. Now he sounded angry, as if describing an affront to their dignity. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out something oblong wrapped in tin-foil, and laid it on the table. We visited Mr. Benoliel, and his wifewe assume it was his wifegave us this when we left.

  His long, thin fingers could not muster sufficient dexterity to unwrap the foil, so Sandaji did it for him. Before she had finished pulling off the last of three layers, Peter saw clearly that it was a Transa bright-red unit.

  It's some sort of phone, isnt it? she asked Peter.

  Yes, Peter said. He tongued the gap between his teeth. Joseph invested in the company.

  You carried one of these with you when you first visited Sandaji, did you not? Schelling asked.

  I think so, Peter said. He remembered touching the Trans in his pocket, alongside the roll of hundred-dollar bills. Yes, I did.

  That could explain quite a lot, Schelling said, blinking slowly. You confirm my worst suspicions.

  Sandaji said, You're hiding something, Mr. Russell. Are you sure that you, too, havent been seeing ghosts?

  Schelling did not wait for an answer. He held the Trans to his ear as if listening to a seashell and fastened an even sharper look on Peter. These devices produce a remarkable effect, he said. A certain extraordinary silence. And then something unexpected . . . Like the rising of a curtain before a hidden stage. I, for one, am very frightened by what may be happening to us all.