Darkman (18 page)

She was wearing a stunning green sequined outfit, a slinky emerald dress that Louis had bought for her two days ago. How he knew her size was a mystery to her. It would remain a mystery forever. He had handed her a large flat box and begged her to accept it. She did, with reservation. Pulling the dress out, she had almost laughed (and spoiled the mood) because a dress like this one seemed preposterous for a young lady lawyer trying to work herself up the ranks. If Louis hadn’t been there, she might have tossed it out a window. But he was there, and at that time she only wanted to humor him.

As it turned out, the dress was just perfect. Especially for an evening like this. But the evening had ended, and the party was over.

“God,” Louis said, slumping down onto her couch and hooking his hands behind his head. “This is one night I won’t forget.”

“Forget?” Julie smiled at him as she kicked off her shoes. They thunked against a wall. “Louis, you are the kindest man I’ve . . . ever met.”

She supposed he saw, somehow, what she was thinking, and she was right. Peyton was still there, alive inside her. She was not yet ready to chase his memory away.

The silence grew too long between them. At the club—the High Rider, Louis’s favorite hangout and a place that seemed reserved only for the rich and famous—they had danced and talked and delved hesitantly into each other’s souls. Julie felt as if Louis were shouldering some of the burden that had weighed on her so much these last weeks: Peyton dead, servicing her clients; Peyton dead, Pappas and Swain to attend to; Peyton still dead, Louis’s loving attention to ponder. Basically she knew that the man she had loved since high school was gone and never would be back. But he lived, in a way, in the memories she couldn’t get rid of because they were so recent.

Sitting on the cushy recliner across from Louis, becoming embarrassed by their mutual silence, she opened her mouth to speak but discovered she had nothing to say. Louis was watching her, a well-built man with nice black hair, anybody’s dream boy, every girl’s secret boyfriend. Some kind of magnetism hung around him, an attraction that went beyond looks or money. He was invulnerable but he was also helpless. He was sweet enough to make honey sizzle but was able to command empires. He was, Julie had to admit, a very wonderful catch.

But Louis had a dark side, she had already concluded, and that dark side showed its strange face from time to time. A drunken businessman had stumbled over to their table at the High Rider while Julie and Louis were spilling out their souls to each other. The drunk quickly became a pest, a leering idiot with eyes that raked up and down Julie’s new dress, a tongue that was hanging out and a conviction that he was Mr. Cool. Louis had contained himself far longer than was necessary, but when the time was up, he grabbed the man’s tie and thunked his head on the table. Mr. Businessman was ejected in a hurry. The manager hustled over with enough apologies to fill a wheelbarrow. Louis was kind, but there was a flickering in his eyes that said,
You just lost a customer.
She would swear that the manager went white before he was done shoveling out his apologies. She had just laughed. What kind of wonderful new world had Louis handed her? Scratching the depths of her checkbook in her old life with Peyton, handing out rubber promises that bounced and broke, she was now being catered to by a millionaire. Is this what she had wanted all along? Enough money to be an upper-crust, nose-in-the-air debutante, enough dough to toss power and weight around like confetti?

She didn’t know, tried not to think about it. The whole thing was breathtaking and glorious, but it was dark and horrible too. What did she want out of life? The old stand-by-your-man routine, no matter what grievances the future might offer? Or let’s-party-till-we-die, how about that? Louis Strack seemed to be a giver of both. He had enough cash to write his own ticket, and if she hung on to him, she would be a happy lady indeed.

So why did she feel so lost and afraid all the time, this after-Peyton time?

She shrugged inwardly. What was the use of pondering, anyway? That was yesterday and this is today. If life is a roller coaster, she was only along for the ride, no matter how scary it might be.

Now she felt, as the silence grew huge on this evening, that something ought to be said. She leaned forward in the recliner and softly rubbed her hands together. “Louis?” she said, almost a whisper.

He looked at her. “Still here, Julie. Still here.”

She offered a smile that felt mechanical. Peyton was intruding. “I want to thank you for a wonderful evening. It’s been a long time since I’ve really been able to enjoy myself.”

Boy, but did this sound lame. Julie resisted the urge to run into the bedroom and drop dead. Instead she did the only thing left to do: “Can I offer you a drink?”

He smiled, nodding. “You bet. Whiskey neat, no fuss, no muss, no trouble. Want me to get it?”

He started to stand; she waved him down, glad to be on her feet and away from this awkward scene. What might Louis be thinking? Did he have thoughts of bedding her down or thoughts of being only a friend?

She snorted to herself as she made his drink. The man had more culture and breeding than your average French poodle. He did not jump a woman’s bones simply to chalk up another one on his tote board. The persona that was Louis Strack screamed that delicious word
class
from head to toe.

She finished pouring the drink, and walked over to hand it to him. He frowned and stood up.

“Julie, could I use your telephone? Business call.”

She nodded, and placed his drink on the coffee table. Apparently he felt as strange and wordless as she did. The attraction was there, and so was the memory of Peyton. Only the people were missing.

He finished dialing, and waited for an answer. Julie assumed he was about to raise the value of the peso in Mexico. The man was chock-full of surprises.

“Hello, Franz? What did gold close at in Zurich?”

He waited, listening.

“Sounds fine. Make a play for fifty-thousand Krugerrands when the market opens. I’ll be in touch.”

He hung up the phone, smiling a bit. “I haven’t felt this good since the old days, when Dad would turn a catastrophic deal into a profitable deal. I guess I’m just an over-the-hill financier trying to recapture a few moments from his glory days.”

Julie scowled good-naturedly. “Don’t be childish, Louis. It’s not nice to fish around for compliments.”

He laughed. “You’re right, damn your luck. You don’t let me get away with anything.” He sat back down and put his hands back behind his head. “You know what, Julie? Sometimes it’s difficult being in a position of power. People defer to you, people tell you what they think you want to hear. But . . . they rob you of your humanity. I just want to be liked for what I am, not the power my millions have given me.” He sat up straighter, dropping his hands onto his knees. “Do you understand what I’m saying? Do you?”

He looked genuinely stricken, a portrait of confusion. Julie had a fleeting idea to go over and sit by him, stroke his hair, whisper good things into his ear. Poor Louis seemed dejected and upset, but she wasn’t sure why.

“Were you ever married?” she asked, trying to turn the conversation around. “I know it’s none of my business, but—”

He raised a finger and shook his head, indicating approval. “Damn right I was married,” he said. “Married and in love. Deeply, deeply in love.”

“What happened?” she asked, not wanting to open bad memories but curious all the same.

“She was killed,” he said a little too easily, a little too fast. “Airplane crash over the Great Smoky Mountains. I almost went crazy. Ah, shit, Julie—I don’t ever want to remember those days.”

She nodded, feeling stupid. What a way to end an evening. The ghosts of the past were floating around both of them—his an old ghost, hers a new one. But both ghosts all the same. For a tiny moment she hated Peyton for dumping this catastrophe of grief on her.

Louis stood up, looking stricken. He patted his hair with the flat of one hand, a perfect crop of black hair with a troubled man beneath it. “I think I’ll get some air,” he said, and walked to the sliding glass door that opened on the balcony. “Join me?”

She did, trying to toss the image of Peyton aside but not quite succeeding. With time, she assumed, she would have trouble remembering his face. It was a fate he didn’t deserve but a fate that was already prepared and handed out. Peyton Westlake, you no longer exist. May your ghost dwindle to nothing.

Unexpected tears formed in her eyes. Was it so easy to toss a loved one into the pot of memory and expurge it whenever it got to be a burden? Peyton had been alive two weeks ago. Did he mean that little to her?

She clutched her mouth with her hand. The tears spilled down, hot against her fingers. She clenched her fists and begged this mental avalanche to draw back.

And it did, in less time than she thought was possible. Louis was out on the balcony, alive and breathing. The corpse of Peyton was all shattered life and inexplicable death.

She walked over to the door and stepped out. Louis had his hands on the railing and was searching the sky, where stars glimmered with a cold, strange precision. He turned to face her, putting on a limp smile. “Guess I’m getting morose,” he said. “Thinking of the bad times.”

Julie drew up beside him. “How long did it take you to . . . get over it?” she asked, immediately regretting it. What a depressing subject for the middle of the night.

“You never really get over it,” he replied without hesitation. “The memory just dims. The pain becomes an ache, the ache becomes a permanent part of you. And sometimes it hits you so hard again, out of the blue, and you wonder why you’re not insane from it all.”

He inhaled deeply. The city lights were strung out below, orange and white and cold, forming rectangles. Louis put a small, tense little smile on his face. “You know,” he said, “I can fight another man. I can fight the bigwigs who want to turn Strack Industries into dust. But I cannot fight death. Death is the only sure winner on this planet. More powerful than taxes, even.”

He chuckled at this, but it sounded to Julie like a concocted laugh made of contempt and sorrow. She reached over and put her hand on his. “Louis, please . . . let’s forget I opened this can of worms. We both have crosses to carry, and maybe together we can win in the end.”

He turned his face, a face grim with memory and pain. No tears though, Julie noted. This is not a man who can cry.

He clutched her hand, squeezing it tight, almost too tight. Then suddenly he thrust his face at her, his hands coming up to draw her into an embrace, his shoes scraping across the balcony’s cement floor as he drew near. It was too sudden, too quick. She was aware of his skin and the tiny stubble of his whiskers against her face, aware of his cologne and his breath. She jerked back with surprise, her thoughts scattering. What about Peyton?

“Oh, Julie,” he whispered into her face. His breath was as sweet as his cologne. His lips were warm against her cheek and mouth.

She shoved him rudely backward, almost making him trip and fall against the railing. His face in the dim light was an expression of surprise and remorse.

“Julie,” he said with a moan, finding his balance. “I’m so sorry.”

She was ready to weep. It was screwy, everything was screwy. Peyton was dead, and no amount of denial would change that. For all practical purposes, his atomized corpse might as well be on Mars. The memory of him was nothing but failed hopes and pain. She realized this and started to apologize, but Louis was already through the door.

“Please don’t leave,” she said, going in, and he stopped.

“I understand your pain,” he said to the front door, one hand on the knob. “I was there once myself. Good-bye, Julie. I’ll call you sometime.”

“Louis!” she blurted, but then he was gone, the door easing gently shut as she watched, for Louis was a gentleman who would never slam a door. Nothing could change that. Yet, above all, Peyton was still dead.

She wandered, almost in shock, almost ready to collapse, back onto the balcony. Her feelings dumped themselves on her in one great mental cataclysm, and she dropped to her knees and sobbed into her hands. The world was just too cruel.

And Darkman, standing across the street at the top of a minor skyscraper, watching everything without hearing, slunk away into the darkness, as puzzled as Julie was.

He still loved her.

But she wouldn’t love him again until he became the man he once was. Right?

He found he did not know. Tomorrow still held many secrets.

Because tomorrow Peyton Westlake was going to come back from the dead.

23

A Ghost from the Recent Past

I
T WASN
’
T UNTIL
late afternoon the next day that Darkman was done with the manufacture of a new him. The hands, oddly hairless but very realistic, and the face, a little too tight around Darkman’s naked cheekbones but passable, first struck daylight at four-fifteen. He clicked on the stopwatch and hurried to get himself into a suit. His hands were shaking and his throat was parched. For breakfast he had ordered a plain cheese pizza and a Coke. The delivery boy looked absolutely stricken as Darkman peeled dollar bills out of a large bundle, then recounted them, his claws chattering and clicking. The boy refused a tip and hurried out of the factory. A moment later he peeled out with a tornado of tire smoke, giving the aged red Pinto a good shaking as he fled for his life. Like Bosco, he, too, would hand over his keys and quit his job when he got back.