Glimmering (47 page)

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Authors: Elizabeth Hand

BOOK: Glimmering
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Jule lay there on his back. His face was pale save for a circular bruise, red and blackish purple, that radiated from mouth to chin, across his shattered nose to touch the pouched skin beneath his eyes. A corona of blood and what looked like black earth was etched around his head; his eyes were open, staring up into the brilliance. His big hand splayed open and a policeman crouched there with a white cloth and a plastic bag, fingering a gun delicately, as though it were an orchid.
“Julie,” whispered Jack. He lifted his head. Behind the crowd there were trees, stones, a waterfall; clouds of twinkling red and green lights. A young man comforted a slender woman who was shaking convulsively. A crimson arc was sprayed across the bodice of her dress. Jack shook his head, then froze as he saw the child.
She stood within the crowd, Emma’s tumbled blond curls and Jule’s hazel eyes, her hands raised before her, clasped. Sun made a glare of her clothes, if she even wore clothes. She was smiling. As he stared she raised her head. Her eyes locked with his, Julie’s eyes. Her lips moved, and Jack strained to hear her voice.
“—
please,
go!”
Someone jarred him, and he stumbled. When he looked up the child was gone. Where she had been a woman with short dark hair stood in dappled sun as though entranced, staring not at Jule’s body but at a point a few feet above it in the bright air. Her features were obscured behind Noh-mask makeup. Her lips moved, and her hands. Amidst the crackle of walkie-talkies and sirens Jack could hear her voice, clear and thin.
“
He has come through.
”
Then someone grabbed him and pulled him backwards, into the security booth.
“You know this guy? You know him?” a policeman shouted.
Jack nodded, straining to look back out into the light.
“
HOLD HIM!
” someone screamed, and he was shoved against the wall. They held him for questioning, first by security and then by city police, and finally brought him to another security checkpoint on the main floor, with an adjoining office that was nothing but a holding area for suspicious persons who violated GFI security. He was strip-searched and sprayed with Viconix, made to fill out numerous forms with GFI logos. Jack sat numbly and watched on a monitor as an emergency crew hurried in, after some minutes rushed out again, pushing a long white-draped gurney.
“His wife works in Mount Kisco,” he said hoarsely, though he had no idea if anyone was even listening. “Northern Westchester Medical Center . . .”
“She’s been notified.” The police detective who had been questioning him turned from another monitor. She sighed as a masked officer affixed a magnetic strip around Jack’s wrist. “They’re going to want to see you again, after the autopsy.”
He nodded.
“Do you want anything? Something to eat?” On her console a tiny artificial Christmas tree listed to one side. “There’s some kind of fake coffee . . .”
“No.”
He listened as the detective fielded calls from hospitals, police stations, other offices within the Pyramid. The Range Rover had been impounded. Jack sat forgotten in a swivel chair by the wall, wondering if he would have to wait for Emma to appear before he could go home. He drank tepid water from a bottle. It tasted of plastic and something harshly chemical. His stomach recoiled; he clenched his teeth, fighting nausea, a darkness that pulsed before his eyes no matter where he looked.
“You can leave now.”
A shadow moved toward him. The police detective.
“Mr. Finnegan?”
“Yes?” It hurt to speak.
“You can go. We located Dr. Isikoff. She—”
“Oh God.”
“She’s trying to make arrangements. To get down here. It will probably take her a while. She said something about a brother-in-law or a friend up there?”
He recognized the effort at kindness in her tone, but could only gaze at her. After a moment she asked, “Do you have a car?”
He shook his head.
“Do you have any friends or relatives here you could stay with? Do you want to find a hotel? No. Well. Okay, then.”
She crossed to the door and remained there. He realized she was waiting for him to leave. “I’ll see what I can do about arranging to get you back home. Rye, is it?”
“Yonkers.”
“Right. Yonkers.” She cleared her throat. “I’m sorry. But I’ll have to ask you to leave now, Mr. Finnegan. I have to finish filing my report.”
He stood. At the doorway he stopped, that darkness rushing in, his head spinning ...
“You can wait in the atrium.” He saw but did not feel her hand upon his arm, propelling him through the door. “I cleared it with security. There’s places to eat under the waterfall, you can sit there and wait. I’ll see about getting you a ride home.”
He nodded and walked down a blue-lit passage he had no memory of entering. Gradually its dimness gave way to the atrium’s artificial daylight. He left the passage, walked slowly across the atrium’s stone floor, staring at his feet as they crushed a thin layer of moss and lichen, soft grass that had the look of infant hair. Tiny colored lights were strung between stands of birch trees. In front of the revolving doors a small crowd still lingered, people with cameras and vidcams, security guards in GFI red and gold. There was no sign of any medical personnel, no sign that earlier a body had lain crumpled on the grass. Outside, the ambulance had gone, and the police cars. Through the doors he could glimpse the same dark line of limos beaded here and there with a yellow taxi. Another gaudy knot of Bright Young Things burst in, giggling as they left the security station. Jack could smell their perfumes, the vanilla scent of Viconix.
He took a few steps, stared down at the grass where Jule had fallen. It looked scorched, there was a blurred outline where they had poured disinfectant onto the ground. The heaviness in his chest became nausea. He turned away and stumbled across the vast room.
He found a table on the far side of the atrium. The waterfall cascaded from several stories above him, a glittering curtain with rainbows dancing where the sun pierced it. The air smelled of dirt and sun. Birds darted past him and lit upon the branches of a Japanese maple. Jack sat with hands on his knees, concentrating on the warmth spilling across his face.
It will hit me later,
he thought.
It will hit me later.
A waiter came and he ordered mineral water and pepper-flavored aquavit. The liquor came in a tiny bottle shaped like a fish, prettily arranged on a glass tray with sprigs of watercress and myrtle. It was icily restorative; he ordered a second bottle, and swallowed a dropperful of Fusax as he waited.
“May I join you?”
A dark-haired woman stood on the other side of the granite block that served as a table. She wore a black dress interwoven with shreds of Mylar, very ugly, very fashionable. At first he thought she was wearing a mask, but he saw that it was makeup, chalky white foundation, redlined eyes, birdlime mouth. He had a dim sense of recognition, after a moment recalled that she had been in the crowd surrounding Jule’s body. She had been the one who cried
He has come over.
The odd words rushed at him, his head began to swim again. He moaned and covered his face with his hands.
“Here—put your head between your knees, take a deep breath—”
He felt her fingers on his neck—she had gloved hands, warm inside their silken sheathing. “Breathe, breathe—”
He did as she said, sucking in quick gulps of air.
“Slowly, slowly . . .”
Her voice was low and brusque. Her touch upon his bare neck grew warmer, so much so that after a minute it hurt, as though someone had placed a heating pad there.
“Okay—I’m—I’m better now.” When he started to sit up she grabbed his shoulder.
“Slow down! You’ll pass out—”
He was upright again. She sat beside him, her hand still on his shoulder, and peered at him intently.
“Better?” He nodded. “Okay. Here.”
She picked up the crystal fish of aquavit and handed it to him. He sipped it gratefully, nodding thanks.
“I’m Nellie Candry,” the woman said. “Christ. I saw what happened: Your friend . . .” Her gaze shifted to the Pyramid’s entrance, and she brushed nervously at her hair. “Horrible. And then I saw you sitting here, you looked like you were going to pass out . . .”
She hesitated. Her gloved fingers pressed at the table’s stone edge, as though she were clinging to it. “I work here—my office is upstairs. I thought, if you wanted to get away, have some privacy. If you needed to make some phone calls. Or just rest—I have a futon . . .”
He must have been looking at her strangely. “You can check me out with security if you want,” she reassured him. “I mean, I’m a fucking vice president, okay, I’m not going to hurt you. Or maybe you just want to be left alone . . . ?”
“No.” He winced. “No, I don’t really want to be alone. I—I’ve been ill, this was the first time I’ve left my house in a long while, and—”
His voice broke. “It’s okay,” she murmured. “It was—horrible. Don’t you have any friends nearby?”
“Not now—I used to, but . . .”
“Yeah, well, I know what that’s like.” She picked up the half-empty crystal of aquavit, put it back down. “Look. Why don’t you come upstairs with me. You can have some time alone, at least.”
“But the police—they were going to find me a ride—”
“We’ll call them from upstairs.”
Before he knew it she was helping him to his feet. The waiter appeared. Nellie waved away Jack’s hand as he reached for his pocket. “No—let me—”
She gave the waiter a credit card and waited as he processed it. Then she touched Jack’s elbow, pointing at a softly lit alcove where elevator doors glowed blue and green.
The elevator brought them to the thirtieth floor, midway up the Pyramid’s interior, then opened onto a space blazing with video monitors. Huge doors of cobalt blue glass bore a holographic logo and the words AGRIPPA MUSIC.
“This way,” Nellie took him by the shoulder and gently pushed him down the hall. “We’ll go to my editing room. Quieter there . . .”
He followed her down another corridor, and another, ended up in a nondescript hallway. They made little effort at conversation, besides Jack telling Nellie his name. He walked beside her, squinting to read placards: Kingston Music, First Analysis Corp., Merton Defense Systems. At a door reading Pathfinder Films she pulled out a key and slid it into the wall. A grid of light exploded, flashed as she pulled the door open and motioned him inside.
“This is it,” she said.
Her office was a chilly warren of odd-shaped rooms stacked floor to ceiling with silver canisters of film. A few small battery-driven lights were affixed to the ceiling. They cast a sepia glow on everything, so that Jack felt as though he were in an old photograph. There was a small desk littered with curling ribbons of film, a broken light box and old-fashioned loupes, the remains of a boxed sushi lunch, some empty medicine vials. Nellie picked up the phone and rang downstairs. She gave her name and number to security and told them to notify her when someone arrived to drive John Finnegan home.
“Okay.” She dropped the phone onto a pile of discs. “They’re waiting for an officer who’s going off duty, some guy who lives in the North Bronx. He says he’ll drive you, but it’ll be a few hours.”
Jack nodded. “Thank you.”
She shrugged. “Come on, I’ll give you the tour.”
More arcane objects filled the hallway. Cameras or recording equipment. Leaning in a corner was some kind of tall staff. Strips of leather hung from it, and red ceramic beads. On the floor beside it lay a crude mask with gouged eyes and an obscenely long wooden tongue dangling from its mouth. Mounted on one side was a single very large antler—it must have come from an immense stag. There was a hole where the other antler had been.
“Three have been taken, but two are left,” Nellie said, looking at the grotesque face with an odd smile. “Sorry about the mess.” She nudged a canvas sack stuffed with books. “This way—”
There was no other way. Four steps brought them to a miniscule bathroom with composting toilet and no running water; three more steps to a sleeping alcove taken up by a futon and a few paperback books, coffee mug, a torn T-shirt. On the wall hung a small frame with a piece of plain white paper inside. Jack edged past Nellie to read what was typed there.
Life becomes useful when you confront a difficulty; it provides a kind of value to your life to have the kind of responsibility to confront it and overcome it. So from that angle it is a great honor, a great privilege, to face these times, to confront them.
The Dalai Lama
 
 
Nellie laughed. “I know, I’m a dharma bimbo! Come on.”
At the end of the hall was another small room, dark except for a monitor set into an old-fashioned editing table. Nellie edged past more film canisters, a metal cabinet, and manila envelopes crammed with papers and black-and-white photographs. She pointed at the glowing white screen. “My Steenbeck.”

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