The Faceless One (11 page)

Jimmy picked up one of the Johnny Walkers and twisted the cap off. He looked at the door one more time for good measure, then drained half the bottle in one gulp. It burned on the way down, a fire that was both pleasant and familiar. He supposed he had taken to drinking too much after Rose had died. It had been hard to fill up his days once they were empty of her. Sadly, among his people he had been considered a moderate drinker. John Muir had once observed that many of the Tlingit gave literal meaning to the phrase “howling drunk.” Jimmy had noticed on more than one occasion that those howls were full of misery, not celebration.

Thinking of Yanut, he decided to give his hometown a call. Perhaps someone in the village could help him. Surely, there was someone there who could tell him the meanings of Raven’s visits. Maybe he could mail the talismans to that someone, where they could prove useful. If The Faceless One was involved, they needed a warrior, not an arthritic resident of a rest home.

Jimmy drained the rest of the bottle. He looked longingly at the others but decided to ration himself. George couldn’t afford any more flights, and it was unlikely anyone would give them brandy or schnapps for Christmas.

He looked at himself in the mirror above the bureau. For a moment, his face looked strange, then resolved into the familiar terrain of lines and scars.

The Faceless One. His uncle had told him what he knew, knowledge passed down since the time of the First People. Such stories were secret, reserved for a shaman and his initiates. Jimmy had studied those ways until he was thirteen, but then his uncle had drowned. Some of the elders had wanted to search for a new shaman, perhaps continue Jimmy’s training, but the newer members of the council had been more concerned with road improvements and the installation of a traffic light at the town’s one main intersection. They had hoped to bring in fast food and coffee, tourists and their money. There was no room in such discussions for the ways of the past. Uncle Will’s parting bounty of fish was soon chalked up to weather patterns and tide anomalies. Masks once used for sacred ceremonies were crudely copied for people with cameras who had little regard for the meaning of such things. Jimmy had tried to take his uncle’s place, but no one had taken him seriously. Even the elders who had believed saw him only as a boy playing pretend. He had kept his uncle’s trappings but was rarely called upon to heal the sick, chase away demons, or summon fish to the nets and hooks. Someone offered his parents five hundred dollars for his uncle’s cloak and headdress, but Jimmy had refused to sell them. His parents,
seeing the fire in his eyes, had honored his wishes.

Those same artifacts were in boxes in a Stor-Mor private storage facility in Juneau. Some shaman.

Almost sixty years had passed since his uncle Will had died, and he had had no one to whom he could pass on the tales of The Faceless One. Though he had sworn never to forget his lessons in the ice cave, the memories had dimmed through time and disuse.

But
Naas shagee Yéil
had chosen him. Raven had given him the Chin Eater talisman and its own eyes and beak.

Shit, he was an old man in a rest home. His most noteworthy accomplishment of late had been stealing fried chicken from the kitchen one night.

Yéil has chosen you
.

Bullshit. Raven was a Trickster, after all. Could be he was having a laugh at Jimmy’s expense. He would get all worked up, then the Trickster would reveal it had all been a joke. But what if it wasn’t?

Surely there was someone younger than he, someone more qualified to investigate these matters. Maybe he could ask Milo to check on the cave, see if the talismans were still in place. Milo was a drunk and a braggart, but he would recognize the talismans and not violate the space they guarded.

Jimmy resolved to call the village tomorrow morning. It was getting late, and dinner would be served soon. Tuesday was fish-stick night. He hated fish sticks, but the coleslaw was pretty good. It gave him gas, but what the hell, he lived alone.

He placed the empty bottle in the box, then placed it carefully back in its hiding place behind the mementos of his former life.

My real life
.

Jimmy sighed and checked the clock. Time for a card game before dinner. He went in search of George and the Old Fart, the whiskey a pool of warmth in his stomach.

The Magic Lantern Bookstore was located in a strip mall on Foothill Boulevard, distinguished from other strip malls within a three-block radius by his store, an independent coffeehouse known as Java Jackrabbit, and a market that carried both Asian and Middle-Eastern foods called Eastern Star. These three businesses gave the center a bit of individuality in contrast to the usual supermarket and Starbucks combination that had sprung up all over Los Angeles.

Steven entered, leaving the
CLOSED
sign in place. He breathed in the smell of paperbacks and hardcovers. There was something wonderful in that scent, something that took you back to your first time in a library, your first purchase of a real book.

He flicked on the wall switches, and the banks of fluorescent lights came to life, the light marching across the store as they switched on one by one.

People would gather at Magic Lantern on weekends for a cup of coffee and conversation about anything from a new SF book or movie to politics to the latest discovery in physics or astronomy. Steven would join in or sometimes just move around the store, helping customers and relishing the fact that this lively atmosphere was something he had created, conjured from his love of books.

That day, although the store was quiet, he took some solace in its familiarity, in its warm smell and crazy-quilt pattern of shelves. He sat for a while on the front counter and just stared off into space, past the bright covers and slick magazines.

Danny.

To everyone else he had been Dr. Daniel Owen Slater, but to Steven he would always be Danny.

It was Danny who had introduced him to science fiction, passing on some of his juvenile novels to his little brother. It was a genre that Danny eventually discarded, but not Steven. Steven was hooked for life.

One day, when Danny was ten and he was eight, they had gone digging for Pellucidar in their backyard. Their father had taken them to the New Beverly Theater to see
Raiders of the Lost Ark
. It was Gerald Slater’s favorite movie, and he had been thrilled that Indy’s tenth anniversary coincided with Danny’s tenth birthday. They had all loved the movie, but for Danny it was a life-changing event. He didn’t want to play Indiana Jones, he wanted to
be
him. He
began wearing his grandfather’s old fedora and pretending an old jump rope was his trusty bullwhip.

Danny also began reading books about lost cities and fabulous artifacts. After reading some books about Hollow Earth civilizations, he decided that one must exist. Whether dinosaurs or an advanced civilization populated it, they would find something if they dug deep enough. According to his “research,” all they had to do was reach one of the many access tunnels that honeycombed the Earth, and they could follow that down to whatever waited at the Earth’s core.

At the four-foot mark, their shovels struck metal, and Danny was convinced they had reached an air lock for the tunnels. He figured that the creatures below might not breathe oxygen, so they would have to get diving helmets or scuba gear before they went too far. He couldn’t leave the site just yet, though; he wanted one look at the marvels beneath the Earth’s crust even if he had to hold his breath while he peeked.

Danny had gotten a pickax from the garage and begun swinging at the exposed metal, the point making ringing sounds and sending up sparks with each blow. Danny had said the sound and sparks made him feel like Thor the Thunder God. The noise brought their father, just as Danny punched a hole in a city water pipe and sent a small geyser of water up ten feet. Mr. Slater was not amused, especially when the city levied a fine of $500 against him. Steven and Danny were grounded for two weeks, without television, videogames, and comic books.

It was hell.

Their father, figuring they needed a healthy outlet for their curiosity, encouraged them to join the Boy Scouts. He often accompanied them on hikes, and these memories were some of the best that Steven had of his boyhood. Although they never told their father, they would spend those hikes secretly searching for artifacts that would show that Lemuria or Mu had once existed within walking distance of the Rose Bowl.

It didn’t surprise Steven when Danny went into archeaology, the die was cast all those years ago when Indiana Jones became his hero, and Steven saw Daniel’s expeditions to South America, Africa, and Alaska as extensions of those hikes through the dusty chaparral hillsides near home. Steven smiled, even as the tears welled again, remembering how earnest his brother had been on that ill-fated dig for the Center of the Earth, his thick glasses slipping down his nose and a large smudge of dirt across his forehead.

It hurt to think of him. Hurt to think that he would never see him again. Had he told him he loved him? Had he made it clear that Danny was one of the best things about his childhood and that he had always admired and cherished his brother? He wasn’t sure. He thought he had made that clear, but their talks were usually about family and whatever woman Danny was currently seeing, along with his research and how he was dealing with politics at the university.

As he sat there, his vision blurred as his eyes brimmed with tears. Steven cried. Quietly at
first, then more loudly. His sorrow escalated into rage, and he slammed his fist down on the counter, making several display books fall over and a cup full of pens and pencils spill across the worn surface. He covered his eyes with his hands and rocked back and forth.

After a while, he got up and washed his face in the small restroom festooned with cartoons and graffiti from local cartoonists. For a moment, he felt like tearing down every cheery cartoon, every satirical quote—as if he wanted to ensure he might never smile again because smiling would be inappropriate in the face of this tragedy. In his mind, he heard Danny telling him he was being a melodramatic little punk and that was enough to make him smile, albeit briefly.

He returned to the counter, righted the fallen books and spilled pens, then sat down with a catalog from Ingram Book Distributors and listlessly circled the titles he might order. After that, he went and bought a falafel and a Coke at Eastern Star. He didn’t eat any of it; purchasing it just gave him something to do.

Finally, he just sat and stared into space, the sounds of traffic outside enough of a white noise to help him tune out everything. After a while, he felt nothing. A numbing dissociative state settled over him. It was a relief in its way.

He began making a list of things they’d need to do before going to New York.

to bury Daniel

He’d have his part-timer, Ellen, take care of the store, and he’d have to see if their neighbor, Mrs. Nadel, could look after the cats and the house. He also needed to

bury Daniel

He ignored the mean voice in his head and jotted down checking his suit to see if it was clean, whether he needed toiletries

gotta bury your brother, Stevie, put him in the ground

He squeezed the pen, trying to quiet the insidious whisper.

no Pellucidar for Danny-boy, just worms

Steven forced himself to concentrate on business. He remembered that the rent was past due, and he’d better …

Steven sat very still.

Daniel’s money was now his.

It seemed blasphemous to think about it, but there it was. His brother had been wealthy, and Steven was the only family.

His money troubles were over. Sell the store? Hell, he could expand if he wanted to, move to one of those new malls with all kinds of foot traffic …

He thought a moment about plunging the pen into his hand, penance for such avarice. But still …

gotta pick his pockets before you bury him

Shut up! Daniel’s dead. Wouldn’t you give anything to have him back?

Of course he would, but that wasn’t possible.

he’s dead and you’re rich, little brother

Steven felt dirty, treacherous, and small. He needed to distract himself from these thoughts, at least until he could share them with Liz. She was loving and supportive—she would provide a harbor in this latest emotional storm.

He decided to place an order for the books he had circled. He booted up the computer. It cheerfully announced that he had e-mail waiting.

Thinking it was a request for a book search or correspondence from one of his customers, Steven clicked on the icon that sent him to the in-box.

It was an email from Daniel’s lawyer, telling him that Daniel had made pre-need arrangements in the event of his death. Daniel’s wish was to be cremated, his ashes scattered in the hills above their boyhood home, near the Chumash settlement that had been his first dig, and near the Great Pyramid of Giza.

So much for burying him.

gotta burn him! gotta torch your big brother!

Purcival went on to say that Daniel’s obituary had already been submitted to several newspapers, and that the chair of Daniel’s department at NYU would host a memorial service on Thursday, to which Steven and his family were invited. If Steven had not been contacted about this, doubtless he would be soon. Also, if he were attending, he could meet with Purcival there and they could arrange a time to go over the will. If not …

gotta get your payout, Stevie!

Danny’s got money to burn! Burn him! Torch your big brother!

Steven rubbed his eyes viciously, trying to stop the traitorous voice in his head.

The computer chimed as an email arrived.

It was a message from Danny.

Steven gaped. He felt guilty, as if Danny were aware of his recent thoughts. He tried to put that out of his mind.

He thought of calling the police before he opened it, then dismissed this as foolish. Whatever was in here, it wouldn’t contain fingerprints or fibers that needed to be left in place for the men of the NYPD.