After Death(74)

Thus the game had begun.

All these years later, it quickens toward an end. As at the beginning, the all-powerful masters of the universe require him to kill a dead man who returned to life. Thereafter, Durand Calaphas will win his way out of the game and into the next level, which his unshakable faith assures him is the highest and true reality, where he will become one of the masters. He has no doubts. Doubts are for losers.

His quarry is moving toward the coast.

And so he speeds south, in pursuit of the blinking signifier that is Michael Mace. He lives to kill and kills to live again, a product of the New Truth in which he does not believe any more than he believes in the old truth.





A MOMENT ON THE EARTH




As midnight fast approaches, robes of cloud slide northward down the sky, and in the clear high dark, stars map the universe beyond the silver moon.

While the solid and quiet Bentley floats through the dripping night, John sleeps in the back, upon a multimillion-dollar bed. With so much to process from this frantic day, he has material to inspire nightmares, but if dreams assault him, he keeps them to himself. He lies silently in the fetal position. Perhaps the purr of the sedan and the susurration of the tires on the highway approximate the sounds of life in the womb, the sustaining rush of umbilical blood, and bring him peace.

“He’s so young,” Nina says. “How can he cope with all this? What will it do to him?”

“Make him stronger,” Michael says.

“I hope that’s true.”

“That’s who he is. Most children are adaptable, survivors, if they’re allowed to be, if adults don’t layer their own neuroses on their kids. John’s never going to need safe spaces like the infants in universities require these days. He won’t waste his life being offended by ‘microaggressions.’ He knows the world is a hard place for everyone, that taking solace from—or finding virtue in—being a victim is a sure path to lifelong misery. He’ll roll with whatever life throws at him, and he’ll always find a way to be happy.”

“I wish I could be sure of that,” she says. “How can you be?”

“That’s who he is because of you.”

She sits taller, not in pride, but in humble resistance to what he has said. “Don’t snow me. I’ve given him so little.”

He almost smiles but doesn’t want a smile to seem patronizing. “You’ve given him love, stability, proper guidance, and confidence. That’s all any kid needs, and what too few receive.”

“Because of me,” Nina says, “John had a murderer—a monster—for a father.”

“You took full responsibility for what you did. Because of you, John lives, and the world is better with him in it.”

“You let me off the hook too easily.”

“It only seems that way to you because you never let yourself off the hook to any extent at all.”

She closes her eyes and rides in silence for a while. When he glances at her, he sees that she is biting her lower lip. Her cheeks are dry, but her eyelashes are jeweled.

Eventually she opens her eyes and says, “It feels so strange.”

“What does?”

“Not being in control. Not knowing what’s next or where.”

“I’m just a bridge, remember?”

“Troubled water. But you’re . . . more than a bridge.”

“When we’re across the flood, you’ll soon be in control of your life, no less than you’ve always been.”

“Their kind,” she says, “they hate women. They think one dissed them, they’ll never let it go. One day, I go out to the street to check the mailbox, they drive by shooting.”

“Not if they can’t find you. Not if you’re someone other than Nina Dozier with a different past that public records will support through any intensity of investigation.”

This is a different silence, and her hope is almost palpable. Reminded of his power, she says, “You could do that.”

“Just think about what name you might like to be. And one for John. In a week or less, I’ll have birth certificates, valid social security cards, a driver’s license in your new name and on file with the DMV.”

“I owe you so much.”

“You owe me nothing. I had a deep debt to Shelby Shrewsberry, and what I’ve done is pay it back to him, through you.”

About twenty miles north of San Diego, they turn inland from the ocean, toward Rancho Santa Fe, a residential community of mostly large homes and gated estates on significant acreage.

With darkness at its midpoint, the moon is high before them, reflecting its reflected sunlight across rolling hills that become less populated mile by mile, silvering the wild grass that is golden in daylight. Beyond the headlights, trees loom in dim silhouette, the stone pines standing motionless, the palm trees swaying with the dreamy flow of plants that grow in the bosom of the sea. Greater in number and height are eucalyptuses that stand sentinel across the slopes as well as in the vales.

Nina breaks their mutual silence. “What will you do?”

“I’ve already got three identities locked in the system.”

“I don’t mean who will you be. What will you do? What you’ve done for us, in Shelby’s name, isn’t all you can do. There’s more you want to do, I think. Much more. Whatever it is, I can’t even begin to imagine the . . . impact.”