Skull Session (26 page)

Royce sighed, the patient sigh of a martyred man. "My mother isn't known as an easy person to associate with. I imagine she has managed to make any number of enemies."

"Anyone specific come to mind?"

"Frankly, Paul, I haven't spoken to the old bitch in I don't know how many years. I've no idea whom she has antagonized in that time. Sorry."

Their food arrived, beautifully displayed on plates that continued the monkey motif. A warm cloud of scent rose from the swordfish and made Paul's mouth water. Royce probed his oysters with a tiny silver fork.

"Why do you hate her?"

Royce looked up at the chandeliered ceiling, as if the answer were up there, or were so vast it required a moment for him to capture the appropriate language. At last he brought his eyes down, squeezed lemon onto an oyster, brought the shell to his mouth, and sucked the puckered gray flesh into his mouth. He chewed rapturously for a moment, then swallowed. "These are splendid—you ought to try one. Vivien? I've always hated her. Why don't you just assume it's simply a habit that we both have grown accustomed to."

"You strike me as very similar people in a lot of ways."

Royce jabbed the air with his oyster fork as if catching the idea on its tines. "Yes, I'm sure that's it," he said, mimicking revelation.

"I just saw her, you know," Paul said. "In San Francisco. She said she'd had what she called Rimbaud's disease when you were a boy. She said maybe you'd caught it from her. Doesn't blame you for keeping a distance."

"Sounds like her. So, how is the old black widow?"

"I found her to be an . . . amazing woman. Very observant and intelligent. She is also a very lonely person."

"I take it I'm supposed to take pity, feel contrite, and go patch things up with her?" Royce smiled sourly at Paul, then chose another oyster. "Enough about me," he said with heavy irony. "Now let's talk about you. At least give us an outrageous tic or two. I've been waiting with bated breath. Can't you give the maitre d' the finger or some such?"

Paul smiled. He volunteered ordinary information about his life and about Mark and Aster and Kay.

"Lovely. And your sister—is she pretty? A man slayer?"

"Kay is pleasant and plump and looks every bit the suburban mother."

Royce got a wistful look in his eyes. "I always thought she would be a beauty. Had juvenile fantasies about her." "So I gather."

Royce looked at him, amused, and then patted his lips with his napkin. "Oh, so we've been talking about cousin Royce? I'm flattered. What else did we say?"

"What do you think? She's my sister."

"Oh, Paul! Are you going to defend your sister's honor? Aren't you a little late? I don't know what she told you, but let me give you my perspective. Frankly, your sister was a little hussy. She tripped me and hit the ground before I did."

When Paul started to object, Royce reached across the table and pinned his wrist with one large hand, gripping it with surprising strength. His eyes burned into Paul's, deadly serious. "The thing is, Paul, the real thing is this:
Truth is subjective.
It's what I say it is for me. For your sister, it's what she says it is. I'll make it whatever suits me, for whatever convoluted reasons, whether I know it or admit it or not. So will Kay.
And all you'll be doing, when you decide which of us you believe, is
more of the same.'"
Royce let go of Paul's wrist, and the sudden flush on his face began to recede. "Something to keep in mind when the past comes back to visit us with its little moods and revelations." He tugged the cuffs of his shirt, glanced sharply at Paul, and went back to his oysters.

Paul said nothing for a moment. Apart from his investment in Kay's truthfulness, he had to agree with Royce. It was one of the big ugly scaries that you had to face sooner or later: The world is a dreamscape, where things change shape, where everything is subject to interpretation and no interpretation lasts. He'd have resented Royce's outburst if he didn't feel, for the first time, that Royce was revealing something he truly cared about, something he'd had to struggle with.

"I'll take it into consideration," Paul said. His wrist tingled unpleasantly from the strange soft-hard grip of Royce's hand. Willing his pulse to slow, he turned his attention back to his meal. The swordfish was excellent, with a delicate, peppery crust and white flesh that melted like butter in his mouth. He ate the last of it slowly, determined to savor his lunch despite the company.

32

T
HE ELEVATOR DOOR OPENED directly into Royce's foyer and they stepped out.

"So this is my New York sanctum," Royce said. He took off his overcoat and hung it in a closet, then led Paul down a hallway with a high ceiling, agreeably lit by skylights. "Bought it, oh, ten years ago, only stay here when I'm in town. Only seven rooms, but I find it rather pleasant for a small place."

The hall gave way to other rooms: a large L-shaped living room, a formal dining room, a kitchen.

"I'm going to visit the W.C. Feel free to wander around." Royce disappeared down the short hallway, and Paul went into the living room.

It was a huge room, sparsely but impeccably decorated: white walls, floors a fine parquet of white oak covered with superb Navajo rugs. Sleek hardwood furniture stood in clusters, brightly colored abstract canvases hung on the walls. Asian and African masks and weapons hung here and there, crisply isolated against the spacious walls. On two sides of the room, a row of windows and a pair of French doors opened onto a terrace with potted shrubs, white wrought-iron furniture and arbor, and a fine view of Central Park.

Paul inspected several rooms and after a few minutes returned to the living room, where he paused in front of a pair of short swords with notched blades, thinking over what he'd seen. Wainscoting, walls, paneled ceilings: The place was in pristine shape. It didn't need any work.

Royce appeared at his side. "Philippine headhunters' knives," he said with satisfaction. "That half-moon notch is just about the diameter of an average neck. I got them from my father, who got them from their makers. Who knows how many necks these have severed?" He ran his thumb along one edge. "Funny—now
headhunting
is a term we use for hiring away another company's executives. Done a bit of it myself."

Royce took him on a tour of the apartment, then led him to the kitchen, where he started water in a teapot on a stove situated in a central island. The spacious counters were white marble, scattered with kitchen gadgets in white plastic and chrome. Royce took a chair at a table near the windows and began spooning ground coffee into a French plunger coffeemaker.

"Here's the thing, cousin. I'd like you to do the work. I need to be away, and you'd be welcome to stay here while you worked on it. Good area, close to the museums and whatnot. I'd imagine it might be a relief from the long Vermont winter."

"I'm sure it would be," Paul said. "But I'm not sure how long Highwood will take. Depending on Vivien's plans, the restoration up there may take the rest of the winter." This seemed to capture Royce's interest. Paul's fingers began moving, playing tunes on the underside of the table.

"Oh? What exactly did she say about her plans?" Royce asked, preoccupied with the coffee.

"Just that. We'll get the place into safe shape, then give her an estimate for different levels of restoration, let her decide then what she wants to do."

Royce stroked his chin, appeared to consider this for a moment. "Because I'd really need you to start work here right away. I'm leaving, as I told you, and when I return in several weeks I'd like to have the job done. I plan to hold one of those significant social events to announce my return to the old Big Apple, and I'd like the place to be perfect."

"It's already perfect."

"The point being that whoever takes the job must be prepared to start work immediately." The water in the teapot increased its rumble and the steam began to whistle feebly in intermittent pulses. Royce stood up and waited at the stove.

"Then that leaves me out. I've already got a commitment for this time period."

Royce's eyes flashed at him, irritated. "What are you making working for my mother? Fifteen dollars an hour? Twenty? I said I'd pay top dollar. In New York City, that means two or three times what she's paying you." The water came to a full boil, blowing a cone of steam and a steady shriek from the spout. Royce ignored it. "I'd like you to do the work, Paul."

"I said I can't."

"You drive a hard bargain, don't you?" Royce forced a smile. "I hadn't figured you for the type. Okay, eighty dollars an hour. But only if you start work immediately."

It was a staggering sum, as much as teachers in Vermont made in a day. Paul shook his head, the whistle shrilling in his eardrums. "I can't. I've made another agreement. Would you mind taking the teapot off? It's giving me a headache."

Royce didn't move. "You're more than willing to ingratiate yourself with my mother—why not with me, at four times the pay? Don't give me this crap about the professional ethics of the handyman."

Paul stood up, slapped at the stove knob. The whistle subsided. He wanted to leave the apartment, get away from Royce. There was something twisted in Royce, something awful just below the civilized surface. Suddenly being near him had become unbearably oppressive.

"Fuck!
One," Paul said, "I'm not ingratiating myself with anyone. I'm helping out my aunt, and I'm getting paid for my professional services. Two: This place doesn't need anything. It's fine. What's your angle?"

"I'm so glad I get to witness a few of the famous obscenities. Sit down, Paulie. Why are we arguing?" Royce had regained control over himself. His voice was smooth again, but his hands shook as he poured the water into the coffeemaker and inserted the plunger. "Look. I agree, the place isn't in bad shape. But—and don't take this the wrong way—here in Manhattan, when your work requires you make an impression, standards are high. 'Not bad' isn't good enough. See, the whole system works on
faith,
Paulie. Faith in a company, faith in a product, faith in the value of a currency. The stock market stays up because the gamblers have enough faith to buy in, not sell out. Pdght? Money is no different from any other religion, it works on reverence, awe, and blind goddamned faith. Now, I regularly move money around, big sums of it, more than my own liquidity at any given point. That means I use other people's money, and that means I need them to
have faith.
Say I'm having people over, courting an investment of millions of dollars—I have to look sound.
Absolutely
sound."

Royce slowly depressed the plunger. "I need top-quality work and I want someone I can trust in here when I'm away. Who better than you? Surely you can understand that."

Paul felt himself wavering. Royce was pointing out that there were cultural differences between them. Maybe the standards of Royce's income bracket weren't something he really understood.

Paul walked out of the room. "I'll think about it, okay, Royce? Best I can do. If you need a decision right away, there are hundreds of contractors in New York. If you want somebody you can trust, look for one that's licensed and insured. You've got a Yellow Pages."

"I can see I've underestimated you. Let's make it a hundred dollars an hour, first month paid in advance," Royce called after him. "Say fifteen thousand. Provided you start within the next few days."

"Thanks for lunch," Paul growled over his shoulder. "You're a big spender. I'm impressed no end." The anger seemed to well up out of nowhere, and his abdomen ticced in spasms. He found his scarf and gloves and punched the elevator call button.

Royce followed him into the hall. "You think I'm fucked up?" he said, speaking softly now. "Then go ahead, work for Vivien. You don't know what fucked up means. Fair warning, cousin."

The elevator door opened, and Paul stepped inside. As the doors drew closed, Royce stood broad-shouldered and agitated at the end of the hall, looking after him and still fumbling with the coffee plunger, which seemed to have lodged, the shaft bent, halfway down the cylinder. Paul's revulsion gave way to the sense that he'd overreacted, and a feeling for Royce less like anger than, unexpectedly, pity.

Driving back along the crowded Saw Mill River Parkway, Paul tried to smooth out his emotions. After seeing Royce, he'd driven down to Chinatown, where he bought gifts for Janet and Mark. Fighting the heavy city traffic had exhausted him. And now the MG's motor was stuttering, reawakening his concern about its reliability. His stomach felt sour, as if he'd eaten something rancid, although the food had been first-rate.

His thoughts drifted back to the preceding days, and abruptly he caught the thought that had teased him that first day as he hefted the broken finial at the lodge. He sat up out of the slump he'd fallen into behind the wheel.

It had to do with some reading he'd done while tracking down an idea about Mark. Specifically, it was a reference in a book he'd read called
The Violent Personality,
by a Dr. Emmett Childers. Mark was not habitually violen. But his seizures, if that's what they were, often ended in fits of violence, and Paul had begun looking for known neurological origins for violent behavior. He'd found a few ideas that might bear upon Mark's condition—and had also stumbled upon a footnote in Dr. Childers' book that could conceivably explain the damage at High-wood.

The note dealt briefly with reports of hyperkinesia and hyperdyna-mism. The medical term
hyperkinesia
was commonly used in connection with various psychopathologies from bipolar disorders to schizophrenia to drug responses and was often associated with hyperactivity in children. Hyperkinesic individuals moved their bodies and limbs excessively, at high speed, often inappropriately and with minimal control.

Rarer was a related condition,
hyperdynamism
—spontaneous displays of unusual or "superhuman" strength. Childers claimed that although hyperdynamism was not unknown in medical literature, it was very rare, and most reports were no doubt gready exaggerated. The footnote had concluded with the mild suggestion that the phenomenon warranted further research.

Paul had barely glanced at the footnote, reading fast and screening for information relevant to Mark. But now it came back to him. He'd have to find the reference again. It was a terrifying thought, but hyperdy- namism was one explanation for the finial that had been forcibly broken off while remaining unmarked by any impact. "Hit it with a couch," Lia had joked.
Or, if you're strong enough,
Paul thought,
with the palm of your
hand.