Orpheus and the Pearl & Nevermore (10 page)

“
What are you
doing?”

“
Lensing your third eye.
For sight.”

He remembered Jean’s
finger tracing across his brow, remembered the way it had swirled
and darted. He had dipped his finger in Malcolm’s scotch, which had
tasted strangely sweet, and he had asked Malcolm:
“What do you see?”

“
I see you.”

Jean Haniver, Leo’s dearest and oldest
friend.

Malcolm shot back from the cadaver, out of
the alleyway, and focused through the storm. Jean didn’t live far.
Malcolm wondered if he was asleep. Wondered if he was alone.

He went to find out.

He thought about Leo, then Ray, then Leo
again. Malcolm was forced to stop several times to orient himself,
he had to focus on what he knew. Just the facts—there weren’t
many—he was certain Jean had put something in his drink, he knew
Jean had authored the obscene symbol he could see on the cadaver’s
head, and he had an idea of why.

Surely Leo didn’t know, he
wouldn’t have been complicit in murder. As far as Malcolm was
aware, Leo hadn’t even known about the dinner… but Jean
was
the other man, had
to be. Once again, Malcolm had overlooked the obvious and given Leo
the benefit of the doubt.

So Jean had some semblance of a
motive—didn’t want Malcolm to find out about them, and
interfere—and he was evidently more desperate than Malcolm ever
imagined.

But things were still fragmented. Why had he
done what he’d done to Malcolm’s body? Hadn’t it been enough just
to destroy Malcolm? Didn’t this madness threaten to expose
Jean?

Maybe he’d fucked up. Maybe it was just that
simple.

Malcolm passed through the door of Jean’s
townhouse, and stood in a darkened living room decorated with
garish charcoal prints from one of Jean’s other friends.
Intertwined demons glared down at Malcolm from all sides. He
crossed the room, glancing at the books on the coffee table—all
Jean’s, save for a magazine that was open to an article titled
“Negative Prophet.” Looked like a skeptic’s treatise on Jean’s
“work.” Malcolm imagined a smile at that, then went to the
stairs.

Going up is probably going
to be harder than going down.
He cast his
focus onto the first step, and was pulled forward. No problem at
all. He supposed it was all the same to him, he could probably walk
on walls if he wanted to. He wished Jean could see him. He’d love
to appear on the ceiling over the bastard’s head and give him a
goddamn heart attack.

That gave him pause. How had he supposed to
communicate with Jean at all? He looked at the ectoplasm
evaporating beneath him. If he could cast it in a more controlled
manner, then maybe that, too, would prove easier than he
thought.

It has to be easy. If Jean is able to speak
with spirits, there can’t be much heavy lifting involved.

Standing in the upstairs hall, before what
he presumed to be the bedroom door, Malcolm steeled himself. What
would he do if Leo was here?

I’ll tell him.

He went in.

Jean was alone, fast asleep under Egyptian
cotton, arms and legs splayed over the width of the bed. Malcolm
stood over him and stared for a time, thinking about how he could
awaken him. He didn’t think he could touch him, nor knock anything
over. He focused on Jean’s placid expression and drew closer. He
thought of Jean’s finger dipping into the scotch, and willed his
own finger into existence, a green-tinged digit hovering right over
Jean’s forehead. Casting the finger downward, he touched Jean’s
flesh. It was an oddly detached sensation, as if his own skin—had
he any—were numbed by anesthetic. He drew a clumsy X there, then
watched as it faded.

Jean shivered, stirred. His eyelids
fluttered. “Mrm.” Then his eyes opened. Malcolm stared down into
them, watched as they explored the dark room, as Jean tried to
recall what had roused him.

Malcolm traced another X on Jean’s cheek.
The man rolled away, swiping at his face with an irritated grunt.
Jean was facing the window now, and Malcolm saw a humidifier on the
bureau there, and condensation on the rain-streaked glass. He
thought of the words WASH ME printed on Saul’s car, and he moved to
it and raised his finger to the glass.

Perhaps Jean couldn’t see the ectoplasm, but
he’d see the letters being drawn in the moisture.

He’d see
H E L L O.

Jean sat up with a scream., his arms shrank
to his sides, and he stared, trembling, at the window. The letters
were gradually obscured by fresh moisture. Malcolm wrote HELLO
again.

“
Wha...” Jean shook his
head. “What? No!”

He didn’t seem at all like the veteran
psychic Malcolm had witnessed in the past. Had he only summoned the
spirits himself before now? Was Malcolm his first uninvited
guest?

HELLO JEAN

“
What!” Jean’s nude form
leapt from the bed and backed toward the door. “What is this—who
are you?”

The first letters began to
fade before Malcolm finished his name, but Jean understood well
enough. “Malcolm... Malcolm
Witt?
”

YOU KILLED ME

“
What?” Jean grabbed the
doorknob. Malcolm scribbled a big NO on the glass.

“
What do you want?” Jean
screamed.

YOU KILLED ME

“
I didn’t kill anyone!
What are you talking about?”

3RD EYE, Malcolm wrote.

Jean frowned.
“Malcolm—it’s really you? You’re
dead?
How are you dead?”

SCOTCH

POISON

YOU

“
I would never—!” Jean was
suddenly aware of his nakedness, and his hands flew to his crotch.
“Malcolm, I didn’t do anything! You have to believe me!”

PUT IN MY DRINK. The words appeared and
faded, one after the other.

“
Put something in your
drink? No! I mean—”

WHAT?

“
Jesus Christ Malcolm, all
I did was give you a little Yellow Sign! I’ve done it with people
before. It’s harmless. It just helps you to see!”

WHAT IS YELLOW SIGN

“
It’s just a syrup with
some herbs. I learned to make it in New Bedlam when I studied with
Saul. It’s for lensing the third eye, just like I told
you.”

This Yellow Sign had to be the reason for
the cadaver. And it had to be what had killed Malcolm. Jean was
lying about its purpose, if not its origin. Malcolm wrote: LIAR

“
No! I swear to Christ!
Ask Saul!” Jean moved toward the phone on the bedside
table.

CALL LEO, Malcolm wrote.

“
Why would I call Leo? He
doesn’t know.”

HE SHOULD KNOW WHAT YOU DID

“
I didn’t do fucking
anything!” Jean shouted. “And I don’t even know where the fuck Leo
is! I told you I don’t know who this fucking guy is!”

Malcolm hesitated at the glass. Jean was
claiming he wasn’t the one?

Jean fell on his knees by the bed. He
sobbed, “I’ve never hurt anyone. Not like that! I know you hate
what I do, everyone does! But I—I—I can’t even fucking talk to
spirits, Malcolm!” His tone was furious. “Yeah, it’s all bullshit.
Are you fucking happy now?!”

The window didn’t respond. “Are you here?”
Jean whispered. “Malcolm?”

CALL SAUL

“
I will!” Jean practically
knocked the phone from the table as he dove for it. “He’ll tell
you. He can do things. Real things. Maybe even...” He looked up.
“Maybe he can even see you.”

Jean dialed. Malcolm waited.

“
Saul? Saul, it’s me. It’s
after one. Listen, I need to come over. Something’s happened.
Mal—there’s a spirit here. I mean it this time. Please let me come
over.”

Jean lowered the phone. “I...how will we get
there? I mean, how will you get there?” He was talking to Malcolm.
“Can you just, like teleport, or—”

WALK

“
Walk?” Jean almost
laughed.

WE’LL WALK

“
All right. Okay. Whatever
you want. Saul will straighten this out. He’ll know what to do.”
Jean went to the closet and fumbled through his clothes. “You’ll
see, Malcolm. You believe me, right?” He turned to the window. “I’m
a good person.”

Malcolm didn’t write anything. Jean quietly
got dressed.

They walked together through the rain, Jean
constantly glancing around himself, as if he might catch a glimpse
of Malcolm’s form, constantly asking, “You’re there, aren’t you?
Are you there? Saul needs to see you.”

Malcolm knew he was still lying about
something, just not what. He stalked Jean through the rain,
listening to his coughs and complaints. Like Jean said, Saul would
straighten it out.

He thought of the cadaver and saw the
glowing symbol in his mind’s eye, crawling embers in raw flesh—the
cadaver standing in the street, transfixed by the caution
light.

A strange thought came to
him, one that didn’t seem quite his own.
Have you seen the yellow sign?
He
focused on his progress along the plane of the sidewalk.

As they neared Saul’s little house, Malcolm
saw his outline standing on the enclosed front porch, the light of
a cigarette gently pulsing, another yellow sign. It beckoned them
closer, and as Jean and Malcolm went up the walk, the screen door
suddenly banged open. The cigarette dropped from Saul’s lips.

“
Malcolm,”
he said.

Jean clapped his hands in exultation. “You
see him? You see him! He’s really there! Saul, he came to me!”

“
Get in here,” Saul said,
and held the door for Jean. He stared directly at Malcolm as the
ghost approached, and he wondered exactly what Saul did see. A
transparent shade with Malcolm’s face? Or something else entirely?
How he wished he could ask. Maybe Saul knew a way.

Saul continued to hold the door until
Malcolm entered the porch, then shut it. The three of them stood
there listening to the rain on the roof. Jean prodded Saul. “Where
is he?”

“
Right beside
you.”

“
Jesus.”

Jean made no effort to hide his smile until
Saul said, “He’s glaring at you.”

So Saul could see his
face, then. Furthermore, his face, even if he was unaware of it,
was expressive. Could he move his phantom lips? He stared at Saul
and did the only thing he could do—as he had with his hands, he
imagined speaking from his mouth, and thought:
How do you see me?

Saul smiled gently. “There’ll be time for
that later. What I want to know is what happened to you.”

“
He said—” Jean began,
then stopped. “Is he telling you? Am I interrupting?”

“
Come inside.”

Saul led them into his kitchen, opened a
cabinet over the fridge and pulled out two small jars. One had a
thick, amber-colored fluid. The other was purple and almost looked
like cough syrup. Malcolm looked over Saul’s shoulder and saw other
jars of other colors stacked within.

Jean pointed to the amber jar. “Malcolm,
that’s Yellow Sign. That’s what I gave you,” he blurted, as if it
were a perfectly normal thing to say.

Saul didn’t blink. “Was it homemade?” he
asked, as he unscrewed the two jars he’d brought down.

“
Yeah. I made it the way I
always do.” Jean looked around the room. “I couldn’t have fucked it
up that bad. It’s not possible to fuck it up that bad,
right?”

“
No, that mixture couldn’t
have harmed him, even if it wasn’t correctly proportioned. If
that’s what you’re saying.” Saul poured a bit of the purple fluid
into a saucer. He swirled the tip of his pinky in the Yellow Sign,
then dipped it in the saucer. “Jean.”

Jean turned to face him. Saul wiped his pinky across
his brow. “This ought to last until sunup. Look around.”

Jean’s eyes lit upon Malcolm. “Oh my
God.”

“
The sight comes naturally
to very few,” Saul said as he put the jars away. He turned to
Malcolm. “Jean is intuitive, but he lacks natural ability. If he
had it, he wouldn’t talk about it so much.”

Jean’s face fell. “We’ve been through
this…”

“
I’m just explaining why I
had to lens your eye,” Saul said. “And maybe giving you a little
shit for it.”

Malcolm wanted to know exactly what he
looked like to them. He thought the question. “His mouth’s moving,”
Jean said.

“
He wants to know what we
see,” Saul told him. “Malcolm, you’re wearing the clothes you were
wearing last night. You look tired. You’re a bit hazy… it’s like a
double exposure on our plane, but your face is clear. You’re doing
a good job of keeping your focus.” Saul stepped closer, as if he
wanted to put his arm around the ghost. “Many spirits never shake
off the disorientation. You’re doing well. There’s nothing to be
upset about. No more sadness.” For a second, Malcolm almost
believed him.

“
He’s angry. He thought
I’d put poison in his drink,” Jean said.

“
He looks as if he died in
his sleep,” Saul said. Then, apologetically, “I’m sorry Malcolm,
we’re speaking of you like you aren’t here.”

Ray is dead,
Malcolm told them.

Jean read his lips this time. “Ray too?” he
exclaimed. “I didn’t give him anything! See?”

My body—the body I died in—it’s alive,
somehow. It’s not alive, but it is—it’s walking around. It’s
killing people. Three so far that I know of.

“
Killing...?” Saul
muttered.