The Face-Changers (26 page)

“Why not?” he asked.

“They’re already convinced that Carey helped you, and by now they’ve got their suspicions about me,” she said. “If you get caught and convicted, it won’t exonerate us. It will just change our crime from obstructing justice to accessory to murder. And if you get killed it’s worse, because if there’s a trial our side at least gets to say something.” Jane moved into the living room. Dahlman looked at her in disappointment. “I see.”

Jane stopped at the door of the bedroom. “I’m tired. I’ve been driving for a night and a day. Wake me if you smell tear gas.”

Jane lay on the bed and closed her eyes, consciously letting the muscles at each of her joints relax – first the toes and fingers, then the ankles and wrists, knees and elbows, shoulders and hips, then slowly, each vertebra along her back to her neck. For a time her mind struggled with bright impressions of headlights and the reflective signs along the superhighways, and white dashes between lanes shooting toward her out of the darkness like tracer rounds. Then darkness came, and Jane began to dream.

In her dream she was lying in the darkened apartment. She heard a sound, like something scratching against the door. She tried to ignore it for a time, but then she realized that she would have to get up and see what it was. She walked to the window beside the front door, stood on the chair, and looked out over the top of the blinds. On the little concrete slab outside sat a big black dog. With its keen senses it was aware of her instantly, and it turned its broad head upward to look in the window at her.

Jane stepped to the door and opened it. “Go home, boy,” she whispered. “Home.”

The dog turned and began to walk down the sidewalk into the dark, and Jane had an overwhelming feeling that she had to follow. She stepped onto the little slab and quietly closed the door behind her, then walked off after it. The dog reached the small circle of light from the street lamp at the intersection, then stopped and looked back at her. Jane stopped too. The dog came to her, then started across the street, and Jane went with it.

She followed it until she came to a small city park with big trees and a tiny old-fashioned bandstand with a roof on it. As she approached the bandstand, she saw that one of the pillars was out of symmetrical alignment. Then the pillar moved. It was a man. Jane called up to the man, “Is this your dog?” She turned to look down at it. but the dog was gone. Part of Jane’s mind knew that she was dreaming: when she’d stopped looking at the dog, it had ceased to exist.

The man’s soft, gentle voice made Jane’s eyes water and her throat tighten. “What the hell am I going to do with a dog?” It was Harry’s voice, and Harry was dead.

Harry the gambler stepped forward into the moonlight. He was as she remembered him, a bit on the short side and balding, with clothes that had once cost more than they should have but had been worn too long. She even remembered the expression that appeared on his face now – apologetic and regretful. “I’m sorry to make you come out here, honey. But I find it hard to go into a little furnished apartment like that.

You understand.”

It was true. The first step into the apartment had triggered Jane’s memory of the place where Harry had died – the color of the carpet, the arrangement of the windows – but while she was awake she had forced the thought out of her mind. Harry shrugged his shoulders and the suit coat rode up on his arms, so he tugged the cuffs, then lifted his chin to straighten his tie.

Even in the moonlight she could see the big, crude stitches the undertaker had used to close the place where John Felker had cut his throat. They were like the ones she had taken in Dahlman’s back.

Jane climbed the steps and put her arms around him. His body was cold and thin. Jane said, “I’m sorry, Harry. I’m so sorry. You got killed in an apartment like that. And it was my fault that he found you.”

Harry stepped back and lowered his head, but his sad eyes were still on her. He snapped his fingers. “Must have slipped my mind.”

“I’ve wanted to tell you something for a long time, but I couldn’t,” she said. “It wasn’t that I didn’t think you were important enough, and didn’t try to protect you. It was a mistake.”

He looked away for a second, then tried to smile. “Will you please stop nagging me about that? I’m just dead, not immortal and all-forgiving.” He reached out and tried to pat her shoulder, but his hand was cold and stiff. “I’m sorry I had to come now.”

“Why did you?”

“I’m an expert on long shots.”

“You’re not an expert,” she said softly. “An expert is somebody who wins.”

Harry nodded. “I won a lot and lost a lot. By the time I came to you I didn’t look like much, but I felt the same. I felt young, like I had plenty of life left.” He sighed. “You gave me a few extra years. Nobody else would do anything.”

“And?”

“You’re about to lose your ass.”

“How?”

“That old man is six feet two, thin and craggy, and sixty-seven. You disguise him, he ain’t getting any shorter, younger, or less craggy. How long is this man going to stay invisible?”

“I don’t know,” Jane admitted. “Who’s going to find him?” Harry shook his head sympathetically. “All the horses cross the finish line eventually. Who cares which one is first?”

“I do. I finally have a life of my own, Harry. I love my husband. I wanted a future – kids, an old age maybe.” Harry threw up his hands in despair. “That’s why I’m scared for you, honey. A perfect example.”

“Of what?”

“You don’t even know what game you’re playing. Your personal life is not on the table tonight.” He sighed mightily, then gave a little shiver to shake off the topic. “Somebody’s in a business you happen to know a lot about. They got a client’s face changed. They killed all the people who saw both the old face and the new face except one. They got the murders blamed on the one that’s left.”

“How do I stop them?”

“You don’t stop them. Their guy is vanished, resettled somewhere. Yours is a murder suspect. The hand’s over. Hear that clicking noise? It’s the sound of them raking all the chips over to their side of the table.”

“If it’s over, why are you coming into my dream?”

“Me?” said Harry. “I’ll be with you forever. I’m your mistake.”

“And now Dahlman too.”

“Don’t count him until it’s over.”

“But you said it was over.”

“I said that hand was over,” Harry corrected her. “It’s not you and Dahlman against them and their client. Dahlman and the client are just stakes. The game is between players, not chips.”

Harry walked toward the other side of the bandstand, and as he approached the steps, she reached out toward him.

“Wait, Harry,” she said. “Don’t go.” Harry stopped and turned to her. “I never really was much use to anybody. I should have left your sleep alone.”

“What do I do?”

“You win, and Hawenneyu, the Right-Handed Twin, gets a point. Or you lose, and Hanegoategeh, the Left-Handed Twin, gets a point, and the brothers grow another player to take your place.”

“How do I keep Dahlman alive?”

Harry’s brow furrowed, as though he were trying to formulate a way to divulge a secret he wasn’t supposed to.

“Why can’t just any yokel fan the deck face-down and pick out the king of spades?”

Jane awoke, trying to answer, but Harry was gone. She sat up. “They’re all the same.” She got out of bed and began to pack Dahlman’s suitcase.

It was nine-thirty in the morning three days later when Jane walked Richard Dahlman into the front entrance of the complex in Carlsbad, California, for their appointment. The architecture of the place was an artifact of a Spanish California that had sprung spontaneously from the imagination of an architect sometime during the 1920s and had taken hold.

Certain parts of the state looked as though the Spanish colonists had left behind not just a few missions, but an array of shopping malls, restaurants, and office buildings.

The stylized script embedded in the far wall of the lobby said “Senior Rancho,” and Jane remembered that what Los Angeles County called its big prison in the sparse hills above the city was Honor Rancho. She whispered to Dahlman, “How does it look so far?”

“It looks comfortable, like a campus… if a bit impersonal.” She used the time as they walked. “Remember. You’re Alan Weems. You’re not a doctor. You know nothing. I’ll tell all the necessary lies. I’m your daughter Julia Kieler. And don’t keep looking at your hair in the reflections of the windows.

White hair makes you look distinguished.” The receptionist directed Julia Kieler and Alan Weems into the office for the appointment with the “intake counselor,” who introduced herself as Mrs. Paxton but called Dahlman

“Alan” from the instant she saw him. After a few seconds she had the receptionist usher Alan through the lobby into a large garden. Mrs. Paxton told him, “We want to be sure this is a place where you’ll feel at home. Why don’t you make contact with the other guests while Mrs. Kieler and I talk some girl talk?”

Jane sat at a table in a small office while Mrs. Paxton went out and returned with some forms. It was the sort of office where customers answered questions and the counselor interpreted and compressed their answers to fit on lines.

“Tell me about your father.” said Mrs. Paxton. “What sort of medical care does he need?”

“None that we know of,” said Jane. “He’s pretty healthy.”

“I could see he’s ambulatory; no obvious problems. Is he forgetful?”

“No more than I am. Here’s our situation. He retired three years ago. Since my mother died about ten years ago he’s lived alone in the old house. He’s cooked and cleaned for himself, shopped, and so on. But he knows that might not always be possible, and right now he doesn’t especially want to. He’s still physically active – likes to walk and swim. But he had a bad experience a few months ago, and he doesn’t want to live alone anymore.”

“What sort of bad experience?”

“I guess you could call it a carjacking. The man wanted his car, and when my father resisted, he shot him. He’s okay now, but it’s been hard for him.”

Mrs. Paxton’s eyes were wide with exactly the right mixture of shock and sympathy, as though she had a recipe. “I should say so. The poor man.”

Jane shrugged philosophically. “He wants to sell the house, and go live somewhere where he can spend time with people his own age.” She added, “He won’t live with me. To tell you the truth, I think my friends and I bore him.” Mrs. Paxton nodded. “He’s definitely a fit for our Level One,” she said. “We have many people in similar circumstances. Each person lives in what amounts to a condominium right here on our grounds. There’s a swimming pool, golf course, square dances and social dancing, exercise groups, all supervised by our professional staff.” She looked conspiratorial as she said, “Many of our guests feel agitated and depressed if they spend too much time watching the news and reading unpleasant stories in the papers: they want to forget those things. So we try to keep them busy.”

“What’s Level Two?”

“Two?”

“Yes, you said he was Level One. What’s Level Two?”

“Those are people who need some nursing care or who need a helper because they’re not capable of living on their own. Level Three would be people who need a greater degree of attention. Some are no longer ambulatory, and some need constant supervision.”

“Where are they?”

“The fourth building over.” Mrs. Paxton spun in her chair and pointed out the window with her pen. “The one that looks like a hospital.”

Jane picked out the building. It looked modern and well-designed, and she could see a few white-coated attendants pushing white-haired people in wheelchairs onto a lawn. The whole operation looked clean, efficient, and humane, but seeing it gave her chills. She told herself it was the air-conditioning.

“We’ll tour the whole facility in a few minutes, but I want to wait for your father.” Mrs. Paxton gave her a conspiratorial smile. “Old people detest being rushed. Do you have any questions about the fee schedule?”

Jane said, “Let me see if I have it right. The fee is a fixed monthly charge.”

“Yes. For your father that would be this figure.” She held up a glossy brochure and pointed to a number with her pen. “It will remain the same as long as he’s at Level One. If he were to move to Level Two, he would incur an additional charge.” She pointed to a second figure. “That pays for a companion.

At Level Three, the charge is the same. It won’t increase during his stay.”

“Really?”

“Yes. You see, our typical guest is on a fixed income. He wants to know that the Rancho isn’t going to pull the rug out from under him.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, how can you do that?”

“I’m just talking about our fees. You have to remember that a patient who reaches Level Three probably would have high medical bills also. Some is paid by Medicare, and the rest by the patient himself or his private insurance carrier. But our costs don’t go up much, so the fees don’t either. You also should
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know that for the first few years, your father will be overcharged. As he ages and needs more care, the surplus he paid will have gone into the trust and been invested.”

“That works?”

Mrs. Paxton grinned. “So far. We’ve been here since 1948.”

Jane tried to communicate a low-level worry. “If my father decided to stay, would he be free to leave?”

“Of course.”

“I mean, suppose one day he decides he wants to hop on a plane and visit me, or go to Europe. What would he have to do?”

“Call a travel agent, I suppose. Our regular shuttle bus would take him to me terminal and pick him up.”

“There’s no way he could be prevented?”

“No. If you wanted to do that you would have to go to court and have yourself granted a conservatorship of his person. But you haven’t said anything that would indicate – ”

“I didn’t mean to,” said Jane. “I just want to be sure he can do as he likes.” She said, “What about crime?”

“Crime?” Mrs. Paxton seemed confused.

“I saw private security guards, gates, and fences.”

“Oh,” said Mrs. Paxton, suddenly sympathetic. “This is a small, quiet seaside community. He wouldn’t have to worry about that sort of thing. Of course, there’s no place in California that’s very far from a freeway, so we can’t let strangers come onto the complex. If you came to see him, you would give your name at the gate, and they would find it on a list, so you’d be admitted immediately.” Jane kept at Mrs. Paxton, asking the questions she thought a daughter would ask, and Mrs. Paxton seemed to have prepared for all of them. When Dahlman returned from his walk, Mrs. Paxton went off to get an electric golf cart for their ride around the grounds.