Slices

by Michael Montoure

  Harrison stood and threw the newspaper into Will’s lap. “No, it’s not the end of the story. The story is right there in front of you and it’s going to keep going until you put it right.”

  “Wait, you think, what — you think Edgar did this? You think he set the fire?”

  Harrison said nothing.

  “Look,” Will said, “that’s ridiculous and even if it’s true, it’s not your fault, it’s not your responsibility any more and it’s certainly not mine — ”

  “William. Let me make myself clear.” Harrison picked up the newspaper and stared at it. “You’re a young man. You’ve only been a seller on the Shadow Market for, what, four years? I do understand. You’re quite good and you think that entitles you to do whatever you want.”

  He sat down again. “You don’t lecture me about responsibility, young man. It is, in fact, the duty of men my age to teach men of your age the meaning of responsibility, and in your case, that will be quite simple.” He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket. “I trust you know what a Sanction Certificate is.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “I really don’t think you should test me on that,” Harrison said quietly. “I just have to sign this, and my signature will be echoed throughout the Registries. A black mark on your listing, and I suspect you’ll soon find yourself without customers. Well. Human ones. The Fae might still deal with you, or the Outer Dark.”

  Will struggled to keep his voice calm. “I did not break any agreement with you.”

  “Yes, William, you did, no matter what semantics you want to try to justify it with. You knew what I wanted you to do, you had no intention of doing it, and you took my money just the same. You stole from me, William. I should sign this right now.”

  “Don’t,” Will said. He held his hand out. He didn’t want to admit to himself how much it was shaking. “Let me see the newspaper again.”

  He took it. God, he was shaking. That’s not fear, that’s anger, he thought. High-handed bastard.

  “It might be Edgar,” he said again.

  “Find him,” Harrison said. “This time, I want you to bring me its head.”

  Will kept staring at the photo. “I’m not doing this for free,” he said.

  “I’ll pay your expenses,” Harrison said, shaking his head. “No finder’s fee, of course.”

  “Of course not.” Will looked up. “I don’t really have a choice, do I?”

  Harrison smiled his new smile, and now Will knew what it meant. “None at all,” he said. “Sebastian will see you out.”

  He’d lost track of it.

  That was the simple truth of it, and he didn’t want to admit it. This was not a problem he ever had — normally, once he sold a doll, he didn’t care what happened to it after that, but still, he didn’t think it could possibly be that hard to find. His world was small and he knew everyone, didn’t he?

  He started with Ryden, of course, Jerry Ryden, the man he’d sold Edgar to.

  “How am I supposed to know?” Will could barely hear him over the crowd. The warehouse was packed with bodies, lined around the ring. Ryden never took his eyes off the match, but Will had barely glanced at it. A child-sized mannequin lashing out at something made of sticks and wire and nails.

  “You want to put a bet down on this or not?” Ryden said.

  “Not much of a gambler.” Will shrugged. “So, you haven’t heard anything.”

  Wire-and-sticks landed a nail right in the mannequin’s blank eye, and half the crowd cheered while the other cursed and swore. Ryden pumped a fist in the air, then scowled at Will.

  “What would I hear? I ditched Edgar months ago — sold him to Bedlam Jack, but I know he doesn’t have him any more. I don’t know where he went after that. Anton bought him, maybe, or the Kingsman. Not my problem.”

  Yesterday, Will would have said the same thing. “So why’d you get rid of him?”

  The mannequin had torn off its opponent’s makeshift arm and was using it like a spiked club, swinging wide. Ryden looked at him sideways.

  Will said, “You told me you needed a mean one, and I came through for you, right? So why get rid of it?”

  Ryden laughed, but Will couldn’t hear it. “There’s mean and then there’s — ”

  “What?” Will smirked. “Evil? Come on.”

  “I don’t know. Cursed.”

  “I thought you didn’t believe in curses.”

  Ryden shook his head, watching the mannequin strip the wires, splinter the wood. “I don’t believe in anything any more.”

  The trail stopped dead with Anton.

  His six-foot-six frame hardly fit in the booth of the late-night diner. The waitress had tried to tell them this was the non-smoking section, but Anton had just stared at her with his dead dark eyes until she left.

  He let a curl of smoke drift upward from his lips and looked at Will thoughtfully.

  “It cannot be evil,” Anton said. “Evil, that is something men do. And women also, mind you.” A smile flashed across his face and was gone, like lightning at midnight. “You know how the dolls are made?”

  Will nodded. “I used to make them.”

  “Really?” Anton sat upright. “And now you sell them only. Why did you stop?”

  Will took one of his cigarettes and lit it. “I’m basically just naturally lazy,” he smiled.

  “But then you know. They are not people. It is very simple magic, easiest, similarity principle. Most people, they look at dolls, think they are almost alive anyway. Takes very small push to make it so, to make them move. But they move only. Inside — ” He tapped his head, his heart — “is nothing. Nothing real. It takes a soul to be evil.”

  “So if you weren’t scared of Edgar, why’d you get rid of him so fast?”

  Anton smiled as wide as the horizon. “I never said I was not scared of Edgar.” He leaned forward. “Is a rattlesnake evil? Is a flood evil, an earthquake?”

  Will shook his head. He leaned forward. “Look, I haven’t heard anything. No one seems to have him. Nobody knows who these people are.” He slid the newspaper across to Anton. “I know — I know you like to keep your deals confidential, I get that, but I really need to know who you sold him to.”

  Anton shrugged. “Mr. Silverman.”

  “Right. Okay, thank you. I appreciate this.”

  “He will not be talking to you.”

  “Why not?”

  “He is dead.” Anton leaned back. “You know his building where he lived, all those stairs? He fell down them.”

  Will suddenly didn’t want his cigarette any more. “Fell?” he asked. “Or was pushed?”

  Anton shrugged again. “It hardly makes a difference,” he said, “when you are the man at the bottom of the stairs.”

  Will swore and threw the shovel to the ground. His arms were killing him. He shot another glance through the trees, but the house was still dark, at least. That was something.

  He shook his head. At least he was on the right track, finally. Where he should have been in the first place.

  You got so used to doing things the way they were done on the Shadow Market, you forgot there was a world. He’d been assuming for days that of course Edgar had passed on to another collector, of course he’d be able to find out their bidder number and contact them through proper channels — formally, if he had to.

  But Edgar had escaped all of that. He’d completely disappeared after Silverman died. All Will had to go on was the newspaper article — where he should have started out. Stupid.

  He found the address of the burned house, started asking questions, that poor family, did they need anything? Help? Clothes and blankets? Money?

  Money opened doors, especially when he had Harrison paying expenses. Soon he had names, he had an address — the wife’s sister’s house, that’s where the family was staying for now.

  And that was a door that money wouldn’t open. Not when he asked about the doll.

  “What the hell do you want with t
hat thing?” the man at the door had said, glaring.

  “I have a buyer who would be very interested. It’s an antique, very valuable. I’m sure the money would — ”

  The man shook his head. “It’s gone.”

  “Gone where?” Will said quietly.

  The man’s eyes darted past him, out to the woods. “We buried it.”

  “You — what the hell did you do that for?”

  The man just stared for a minute. His eyes looked like they still reflected the fire that had been his home. Will didn’t think he was going to say anything else. But then he said:

  “Because we didn’t know how to kill it.”

  Then he quietly closed the door.

  Will had just stood there for a minute, trying to decide if he should knock again. Then he’d gone out to the woods, wandered around, looking to find a patch of ground that looked recently disturbed. Judging by how loose the soil was, now that he’d returned under cover of dark, he’d found the right place. But they’d buried Edgar deep.

  He picked up the shovel again and kept going.

  His shovel struck something solid. He got down on his hands and knees, started pulling the dirt out with his hands, brushing it aside. Rocks. They’d weighed him down with rocks, but here, here was the smile, two bright eyes glinting up in the light of his flashlight beam —

  “Hello, Edgar.”

  No response. He lifted the tiny body out of its grave and sat down heavily next to it.

  He wasn’t moving. Was he really not animate any more? Or just playing dead?

  “Hey. Hey, Edgar. Come on. How’d you like to go home? Huh? Go see Mr. Harrison and all your little friends? What do you say?”

  Nothing. Then — “Billy.”

  “Jesus.” Will dropped the flashlight. He’d almost forgotten that voice. It sounded like a rusty nail being pulled slowly out of a hole in someone’s throat.

  Edgar blinked. Dirt fell from its mouth. “Billy,” it said again. “Ride.”

  “What — ride? Yeah. Yeah, you remember me, huh? You wanna go for a ride in my car, is that it?”

  Edgar sat up and nodded. “Ride.”

  “Sure. Sure, hang on a minute, okay?” He pulled his phone from his pocket.

  “Do you realize what time it is?” Harrison said on the phone.

  “Last time I talked to you, you wanted to know the minute I had something for you.”

  “It’s the middle of the night. Any information you have can wait until morning.”

  “I don’t have information. I have Edgar.”

  Silence.

  “Did you hear me?”

  “Yes, I heard you.”

  “Ride,” Edgar said.

  “Bring me its head, William,” the voice on the phone said quietly. “First thing tomorrow. Do you understand?”

  “I’ll need you to cut me a check for my expenses.”

  “Bring your receipts for my accountant.” Will could hear the smirk in the old man’s voice.

  “Bring my — I don’t have receipts. That’s not how this works, you know that.”

  “We’ll handle things your way when you’ve earned my trust again. For now, we’ll handle them mine.” There was a pause. “Tell me, William; did you find anything new while you were looking for Edgar? Any interesting new leads, new dolls?”

  “This wasn’t a shopping trip, Harrison.”

  “I’m always looking. You know that. I expect you to be looking for me as well.”

  Will smiled darkly. “For my usual percentage? Or is that something you’re going to dick me around on, too, until I earn your trust?”

  “Language, William. We’ll see. Be here in the morning.” He hung up.

  Will stared at Edgar in the dim moonlight.

  “Billy. Pick me up.” Edgar’s hands reached out to him.

  This wasn’t going to stop. He could do exactly what Harrison had asked and this still wasn’t going to stop. As long as Harrison could threaten him with that sanction, he was going to be Harrison’s — puppet.

  Just another damn doll in his collection.

  “Billy. Up.”

  He’d found so much for this son of a bitch these past few years. The Mechanical Turk’s left hand, still in working order. The Peking Homunculus. One of Harryhausen’s stop-motion skeletons, brought to life by a fan. And this was the kind of treatment he got. It wasn’t fair. Nothing was ever fair.

  “Billy — ”

  He swung the shovel in a wide arc and took Edgar’s head off his shoulders.

  Three nights later and the old man was nearly hysterical.

  “Everything’s dead. Everything.”

  “Just calm down,” Will said, cradling the phone to his ear. “Tell me what happened.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know what happened — I’d gone out for dinner, and when I came back there was — broken glass and arms and heads and all my pretty ballerinas torn to pieces and everyone, everyone gone, all my friends dead — ”

  “Harrison. What do you want me to do?”

  “You did this. You did this.”

  “No. I was meeting with a client. Bidder number G6-336. All evening, the meeting was registered. You can check if you don’t believe me.”

  “But — ”

  “So I think we’re done here. If it’s sympathy you’re looking for, call someone else.”

  “But what am I going to do?”

  “Start over.”

  “I — I could never — ”

  “You can. You will, I know you will. You loved having the biggest and best collection of animates on the west coast. You’re not giving that up. I know you.”

  “I — all my friends — ”

  “You can start over. And I’ll help you. I’m your best buyer, you always said so. We can do this.”

  “I — yes. Yes. All right.”

  “But we’re going to do it my way. With whatever prices I set. Until you earn my trust again. Clear?”

  “ … Yes. Anything. Yes.”

  “I’ll call you.” Will hung up.

  He looked out the car window.

  He could still remember when he’d brought Edgar to Harrison’s house. And when he’d taken him away. The way it had stood up in the passenger seat, pressed its face to the window, clambered excitedly into the back and done the same thing, unable to sit still. Excited like a puppy. For all Will knew, those were the only times it had ever been in a car. He sat. He waited. Harrison’s house wasn’t far away.

  Bring me its head, Harrison had said. As if Edgar really was a dog, or a person, something simple and straightforward to kill. All these years, and Harrison still didn’t understand what he was collecting.

  He heard the sound of his passenger door handle rattling. He reached over and opened it.

  Edgar reached into the car, held out his own head by the hair, and dropped it onto the passenger seat. His other hand opened and let three small staring ballerina heads drop to the floor of the car. His blind body pulled itself up into the car.

  Edgar’s eyes snapped open. “Billy,” he said. “Ride.”

  THE THIRTEENTH BOY

  The old house had a thousand doors in it.

  All old houses do. You can see them if you know how to look: the noontime shadow of a windowpane crawling with intent across a floor; unmeasured angles of wall meeting wall; fireplaces grown chill with unused years. Archways with unseen contours you can trace with a finger in the cracks as brick grinds against brick in settling walls. Some nights, and some houses are doorways entire, silhouettes against the evening’s last light black on black like an opening into a darker sky. You just have to look. An eye-corner glance will do, if you don’t turn and stare and explain it away.

  The old house had a thousand doors, all safely shut and sheltered, and all this begins at its simplest door, the one seen most often and by the most eyes. The front door, solid and sober and white, and right now, this moment, a young man is trying to match lock and key. His movements, not sober, drift a
nd sway like ocean waves. He and his companion lean in close together, conspiratorially, like collapsing walls, shaking with muffled and shushed laughter.

  “Your parents’ house?” the older of the two said incredulously, between giggles. He acted as drunk as the boy, and an act was all it was. “You’re actually taking me to your parents’ house?”

  “Shhhh! Shh shh shhh,” the boy said, still laughing himself. “It’s okay, it’s fine, they’re not home. They’re gone all weekend. We can stay up alllll night.” He lost himself to laughter again.

  The other young man smiled sweetly, and something behind the smile came loose and shifted around inside his skull. He could feel it, wrapping itself back and forth in rattlesnake coils and waiting and waiting. For right now, his face, his human everyday face, could smile and talk and laugh, but later, in this boy’s room, the waiting thing inside would stop waiting and then it would be time to do it. Time to get it going on.

  But right now the boy smiled and Johnny Lee Edwards smiled back and followed him inside and the house swallowed them both.

  Timothy — that was the young man’s name, and surely he was no older than sixteen, seventeen? Too young to have been at a bar, especially a bar like that one — Timothy fumbled for a lightswitch, but Johnny Lee could still see perfectly by the streetlight filtered through the front door’s tiny windows. He reached out and took hold of Timothy’s shoulder, pulled him backward and then pushed him against the shut door. He leaned in and kissed Timothy’s cheek, his jawline, his throat.

  “I’ve never met anyone quite like you before,” he lied with one hot breath against the boy’s ear.

  As it happened, he’d met exactly twelve boys like Timothy before. Timothy would be number thirteen. Unlucky for him.

  His lips kept working against the boy’s throat and his hand started to press between the boy’s legs. “Do you like that? Do you?”

  Timothy’s soft gasps, little caught breaths, were answer that he did.

  “Well? You like that, don’t you? That’s right. You like it, you little fucking faggot.”

  “Huh?” Timothy squirmed under his hands.