Passion Play

by Sean Stewart

  Tara would know what a taser shot would do to Jon’s costume. She would say something—“I told you I would kill you if it came to this. No bullshit.” (Came to what? Girls? Money? Some private grudge I still couldn’t see?) Mask would turn and try to face her, friend to friend. She, who had come in so cool, would find killing him much harder than she had imagined. The taser would tremble in her hand, and Mask would have a wild instant of hope.

  She would pull the trigger convulsively, before sudden weakness could overwhelm her hate.

  —But where was the hate? I knew that she had been in Mask’s room before the gopher came. But Tara was the only person grieved by his death. She knew she wasn’t getting his money. I couldn’t believe she would kill Mask for not leaving her his fortune. Could her tears that morning really have been an act, the suicide story a clever camouflage?

  I was going in circles.

  Which left me back at the beginning, with Jonathan Mask. Only he could tell me his murderer’s name.

  So I sat through two hundred and fifty pages of glittering pseudo-philosophy, trying to understand the greatest actor of our era. What was it Delaney had said about him? He was a starred gem: beautiful and hard, with caged light playing at its centre. A good image only strengthened by the Memoirs.

  Exasperated I put the book down and got dinner for Queen E, resenting the familiar dead smell, the wet, glutinous chunks. I threw the can in the compactor and stared glumly at my little kitchen. Instant dinners huddled in the freezer; I hadn’t been to the store in a week.

  The phone rang. “Yeah?” I picked up the receiver, revealing Rolly’s face on the screen.

  “God bless, Fletcher. Just—Jesus! What happened to your hair?” He stared at me, jaw dropping.

  I flushed, mortified. How ugly I was, how stupid I had been, like a fourteen year old trying to get attention by shocking her parents. “Hey, don’t you like my new style? The dike look is in, Rolly. Pretty soon all your secretaries will look just like this.”

  “God help us,” he said sourly. “Uh, look. I thought you’d like to know you were right about the cause of death: forensics found the puncture marks. They were in the belly of the suit.” A weary smile creased his face. Roily got one benefit from being two steps behind; he still thought we were getting somewhere.

  “Beautiful,” I said tiredly.

  “…You don’t seem too happy about it.”

  “I knew they would be there.”

  He was wearing a more than usually unpleasant tie, a narrow plaid job that wriggled crookedly down a navy suit.

  “Yeah, well. Listen, Fletcher. We’ll get the guy, all right? It doesn’t have to be tonight.” He stopped uncertainly, looking at me. I stared back at him, miserable and ugly. “Get some rest,” he said gently.

  “You saying I should drop the case?”

  “Look, I just got off the phone with Undersecretary,” Roily said heatedly. “The press is digging. The government wants everything cleared up now. They’ve turned the Dobin thing over to someone else and put the Pharaoh’s lash on me, all right? If I screw up, I can look forward to a life entering traffic citations. So when I tell you to take some rest, it’s because you’re my best chance at a make on this case. If you get burned out, you’re no good to anybody.” He sighed. “We’ve worked together a lot of times. I know you,” he said gently. “I’d bet every dime I own that you’ll have the case within twenty-four hours; I know the signs. I also know you’ll do something stupid at the same time. Remember the Broster kidnap? If either of those guys had known you were out of ammo they would have turned you into Swiss cheese, Diane.”

  I had to laugh, embarrassed.

  It was the first time Roily had ever called me by my first name.

  He nodded, point made. “I know how it takes you, near the end of a case. You get this wild, mean look, like a starved hawk or something.” He grunted. “Or a bald eagle, in this case.”

  “Thanks, smart-ass. Look, you’re right—I’m getting stuck. I’m gonna take the night off and think about something else.”

  “Good idea.” He turned as if called and waved to shush some underling before taking his leave. “Talk to you tomorrow, Fletcher. Godspeed.”

  “Yeah. Bye.” I hung up. After a moment’s deliberation I punched out a number I had been given only two nights before, feeling stupid as I listened to the phone ring once, twice, three times, four—

  “Hello?” said a cheerful, surprised voice.

  “Hi—Jim?”

  “Wow!” Jim said, when he met me at the door. A grin spread slowly over his face. “Can I touch it?”

  “No you ca—!”

  “Ooh! Fuzzy wuzzy!” he chortled, patting my skull. “Princess Prickletop! Please, come into my castle.”

  A sudden rush of gratitude filled me. “What an asshole,” I growled, batting his hand away and blushing. “Where’s the food?”

  We were talking after dinner in his living room. He sat cross-legged a couple of feet from me. I rolled over on my side so we could talk more easily, watched him watching me. I was flattered by his interest. I wondered about the sadness running in him like an underground spring.

  God it was good to be with a friend. For so long I had known only cops, criminals, desperate men. I stretched like a cat, feeling the carpet press against my side. I had let my world become only a series of puzzles to which people were the clues. What a terrible mistake.

  “You know,” Jim said. “You’ve got to take your work a little less seriously. You scared the shit out of Rod and Bob the other night.”

  “Me? I wasn’t the one pointing a gun at them. It was those Chill-soaked thugs they should have been scared of.” A flush crept over me. I was afraid, afraid that Jim would be scared by the hunter in me. As well he should be; I was. I was the bitch who broke, who enjoyed breaking, Rick’s kneecap with one kick. It was hard to admit to Jim that I could be like that. “I’m sorry I yelled at you; I was in a—a certain mode.”

  “Now, take me,” Jim said. “I work at Postnet. Do you see me sorting mail after five? Memorizing zip codes? Collecting stamps? No. You’ve got to learn not to take your work home with you, Diane.”

  “It’s not my work it’s my life,” I snapped. “There’s no room for hesitation, you see. Think too long and you end up dead. And thorough, you can’t afford not to be thorough. Once I run the hunting program, like when I took down Jiminy and Rick, it takes a lot to rein it in. There’s a pattern to it; you have to follow it out, right to the end.”

  “Maybe you should consider a different line of work,” Jim suggested. “Linebacker, for instance. Or Red Youth counsellor—something like that. Hey, there may even be an opening down at Postnet.”

  “I can’t take a job, Jim: I have a calling.”

  His fine eyebrows rose. “How very Red of you.”

  (Lucky are those who are not called, Miss Fletcher. That’s what Rutger White had said.) “You can’t joke your way around everything, Jim. You have to commit yourself sooner or later, or else you’re dodging your responsibility to life.”

  I cringed instantly, knowing I should never have said that as pain spiked out from Jim. Stupid, stupid and cruel of me to drive home his lack of vocation. The directionless know that they are drifting.

  But Jim did not strike back at me in anger. Only, after a long moment, he gently said, “God loves mean bald people too, you know.”

  I trembled, recoiling from his gentleness, as if a cut deep inside myself had been laved in clean warm water. “You think so?” I said at last.

  Slowly Jim nodded. “God’s a credit guy.”

  I think I loved Jim Haliday then.

  I was bruised and grateful and I wanted to be close to him. “I noticed, last time I was here, there seemed to be something wrong, just before we went out to the 7-11. Rod made some kind of joke; you seemed upset—?” Jim glanced at me, old hurt twisting in him. I closed my eyes, imagining a circle of white light around me, blocking back his pain.

  Part o
f me didn’t want to do that, but my defenses were so automatic I had to work to bring them down, to let a little of his pain back in. I wanted to share it. I wanted to make contact.

  Jim looked away. He had been hurt by my sudden distancing. I imagined how blunt a statement my closed eyes and cold face must have made. “Damn. I’m sorry,” I said helplessly, forcing myself to reach for his hand. After so many years of isolation it was like telling my fingers to grab a live wire. The contact was sharp and bitter, but I was glad to feel it, raw and alive.

  At last Jim said, “I married young. She left me to follow an evangelist from Nevada.” He laughed through his hurt. “Can you imagine that? Ditched for a preacher. From Nevada yet! The Bible doesn’t mind so much if you leave your husband, apparently, as long as you don’t sleep with someone else.”

  “I’m sorry.” I sat up and took his hand more firmly, to strengthen the circuit between us and let the current of hurt jump to me. After all, I was an expert at pain. I’d had a lot of practice.

  “It’s old news.” He did not let go of my hand. “Believe me, it was for the best. We would never have made it: she tuned the radio to easy listening music and really believed that Cleanliness was next to Godliness.”

  I looked around the room. “So?” I said innocently.

  “Yeah, right.” Jim smiled back at me: patient brown eyes, and so good for smiling. “Sometimes I wonder if she’s happy.”

  “Yeah?” I didn’t give a damn for this woman, except that she had hurt Jim, and so served to bring us a little closer together. Nothing feeds new romance like old heartbreak.

  “The preacher was a hard man. She was caught up in the Redemption and a new life; I think she fell for the ideas. Like you said, abstractions can be rough on people. Okay for a while, but it’s a hard way to live. She wasn’t very strong,” he added, absently squeezing my hand.

  “Nor very bright.—One woman’s opinion, of course.”

  He looked at me seriously. “She was basically a good person, and that’s what counts. Everyone has a God-given right to be wrong, az mah Pappy ahways uzed t’say,” he drawled. “Mrs. Ward too, for that matter—and she ought to know.”

  I shook my head. “If you let people step on you, they will.” God, and shapers learn that the hard way. How many times do you try to help, try to ease someone’s pain, and gradually find that they’ve been using you.

  Thank God for Mary Ward. It was good, very good to know there were other shapers out there leading happy, productive lives. Delaney too. The greyness, the days of pain didn’t have to conquer you.

  Hell, I wasn’t so badly off. Just working too hard, in a profession guaranteed to shake your faith in life.

  Jim shrugged. “Nobody’s fault. We were both young and stupid.” He paused. “In a few years I’ll be middle-aged and stupid. But then again, she lives in Nevada, so I guess we’re even.” He grinned.

  It had been four years since I had kissed a man; probably as long since Jim had been kissed. We were both kind of surprised.

  I leaned forward and kissed him again, slowly this time. Cautiously he reached up with one hand, ran his fingers through my fuzzy hair. “Hm. Like I said, it’s been a while since I’ve done this sort of thing.”

  “Practice, practice, practice,” I said, ringing with happiness.

  Half an hour later old skills are returning nicely and with them old sensations long forgotten. The press of lips against my neck, warm and soft as moths. The smooth rustle of cotton on cotton. His hand travels slowly down my side, a long warm caress. Human warmth. A tickle of mustache on my cheek makes me giggle, and we laugh together.

  The freedom of simple sensation, sharp as hunting, but for once it is only love opening me, without the hard edges, the secret despair.

  Still, still, the old mind watches, its tiny voice disapproving. The sin of fornication. But I don’t have to listen. Drunk with the joy of feeling, I can barely hear it. What has sin to do with this? This is love, and love is no sin in the eyes of God.

  We lie together on the living room floor; light slides in from the kitchen, music plays unheard in the background. Few things smell as nice as clean hair. I trace the patterns of his hands after they have gone, reliving the caress in sensation-memory. A hand slides over my breast; I feel the sharp touch of fear: past it, reassured. Aroused, I wait for the hand to return: am absorbed in the press of a kiss, in legs twined together, stretching slowly. Fabric rustles, meeting, parting.

  He is looking at me; I stare back, wide-eyed and simple.

  Is it a question? The answer is yes. His fingers: thin and brown; his nails pink and very curved. He shifts awkwardly on an elbow, makes a face. We laugh; suddenly serious he is kissing me: retreating. Blood suffuses my skin, red and warm with life, with touch. His fingers follow the lines of my cheek, slide down my throat, tracing affection. He undoes the top button on my shirt; nervously I run my hand along his back, trying to say that it is good, it is allowed. He undoes the second, the third: waits: slowly, with secret fingers, slides the halves of cloth apart, opening. I am opening. Aroused I watch him push the material aside, fingers stopped by the edge of my bra, tracing that line too, stooping to kiss the new flesh. Translucent, his kisses pass into me: the sensation of a hand on my side pierces me like a revelation.

  I laugh; life is strong within me. His lips on my breast, my leg against his, the warmth of our bodies opens me up, like danger. Only this time I am prey as well as predator. This is better, so much better than fear and hate. I pull his face to mine: kiss him fiercely. Again. Again.

  Ten

  Jim was snoozing quietly next to me when I woke. The only light came from a candle on the kitchen table, left over from his attempt at a romantic dinner. It had burned down to its base, and as I watched it began to tremble, flinging shadows across the kitchen counter. The flame fluttered like a dying heartbeat.

  I slid out of bed and snuck to the bathroom, where I splashed cold water on my face. I needed to be sure I was awake. I faced myself in the mirror, marvelling at the changes that had come over me since I went to investigate Angela Johnson’s murder. Hair hacked off, a fresh cut stitched along one cheek, gaunt face, hollow eyes. All this in five days, I thought, looking at the woman in the mirror with horrified fascination. Stripped down to the essentials. God, what have I become?

  The apartment was dark when I stepped back. The candle had burned out; I could still smell the hot wax.

  I shall wait on Faustus while I live,

  So he will buy my service with his soul.

  Mask sits in his chair, possessing the devil. A knock comes at the door. Annoyed, he snaps at the intruder. Perhaps he recognizes a voice or step; he apologizes for his temper. The killer hasn’t much time; he shows the taser. Mask, puzzled, says nothing. He is told he must be silent. Now, now as his eyes widen under the sneering face of Mephistophilis he realizes his danger. He fumbles for the clasps, tears away his facepiece. Too late. The charge catches him full on. The capacitor blows. The assassin steps out, knowing the crime cannot be solved. Five minutes later the gopher finds the Red angel fallen.

  The force of revelation was like a shock; I stood paralyzed waiting for the rush to subside. Sometimes a pattern strikes you with a power that cannot be denied and you know you’re right, you know you can’t be wrong.

  Everything fit. Everything fit. It was as if spending the night with Jim, thinking about friendship and sex and the feel of his body, had freed my mind from its ruts, and now I could see Mask’s murderer in my mind as clearly as if he were the subject of a completed jigsaw puzzle.

  Slow down. Slow down. Night thoughts can be too much like dreams. If it still held up in the morning, then…

  I laughed at myself, angrily. I had been blind, shaper-blind. If I hadn’t been a shaper, hadn’t had those preconceptions, I could have solved Mask’s murder long ago.

  My eyes had adjusted to the dark apartment. As I picked up my bundle of clothes Jim rolled over and mumbled something.

 
; “Got to go,” I whispered. “I’ll be back tomorrow to celebrate. I’ve got the case!”

  “H’ray,” he said sleepily. “Mmmmm.”

  I bent down and kissed him quickly on the cheek. He murmured something as I stood up and buttoned my shirt.

  I had to find my jacket by touch; the window didn’t allow any moonlight into the hallway alcove. I stood at the door for a last moment, savouring the apartment’s warmth. Behind me, Jim sank back into sleep, smiling. I smiled back, remembering the press of his body, his lazy caress.

  But the Law did not pay me to deliver myself unto fornication, but to chastise the ungodly. Besides, I felt restless and elated, powerful and sure as an instrument in the hand of God. I zipped up my jacket and left.

  Outside the air was fierce with moonlight and the smell of the night. Cold stars burned above me, and each footstep crackled with precision. I started to walk to my car, but halfway across Jericho Court I turned back. The door on Rutger White’s apartment was open when I tried it; the place was old-fashioned and the mag-lock had been easy prey for forgers.

  I turned on the hall light and looked around. Deprived of their ordering principle, the lines of White’s apartment had already begun to unravel. Vandals had stripped the place of all valuables. What hadn’t been taken was smashed; shattered plates and cups littered the kitchen floor. In the living room the cot was gone, but the high-backed plastic chair had been left. In a fit of thriftiness the burglars had even made off with the bathroom lights.

  White’s apartment was losing the last traces of his personality. And yet, the progression to a perfect emptiness seemed a logical one: unoccupied, uninhabited, and untouched, until at last the elements ground it down to fine white powder. What end could be more fitting? Time would do to White’s things what God had done to him.

  Invested perhaps with a weight of supernatural awe, the crucifix had not been touched; the son of Man dying for being the Son of God, the Son of God suffering his passion of mortal agony. Suspended, a paradox with blood-spotted feet, hanging over the bare apartment. A passion play in one act.