Angela shook her head. "You couldn't know that Pat Malone would show up. And we would never have given you away, Stormy."
"So you're Peter Deddingfield?" said Jay.
"I was once. But I wasn't the important one. The fellow who married Jazzy, and who wrote all those wonderful books later on -I always think that that is the real Peter Deddingfield. I gave up the name when we both left the Fan Farm. When I knew that I did not want to become a professional writer."
"Buy why?" asked Marion. "If you had published as Stormcock, and he hadn't published anything. Had he?"
"No," said George Woodard. "People have always wondered why Pete Deddingfield's first published short story was so bad. It's because the 'old' Pete wrote it. Stormy, I mean."
"So Peter Deddingfield-the famous one-was really Erik Giles. Why switch names?" Marion persisted.
"Can't you guess, Dr. Farley?" asked the professor in a gently mocking tone. "Because my old friend had something that I wanted and he no longer valued. Erik Giles had a doctorate in English."
Marion stared. "You don't have a Ph.D.?"
"No. He didn't need one to be a writer of science fiction, which he had both the talent and the desire to be. I, on the other hand, had written one book that other people liked far more than I did. I was tired of it all: the puerile jokes, the posturing, the financial uncertainty. What I wanted more than anything was a nice soft job on a college campus, where I could teach my classes and be left alone with my dignity." He smiled, remembering. "So Erik Giles said to me, 'Take the damned degree. We'll swap names, and we'll both be happy. Swear the Lanthanides to secrecy, and who'll ever know?' "
"But you taught all those classes!" Marion protested. "You went to conferences!"
"I didn't write very many journal articles," he reminded her. "Tenure 'was easier twenty years ago. As for the rest of it, impersonating an English professor isn't very difficult. I have a knack for being pretentious."
"But you could have got a degree of your own," said Marion.
"Yes, but by the time I could afford to, I was already employed as Erik Giles, and there seemed little likelihood of ever being caught. By then, I couldn't risk being exposed as a fraud. No university would have hired me after that, regardless of my credentials."
"What about your families?" asked Jay.
"Mine died when I was in my teens, and Erik's mother passed away while we were living in Wall Hollow. It was easy to lose touch with old friends back in Richmond. And as time went on, there were fewer and fewer people who might have known."
"Except Pat Malone," said Jay.
"Yes. When he came back, I knew that he wouldn't keep the old secret. He would revel in exposing the deception. It wouldn't have mattered for my old friend, who died rich and famous. But I enjoy my job at the university, and I wanted my pension in a few years' time."
Angela Arbroath clasped her arms against her body as if she were suddenly very cold. "Oh, Stormy," she whispered. "Did you kill him just for that?"
He considered the question. "I'm not sure," he said at last. "It seemed the most pressing reason at the time. But I think the real reason was that I was so damned disappointed that he wasn't dead I couldn't stand it! I went to his room to reason with him, but I took the medicine with me, so perhaps even then I knew…Anyhow, it's a better world without Pat Malone in it." He looked at Jay Omega. "I suppose the autopsy gave it away?"
"The MAO inhibitor," said Jay. "I knew that it's prescribed for hypertension. If you mix it with Malone's-er, Spivey's-Elavil, it lowers the blood pressure too much, and causes a coma, and then death."
"Yes, I suppose I was lucky that he was taking his own medication, and that he was old. Otherwise he might have survived to enjoy my disgrace. He'd have liked that."
Jim Conyers interrupted. "You don't have to say anything else, Stormy! You need an attorney. I'll be happy to represent you. When the police get here-"
The once and future Erik Giles waved him away. "It doesn't matter, Jim," he said quietly. "The other thing you must not do with an MAO inhibitor is take alcohol. And I've just about finished that whole bottle of wine by myself. I'll be dead by morning." He swayed slightly as he stood up and tottered toward the door. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I will go gently into that good night."
Chapter 14
He could see himself
in six months, afloat on the refilled Watauga
where the droumed swim forever…
– DON JOHNSON Watauga Drawdown
Jay Omega watched the sun rise over the brown wasteland of Breedlove Lake. Beside him in equal silence sat Marion Farley.
Erik Giles (they still thought of him that way) had not gone particularly gently into that good night, as he had wished. The roomful of witnesses to his prospective suicide had been impelled to call the police, or, attorney Jim Conyers warned, they might be considered accessories, since suicide is still a crime. By the time a rescue squad arrived from New Wall Hollow, it was too late. The combination of alcohol and medication had done its work irreversibly, and if Erik Giles had not gone peacefully and with dignity, he had nonetheless gone, despite the application of respirators, injections, and the defibrillator.
When it was over, Jim Conyers talked to the officers in charge of the case and convinced them that there was no point in wasting county money on a murder case when the perpetrator was already dead. They agreed that for official purposes, their report would read that both Richard Spivey and Erik Giles had died of heart conditions in unrelated circumstances. The press would not be told otherwise. No mention of Pat Malone was contained in any summary of the weekend's events.
"I said I'd defend Stormy, and I did," Conyers told the others. "There will be no scandal attached to his death. It was the only defense he wanted."
Marion leafed through the time-capsule manuscripts for the hundredth time. "Did you know it was Erik all along?" she asked Jay.
"No. After we learned that an MAO inhibitor had been used, I knew that the killer would be on medication, but that didn't exclude any of them, really. I thought it might be Brendan Surn because he is a bit unbalanced."
Marion gave him a faint smile. "Pretending to be somebody else," she mused. "The mental illness of fandom. I did it myself once, you know."
Jay looked startled. "Did you?"
She nodded dreamily. "Just for one night. It was back when I was in college. I got a blind date with some guy whose parents were stationed in the Philippines with Voice of America. All he could do was moan about how homesick he was. So to make him happy, I pretended to be Petrice Jones. She was my best friend in high school, and she had lived in the Philippines until her sophomore year. After three years of listening to Petrice, I knew all her classmates by name, her old teachers-everything! The guy had a wonderful evening talking about old times with 'Petrice.' And I took care never to see him again."
"You meant well. I'm not sure Richard Spivey did."
"No. But I think Pat Malone would have been pleased. I can imagine him in some smoke-filled hereafter enjoying the sensation of his unscheduled return. It almost makes me believe in demonic possession."
"Are you going to tell the university about Erik's impersonation?"
Marion sighed. "I've been going over it in my mind for hours. But I always come to the same conclusion: no. It seems to me that it doesn't matter what name Erik used during his adolescence. He was the professor everyone liked and respected, and he wouldn't want to lose that in death. Most of our colleagues have never heard of an S-F writer named Deddingfield, anyway. Why spoil his memory? He was a good teacher."
"That's what I thought," said Jay. "Let him be remembered as the professor. He wanted out of fandom badly enough to kill for it. What's one more secret among the Lanthanides?"
The literary auction for the Lanthanides time capsule took place as scheduled at ten o'clock Sunday morning in the Holiday Inn in Johnson City. Sarah Ashley accepted the sealed bids and promised to reconvene the group at eleven to announce the winner to the
press.
Enzio O'Malley was having brunch with Lily Warren on his company's American Express card. "Well," said Lily, toying with her eggs Benedict. "Do you think you got the anthology?"
O'Malley shrugged. "I doubt it," he said, stifling a yawn. "How about you?"
Lily shook her head. "Fifty K was as high as I could go without making a phone call. After reading the manuscripts, I decided not to make it."
"It'll go high. Those maniacs on Fifth Avenue would pay two grand for a cheeseburger. There's no telling what they'll bid to get this."
"Too bad," said Lily. "Since your company has Surn's back list, I know how much you wanted to acquire this."
"I got a budget," said O'Malley. "If I paid a million for this wad, and it bombed, I'd find myself editing role-playing games in Wisconsin."
"I thought you said that if they publicized this well, it would sell automatically."
"Theoretically, yes," said O'Malley. "But I wouldn't want to bet my career on it. I'm a schemer, not a gambler."
"And are you planning any schemes right now?" asked Lily, smiling.
"It's already done." He yawned again. "That's why I'm so tired. I got up at six a.m. this morning to call London. And I got my book deal." He grinned as he speared another pancake. "So while some checkbook publishers spend a mint publicizing the Lanthanides to sell their crummy anthology, my company brings out a kiss-and-tell book by the celebrated S-F editor-"
"Jasmine Holt!" cried Lily. "My God! She was married to two or three of them, wasn't she?"
"Yep. And she hasn't mellowed any with age, either," said O'Malley cheerfully. "Dirty laundry! That's what people want to read. Who cares what a bunch of postadolescent nerds actually wrote, for chrissake?"
"But they're writers," said Lily. "I thought they had fans."
O'Malley looked at her. "Would you want to bet a million dollars and your job title that there are enough S-F fans out there to buy fifty thousand copies of the over-the-hill gang's juvenilia in hardcover?"
"I guess not," murmured Lily.
"Exactly. I got the Holt memoir for twenty-five K. And we won't have to pay that much to the person who really writes it, either." He flashed her a feral smile. "Literary judgment, Lily! That's what it's all about."
Ruben Mistral was smiling as he put down the phone. The Lanthanides had gathered in the conference room for a catered brunch while they waited for Sarah Ashley to report the results of the auction. "It's over," he announced to the others. "The anthology is sold."
"What's the deal?" asked Woodard eagerly.
"One point two million dollars. It's a hard/soft deal, world rights, fifty/fifty on screen rights."
"What does that mean exactly?" asked Angela.
"And how soon do we get it?" Woodard again.
Mistral smiled at their eagerness. "Sarah will explain the business angles to anyone who is interested. As for the money, you'll get some of it in a few weeks, but don't go on a spending spree. You won't believe the tax bite!"
Jim Conyers stood up. "I guess that's it, then. The reunion has accomplished its goal. We're all free to go, by the way. There will be no further investigation on the two deaths."
"Understood," said Mistral. "And we're all sworn to secrecy.
Right, guys?"
"It doesn't feel right to leave it like this," said Angela. "Not to worry," said Mistral. "Well do a tribute to Stormy in the anthology. First-class stuff."
Brendan Surn spoke up. "It reminds me of our trip to Worldcon all those years ago. Remember then? We all worked and planned, and we didn't make it out of this valley. Finally, though, one by one, each of us did make it out. Some of us became famous and well off, but we always missed what we had here. Never quite found that anywhere else. And now we all come back for the big reunion and we find that we can't get back in. Not really." He looked out at the red clay scar between wooded hills. "We couldn't get back."
"Yeah, sure, Brendan," said Ruben Mistral. "Can't go home again, right? Well, people, I got a plane to catch." He shook hands with Conyers, hugged Angela, and headed for the door.
George Woodard hurried to catch up with him. "Listen, can I talk to you for a minute?"
Mistral tried to glance at his watch without being too obvious about it. "Sure, George," he said. "Another business question?"
"No. I have a favor to ask," said George, looking nervously about. "You see, in western Maryland we have a little science fiction convention every September. It's called Mason/Dixiecon. We have a few panel discussions, a little art show. We show old movies. You'd really like it, Bunzie. And I was wondering…" He took a deep breath. "Would you consider being our guest of honor this year?"
Ruben Mistral winced at the thought of spending an entire weekend in a dreary burg in Maryland, signing autographs and telling high school kids how to make it in Hollywood. But before he could plead a prior commitment, his mouth opened, and he could hear Bunzie saying, "Sure, George. I'd like that. Count me in."
They walked out together, with Woodard prattling happily about Star Trek blooper reels and fifties starlets.
Lorien Williams was packing Brendan's belongings in his old leather suitcase while he stood at the window looking out on the barren shore.
"I heard the drawdown is ending today," she said to him. "The hotel clerk said that the dam is repaired, so next week they'll be letting the lake fill up again."
He did not seem to have heard her. After a moment, she shrugged and went on packing. He was much better today; more alert and in good spirits. She wondered if the time change had bothered him. It was a pity to put him through it again so quickly, but at least she'd know what to expect when they got back to California. She'd have to field all the phone calls until Thursday at least. She looked longingly at the new Bob Cameron paperbacks she had bought to read on the trip. She still hadn't got around to them. Too bad. Bob Cameron was a really great author. She loved his futuristic stories. Lorien sighed and looked back at Brendan.
Someone knocked at the door. Lorien waited a moment to see if Brendan would respond, but he seemed not to have heard. She decided to answer it.
"I'm getting ready to go," said Angela Arbroath, setting her suitcase inside the door. "I thought I'd just stop in and say goodbye." She was dressed in a shapeless brown dress for traveling, and her hair was pulled into an unattractive bun: the invisible woman.
Brendan Surn turned away from the window. "Hello, Beanpole!" he called out. "Good to see you!"
Angela smiled at the look of surprise on Lorien's face. "He means me, all right," she told the girl. "You should have seen me back in '54."
"You're better today, aren't you?" she said to Brendan Surn. She sat down on the bed beside him, reaching up to brush a lock of silver hair away from his face. "You look better this morning."
He sighed. "It comes and goes, Angie. It's like a sea mist. Sometimes my mind can't see a foot ahead in any direction, and at other times it's as clear as it ever was. I just take my pills and hope."
Angela took a deep breath. "Listen, Brendan," she said briskly. "I hear you've got a big fancy house in California, and I have to tell you, I have no interest in even visiting anyplace like that. But I tell you what: I do have the prettiest little white cottage in Mississippi that you ever saw. I have a herb garden, and cats, and the warmest, sunniest kitchen in the world. And I have a guest room."
He nodded, beginning a smile.
"Brendan, nobody's promising anything right now, but would you like to come and stay with me for a while, and see if you like it? I think maybe Lorien has places of her own to go."
Brendan Surn looked down at her with his wisest, gentlest smile. "Yes, Angela," he said. "I'd like to sit in a garden now. I've seen what there is in the sea. Can I come today?"
Angela motioned for Lorien to come over. "Let's talk it over, Brendan," she said. "All three of us. We have all the time there is."
Jay and Marion were carrying their bags out of the lodge when they met Jim Conyers. He slung a suitcas
e into the back of his station wagon and followed them to their car.
"Is it over?" asked Marion. Her face was still strained and swollen-eyed.
"Yes," said Conyers. "The police are calling off the investigation on both deaths, and the auction went as planned. A little over a million, Bunzie said."
"I'm sorry about the way it turned out," said Jay Omega. "I was trying to help."
The lawyer nodded. "You were right. A murder investigation wouldn't have made things any better. And I think that when Stormy had found out that it wasn't Pat, it would have ended just the way it did."
"Brendan Surn was the only one who didn't tell lies," mused Marion. "Remember, he kept saying that Pete wasn't dead. We thought he was just senile."
"I wish it could have been a better reunion for you," said Jay.
Jim Conyers looked out at the dead lake. "It was the right reunion," he said at last. "Bickering, posturing, arrogance, and occasional lapses of genuine affection. They were my best friends, God help me." He smiled. "They were the best friends I ever had."
In the office of a small print shop in Cato, Mississippi, an elderly man was reading People magazine. He was sitting with his feet propped up on the old oak desk, a few inches away from a computer screen glowing green in the shadows beyond his reading lamp. His black-framed glasses slipped down on his sloping nose, revealing bulging eyes that made him faintly resemble a frog. The top of his head was a hairless dome, but the fringe that remained encircling his ears was still jet black, emphasizing the pallor of his wrinkled skin. He was six feet tall, hollow-cheeked and gaunt, and he possessed an expression of clever malevolence. He was reading about the retrieval of a time capsule in Wall Hollow, Tennessee.
Turning to the photograph of the assembled Lanthanides, mugging for posterity with a mud-caked pickle jar, the old man burst out laughing. "What a bunch of fuggheads!" he snorted, and turned to an article about a New Orleans jazz festival.
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