Zombies of the Gene Pool

Chapter 13

Brendan Surn was quiet now. For nearly an hour Angela Ar-broath had sat with him, held his hand, and talked soothingly of times gone by. At last her soft Southern voice had seemed to penetrate his anger, and tears drifted down his cheeks. Now he was sitting on his bed, clutching his silver NASA jacket, and staring off into nothingness.

Angela patted his hand and eased away from him. "I think he'll be all right for now," she told Lorien Williams.

The girl summoned a grateful smile. "Thank you. I've never been able to calm him down as quickly as that. Mostly when he gets into rages at home, I just leave him alone until he tires himself out." She sat huddled on her twin bed, in a black T-shirt and slacks, looking very small and lost. Dark circles shadowed her eyes.

"I suppose this is more than you bargained for when you took this job," said Angela.

Lorien hesitated. "I was such a fan of Mr. Surn," she said at last. "I had read everything he ever wrote, and all the biographical material I could find on him. He seemed so grandfatherly, somehow. You know, like Yoda. And I wasn't very happy with my parents. They were always hassling me to give up fandom and get some mundane job, like being a stockbroker." She made a moue of distaste. "I thought I'd go and see Brendan Surn. He'd understand me."

Angela sighed. She had heard it all before. Science fiction writers build castles in the air, and the fans move into them. (And the publishers collect the rent.) It was easy to find solace in someone else's storytelling, or in their apparent acceptance of what you are, and to build a soul for them. Surely, the fan thinks, he will like me as much as I like him; let me go and see him. It usually leads to disappointment: neither faces nor souls are as pretty in real life as they are on paper.

Angela remembered her own fascination in the fifties with Miranda Cairncross, a woman writer who wrote a wonderful tale about a Danish girl called Gefion who becomes caught up in the Ragnarok, the Norse version of Armageddon. She had found so much wisdom and lyrical beauty in Ragnarok that she read it over and over until she had nearly memorized it. She couldn't wait to meet the author, and at a book signing in New Orleans one Christmas she got her chance. Clutching her tattered copy of Ragnarok, she stood in line, half expecting to be picked out of the crowd as a soul mate and whisked off to tea with the author. She had even made a green velvet cloak like the one Gefion wore in the novel, so that the author would know of her devotion.

But the magic friendship did not happen. Miranda Cairncross turned out to be a gawky, colorless woman who seemed dismayed at the prospect of talking to the crowd of fans hovering around her table. She signed the books with fierce concentration, as though she were shutting out her surroundings, and when she finished each one, she would look up at the purchaser with a taut, forced smile. Angela could not imagine anyone less like the bold and reckless Gefion of Ragnarok. When she reached the head of the line, Angela handed over her book and said, "I really love your writing."

Miranda Cairncross peered at her over the pile of books, took in the sight of the plain young girl in a green velvet cloak, and reddened slightly. "I do what I can," she said. Moments later she returned Angela's copy, inscribed "There is no frigate like a book, M. A. Cairncross." Angela recognized the Emily Dickinson quote (another interest she might have shared with the author), but at the time she was disappointed that Miranda Cairncross' dedication had not been more personal.

Years later, after she had run into Brendan Surn at a few conventions and seen him besieged by soul-starved young strangers, she saw things from the other side, and she realized that touching people through their books was the best that most authors could do. Anything else was a letdown. By then she had also realized that the Dickinson quote about books being frigates was meant perhaps as a gentle warning from the author, telling her not to stray too far from life. She saw Miranda Cairncross years later, a frail old woman who had been brought to Worldcon to receive a plaque. Angela decided that the best way to thank her would be to leave her in peace.

"Yes," she said to Lorien Williams. "So you went to see Brendan Surn, thinking that he would be your friend."

"I guess so." Lorien was close to tears. She glanced over at the staring figure of Surn and continued, "When I got to his house, the place was a mess, and he didn't seem to know how to cook or anything, so I said to myself, I'll just stick around until his household help comes back. But they never did! I think his maid must have quit, and he never got around to advertising for another one."

"So you stayed?"

She nodded. "I didn't know what else to do! I mean, I couldn't leave him. I guess I could have later, after I learned how to manage everything. I could have hired someone, I guess. But he seemed to need me. And I didn't know what else to do with myself anyway." Her voice broke. "But it isn't like I thought it

would be! Sometimes, when he's wet the bed again or burned up another teakettle trying to boil water, I'll say to myself, This is the man who wrote Starwind Rising. This is a being of greatness. But he isn't! He's just an ordinary, sick old man. And I feel trapped."

"Did you become friends?"

Lorien shook her head. "He's never reacted to me the way he did to you today. I think I'm just a convenience for him, not a person!"

There is no frigate like a book, thought Angela. Aloud she said, "Fans are not friends, dear. It can be dangerous to forget that."

Jay Omega didn't even look up when Marion entered the room. He was staring at the screen of his computer as if it were showing Indiana Jones movies. "Your ferret is reporting in, sir," said Marion, tapping him playfully on the shoulder.

"Shhh!" he said. "I'm talking to somebody."

Marion looked around the otherwise empty room. "Who? Friend of Curtis Phillips?"

He slumped back in his seat and looked up at her. "No. Not a demon. A guy out in California, and one from North Carolina. Whole crowds of people. Look at this." He tapped a block of text on the screen.

Leaning over his shoulder, Marion read aloud: "To J. O. Mega. From Kenny in Cupertino. Called Ethel Malone's number. The woman who answered says Ethel is in a nursing home, and that she's her grandniece. She says her Great-Uncle Pat died in 1958. Thinks they have a death certificate around someplace. Physical description: 6'2" (she thinks); green eyes; black hair; very pale. Says she sometimes gets crank calls from fans. Asks that fans not make pilgrimage to her house, as she barely remembers Great-Uncle Pat. Wants to be left alone. She sounds cute, though. I'm thinking about asking her out. -Kenny."

"Let me type a reply thanking this guy for his trouble," said Jay. "Then you can tell me what you found out, Marion. By the way, have we eaten dinner?"

Marion reached for the room service menu. "I thought you'd never ask."

When she came back from ordering a couple of chicken dinners, Marion turned back to Jay. "So, did he fake his death certificate so that he could get rid of his wife as well as his friends?"

"I don't think so," said Jay. "A guy from Mississippi went down to his local library and found an obituary for Pat Malone in an old newspaper on microfilm." He grinned. "Somebody who called himself Jim Hacker offered to break into the records of the University of Washington medical school, but I declined."

"Good. I'm sure the dean of engineering takes a dim view of professors being wanted by the FBI."

"I also got some interesting reminiscences from some old-timers that didn't quite square with things here. I get the funny feeling that the Lanthanides are still playing 'you and me against the world.' By the way, can you get me a copy of the time-capsule stories?"

Marion looked smug. "I already did," she said. "I asked Geoffrey Duke to make one for me. I thought it might be useful in case I decide to do an article."

"Good. Have you read them yet?"

"Of course not. I've been running errands for a certain engineer with delusions of grandeur."

"Oh. Well, sometime tonight I wish you'd take a look at them."

"Don't you want to see them?"

Jay shook his head. "No. I need you to read them in that sharklike way that English majors read things. Analytically."

"I see," said Marion dryly. "I'll try not to mistake that for a compliment. Anything else?"

"You have read the Lanthanides' published work, haven't you?"

"I just finished teaching the early science fiction course, remember? Of course, I have!"

"I thought so. Good. That ought to wrap it up."

"So what do you think about all this?"

"You first, Marion. Any news?"

Marion nodded. "Angela Arbroath says that Elavil is used to control depression, among other things, and Jim Conyers phoned his friends in law enforcement, and was told that the case is a suspected homicide, and that the investigators will be back sometime tomorrow to question everybody. Something called an MAO inhibitor got added to Malone's medicine. Apparently, a tablet had been crushed and added to his drink."

"MAO inhibitor. I know what that is. My Uncle Ewen… Well, anyway, that's interesting. Anything else?"

"The police have the deceased listed as Richard Spivey."

"Good," said Jay. "And do they think he was Pat Malone?"

"The Lanthanides? Yes. Angela says he had to have been. He knew stuff that only one of the Lanthanides would know." She ticked off the members' names. "Dugger's dead, Deddingfield's dead, Curtis Phillips is dead, and all the rest of them are here. Besides, if he wasn't Pat Malone, why would any of them kill him?"

"I wondered that," said Jay Omega. "And I don't know. But I rather think that they do." He looked thoughtful and then embarrassed. "Marion, did you bring my SFWA directory in that rat's nest of bibliographic papers you insisted on packing?"

"Yes. And don't say it was a waste of time, because I still might interview one of the Lanthanides for an analysis of early S-F for one of the journals. Maybe."

"You probably won't, but I'm not complaining about the fact that you brought it. I just need my directory."

Marion retrieved the booklet containing the membership list of the Science Fiction Writers of America and resisted the urge to fling it at him. Jay began to flip through the dog-eared pages. Several entries were marked with comments (e.g. "Sent thank you note") and a few had telephone numbers written after them in pencil. "She's not in here," he muttered.

"What are you up to now?" asked Marion.

Jay continued to thumb through the booklet. "Who is the most famous person I know in science fiction?"

Marion searched her memory. "Well, you shook hands with Arthur C. Clarke once."

"No. I mean the most famous person that I can impose upon." He handed her the booklet. "And your choice is limited to the people I have phone numbers for."

Marion began to flip through the pages, going from back to front. "You served on a committee with him once… didn't we meet her at a con last spring?" Finally she stopped turning pages, deliberating over one entry.

"Did you find someone?"

She took a deep breath. "John Brunner is an extremely nice person, and he seems to like you," she said carefully. "But since it is about three o'clock in the morning where he lives in Britain, I'd advise against presuming on his benevolence."

"Good point," said Jay. "I suppose I could wait until five a.m. to call him. That would make it ten on a Sunday morning where he is. But I wanted to get this done tonight."

"Get what done?"

"Look, if the Lanthanides don't get this solved very quickly, there will be all three rings of a media circus. I think I'd better explain that to them."

"I think they realize it."

"Like hell they do. They're just sitting around playing dumb and hoping it will all go away. But it won't, unless they start cooperating very quickly."

Marion's eyes narrowed. "What does this have to do with John Brunner?"

"Nothing."

"Then why are you going to call him at ten o'clock on a Sunday morning?" She wailed.

"Because I'm hoping that he has Jazzy Holt's phone number, and that he'll give it to me."

"You are going to call Jasmine Holt?" gasped Marion.

"Not unless I have to," said Jay grimly. He looked at his watch and sighed. "I guess we'd better try to settle this thing now. Tomorrow may be too late. Could you round up the Lanthanides and bring them here?"

"Why would they want to do that?" asked Marion. "Most of them hardly know you."

"Tell them that we will meet here at eleven to resolve this thing. If they don't show up, I will consider that permission to report my findings to the police instead. And then I'll call a press conference."

"You're going to do that? You? The person who wouldn't even tell the local paper about your award nomination?"

"This is different," said Jay. "Their sense of priorities is beginning to get on my nerves. And besides, I liked the man who was killed."

Ruben Mistral might have objected strenuously to Jay Omega's proposed meeting, except for the fact that his body was still running on California time, so it still seemed the shank of the evening to him, and he wasn't sleepy. Besides, the threat of adverse publicity appealed to the practical side of Mistral's nature, and he agreed that some son of discussion would be prudent. Marion persuaded the others to come by ending her summons with the statement: "-And Ruben Mistral is coming." With varying degrees of reluctance, everyone agreed to turn up at Jay Omega's room in one hour's time.

Jay spent the hour before the meeting online with the Fandango grapevine he had created in hopes that he might learn more useful bits of information about Pat Malone. He also made a phone call to Raleigh, North Carolina to check out a theory of his own. Marion read the time-capsule stories, with occasional snickers or caustic comments which Jay steadfastly ignored. Finally, though, ten minutes before the Lanthanides were due to arrive, he logged out of Delphi, switched off the computer, and turned to Marion. "Well?" he said. "Have you read them all?"

She looked thoughtful. "Oh, yes."

"What do you think?"

In most unscholarly terms, Dr. Marion Farley told him.

At five minutes to eleven the Lanthanides began to arrive. Jim and Barbara Conyers came first, bringing a bottle of wine, as if they were accepting a dinner invitation. Marion seated them on the double bed nearest the window, and left Jay to exchange pleasantries with them while she went to answer another knock at the door. George Woodard was there in his pajamas and bathrobe, giving a slumber-party air to the gathering. He was followed by Angela Arbroath, who was arm in arm with a dazed-looking Brendan Surn. Lorien Williams came in after them, appearing more tired than nervous. Finally Erik Giles and Ruben Mistral appeared, bringing along chairs from their own rooms.

"I'm too old to sit on the floor," said Erik. "Met Bunzie in the hall, and he agreed with me. Here we are. What's this all about?"

The Lanthanides turned expectantly to Jay Omega, who reddened a bit under their solemn stares. I guess you're wondering why I asked you here," he said softly.

Jim Conyers scowled. "I'm wondering why we bothered to come."

"Well," said Jay. "Believe it or not, I mean well. I know that this anthology means a lot to most of you, and that you want the time-capsule retrieval to be remembered as a solemn and meaningful event-and not as the prologue to a sensational murder story."

George Woodard yelped. "Pat Malone was murdered?"

Mistral's response was more pragmatic. "Who knows this?"

"The police. Maybe some reporters by now, but if you're lucky, they haven't made any connection yet between the deceased and the reunion. They will, though, if this thing goes into investigation. Especially if they find out that Pat Malone had come back to life for this reunion."

"He's right," said Ruben Mistral. "We need to talk about damage control. Jim, you're a lawyer. What can we do?"

Jim Conyers shrugged. "Cooperate, I guess. Once the medical examiner ran that tox screen and found a suspicious substance present in the deceased, there was no chance of stopping the investigation. The longer it drags on, the more publicity there's going to be."

Erik Giles interrupted him. "Could I have some of that wine, Jim?"

The others shushed him and went on talking at once, but Barbara Conyers flashed him a sympathetic smile and handed him the bottle and a plastic glass.

"What if we called a press conference and said we had nothing to do with it?" asked Angela Arbroath.

Jim Conyers shook his head. "People might naturally wonder why you saw fit to call a press conference over the demise of a total stranger. And then you'd have to tell them it was Pat Malone, and then-"

"Was it?" asked Jay Omega.

"What?"

"Was the dead man really Pat Malone? Can anyone swear to that?"

The Lanthanides looked at each other. "Well, after thirty years…" said Angela hesitantly.

"He was still pale," George offered. "And six feet tall."

"I thought Pat looked like a frog in the old days," said Barbara Conyers. "Sort of saucer-eyed, you know, and loose-lipped. But we've all changed so much. I wouldn't have known any of you on sight."

"It hardly matters," said Erik Giles, taking a sip of his wine. "He knew things about us that no one else could have known."

"He enjoyed it, too!" said Woodard indignantly. "He was going to make us all look like fools again. Just like he did to everyone in The Last Fandango!"

Ruben Mistral looked from Jay Omega to the laptop computer still set up on the table, and back again. "What are you getting at?" he asked.

"I'm trying to help you people settle this, before we all become suspects for the local police," said Jay. "And I think George Woodard made a key point just now. The man who died was going to make fools of you all by telling things that you didn't want made public. I think someone murdered him to prevent that. So, if we knew what the secrets were, it might help us guess who killed him."

Erik Giles smiled gently. "You needn't do all this on my account, Jay," he said. "I know I invited the both of you here, but you needn't feel responsible for me. We're not such old fogies that we can't take care of ourselves."

"It's the man who died that concerns me. One of your little secrets caused it."

Angela Arbroath shook her head. "The least important secret might have been the one he was killed over. How could you tell?"

Jim Conyers looked amused. "You're not suggesting that we confide in you, are you? If we didn't trust one of our own, why should we let you hear our secrets? Assuming, of course, that there are any."

"Well," said Jay Omega, shrugging. "I thought you might want to see the murderer punished. Or at least stopped from killing again. Especially since he killed a total stranger."

Angela stared. "What are you saying?"

He spoke slowly and carefully. "That man was no more Pat Malone than I am." He waited for the exclamations of shock and disbelief to subside before he continued. "The man's driver's license said that he was Richard Spivey, from a little town near Raleigh, North Carolina. And I believe that to be true."

"Richard Spivey!" cried George Woodard.

"Do you know him, George?" asked Erik Giles.

"I'd never seen him, but he'd been subscribing to Alluvial for years. Richard Spivey from North Carolina. He didn't write very often, though. He never discussed the Lanthanides, or claimed to be one of us."

"What address was used?"

Woodard shrugged. "A post office box, I think."

"How do you know he wasn't Pat Malone?" Angela demanded.

Jay pointed to the computer. "Because I asked." He told them about the call to Ethel Malone, and about the man in Mississippi who had found the obituary. "I think Pat Malone died a long time ago, and somebody decided to take his place. True, he had information that only one of the Lanthanides would know. Where would he get it? I thought the fact that he was on Elavil was an indication. And he was from North Carolina."

"Curtis!" cried George Woodard. "Curtis was in a mental institution in North Carolina."

"And Elavil is a drug used in psychiatric cases," whispered Angela. "Are you saying that this man was only pretending to be Pat Malone?"

"I don't know," said Jay sadly. "I think he may have actually believed it by now. He and Curtis Phillips were both patients in a psychiatric facility outside Raleigh. I know, because I called and asked. I'm pretty sure that he had heard Curtis Phillips talk about the Lanthanides for years and years until it actually became real to him. He remembered it as an experience, the way you visualize a movie you have seen, or a particularly vivid novel."

"But he didn't even know us!" Erik Giles protested. "Why would he want to embarrass us?"

"Because that's what Pat Malone would have done," said Marion.

Woodard laughed bitterly. "Another damned fan hoax!"

"It was very convincing," said Jim Conyers. "But I must agree with our host here that we have an obligation both morally and legally to provide any information that we can."

No one spoke. Brendan Surn seemed to have forgotten that they were there. The others glanced at each other nervously.

"If no one wants to confide in us, we could make some guesses," said Jay. "For example, there are sexual goings-on that one might rather forget three decades after the fact." He held up a folded slip of paper. "I have Jasmine Holt's phone number here."

In fact, he had a blank piece of paper, but he counted on the fact that no one would ask to see it, and the bluff worked.

"That business about my wife being promiscuous was totally exaggerated," said Woodard. "We were both believers in free love back then, and I believe she had sexual relations with a good many members of fandom. It was a philosophical statement. I see no reason to be embarrassed by it." Beads of sweat made his skin glow like damp cheese. He pushed a greasy forelock away from his eyes. "Of course, she's not at all like that now."

"Your kids might be less tolerant, though, George," said Jim Conyers. "Mine sure were." He sighed and glanced at his wife. "I guess I'd better tell you about this before you call Jazzy."

"Jim!" said Ruben Mistral warningly.

"The statute of limitations passed long ago, Bunzie," said Jim Conyers. "I checked."

"It was at a con, and we had all had too much to drink," said Mistral. "And we-I wouldn't call it rape, would you, Jim? We didn't know she was underage."

"You guys raped Jasmine Holt?" The question was out of Lor-ien's mouth before she could think better of it. "Sorry," she muttered, and pretended to read the cable television guide.

The color drained from Barbara Conyers' face. "Oh, Jim," she whispered.

He looked away. "It was before we got engaged," he muttered.

"Come on, no big deal!" said Bunzie jovially. "That was a hundred years ago. By the time she married Curtis we were all pals again. And when she married Peter I gave the bride away."

"I doubt if Pat would have told that story," said Erik. "He was just as involved as we were."

Marion glared at the Lanthanides, looking considerably less sympathetic than she had moments before. "There are some literary secrets here, I think, that might have been worth revealing." She noted with satisfaction that the Lanthanides had begun to look uncomfortable. "Take Dale Dugger's story, for example. It isn't very expertly written, but the atmosphere is wonderful. It's about a Martian soldier coming home from the war to find that he has more in common with the enemy aliens than he does with the people back home. It sounded very familiar."

Lorien Williams blinked in confusion. "But-that scene you described is famous! It's in Brendan's book The Galactic Watchfires. That's the chapter when Tarn-yan returns to Qar."

Mistral shrugged. "So what? We lived in each other's pockets in those days. Who's to say that Dale didn't write the scene after hearing Brendan tell the story?"

"And Curtis Phillips wrote about a mad wizard who has sex with a demon. Both those guys were fairly recognizable, too." Marion looked down at her hands, so as not to look at any of the Lanthanides.

"Curtis was crazy," said Erik Giles.

"Yes," spluttered George Woodard. "But I remember he told me-"

"Shut up, George!" said Mistral.

"And you're going to let them publish this anthology?" Jay marveled.

Mistral shrugged. "For a pile of money. We'll write prefaces to all the stories that will take the sting out. And we may do a little judicious editing."

Still blushing, Marion continued. "Why doesn't Peter Deddingfield have a story in the time capsule?"

The Lanthanides looked at each other, but no one spoke.

"Everybody else is there. Angela, Pat, Dale, Curtis, George, Erik, Reuben Bundshaft, Jim Conyers, and one by C. A. Stormcock. But you always said that you were C. A. Stormcock, Erik!"

He raised his plastic glass to her in a mock toast. "So I was."

"But you aren't, Erik, are you?" she said, looking at the other Lanthanides for confirmation. "Don't bother to lie to me, folks. I read those stories. The Stormcock story is obviously by the guy who wrote The Golden Gain, and the story signed 'Erik Giles' is just as obviously written by the person who wrote the Time Traveler Trilogy."

Marion looked at the stricken face of her old friend, and then at Jay Omega. "Maybe we shouldn't discuss this in public," she murmured. "Maybe, Erik, you and I could just-"

He finished the contents of his glass and set it down. "It's all right," he said. "These people all know, my dear. They've known for more than thirty years. We just didn't think that it would ever matter much." He turned to the Lanthanides and smiled. "I can't think why I invited them to come with me. I suppose it serves me right for being a coward. I didn't want to face all this alone. Or perhaps subconsciously I was tired of the pretense."

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."