Dead and Alive

CHAPTER 39

Having believed that Erika Four was bursting in upon him, Victor fired twice, intending to stop both of her hearts, before he realized that the intruder was Christine. As the designer of her kind, he knew precisely where to aim. And because he started the job with such expert marksmanship, he had no choice but to finish it with two more shots.

Christine dropped, although death did not at once take her. She spasmed on the floor of the master-bedroom vestibule, gasping for breath, futilely pressing her hands to her chest as if she might be able to plug the wounds from which her life bled.

During Christine’s final throes, Erika appeared in the hall, just beyond the open door, and Victor raised the pistol from the dying housekeeper, to train it on whichever of his Erikas stood before him.

“Something was wrong with Christine,” she said. “She didn’t seem to know who she was. She thought I was someone named Mrs. Danvers.”

“Do you know who you are?” Victor asked.

She frowned at the muzzle of the pistol and at the question. “What do you mean?”

“Who are you!” Victor demanded with such vehemence that she flinched, as if reminded of the intensity with which he could deliver a beating when she deserved one.

“I’m Erika. Your wife.”

“Erika Five?”

She looked puzzled. “Yes, of course.”

“Then tell me — what is the most dangerous thing in the world?”

“Books,” she said at once. “Books corrupt.”

Erika Four had been allowed to read, which led to her death. Only Erika Five was created with a proscription against reading books. A resurrected Erika Four could have no way of knowing this.

On the floor, Christine said, “Manderley …” and her eyes glazed over.

She appeared to have died. Victor kicked her head, testing her response, but she didn’t twitch or make a sound.

Beside her on the floor was a book titled Jamaica Inn.

Returning the pistol to his shoulder holster, Victor said, “What was the word she just spoke?”

“Manderley,” said Erika.

“What language is it, what does it mean?”

Surprised, she said, “It’s the name of a great English house, a literary allusion. I’ve got it in my program. Like, I might say to someone we visited, ‘Oh, my dear, your house is even more wonderful than Manderley and your housekeeper isn’t insane.’”

“Yes, all right, but to what work does it refer?”

“Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca,” Erika said, “which I have never read and never will.”

“Books again,” he fumed, and in anger this time, he kicked the dead housekeeper, and then the book that had fallen from her hand. “I’ll send a team to bring this trash to the Hands of Mercy for an autopsy. Clean up the blood yourself.”

“Yes, Victor.”

Skip, Skip, Hop. Skip, skip, hop. Along the south hall. Skip, skip, hop. Knife in hand.

The back stairs. Three steps up, one step back. Three steps up, one step back.

Racing, in his fashion, toward vengeance, Jocko reminded himself of the speech he must make. As he drove the blade deep into Victor, he must say: I am the child of he who I was before I was me! I died to birth me! I am a monster, outcast and castaway! Die, Harker, die!

No. All wrong. So much practice in so many storm drains. And still Jocko didn’t have it right.

Climbing twice as many stairs as he descended, Jocko tried again: You are the monster child of he who I!

No, no, no. Not even close.

I am you he who I am who die!

Jocko was so angry with himself that he wanted to spit. He did spit. And he spat again. On his feet. Two steps up, one step back, spit. Two steps up, one step back, spit.

Finally he reached the top step, feet glistening.

In the second-floor south hall, Jocko stopped to collect his thoughts. There was one. And here was another. And here was a third thought, connected to the other two. Very nice.

Jocko often had to collect his thoughts. They scattered so easily.

I am the child of Jonathan Harker! He died to birth me! I am a juggler, monsters and apples! Now you die!

Close enough.

Tippytoe, tippytoe, east along the south hall, across soft rugs. Toward the main corridor.

Jocko heard voices. In his head? Could be. Had been before. No, no, not this time. Real voices. In the main hallway.

The corner. Careful. Jocko halted, peeked around.

Erika stood in the hallway, at the open master-suite doors. Talking to someone inside, probably Victor.

So pretty. Such shimmering hair. She had lips. Jocko wished he had lips, too.

“It’s the name of a great English house, a literary allusion,” Erika said to probably Victor.

Her voice soothed Jocko. Her voice was music.

As a calmness came over Jocko, he realized that he was different when in her company. With her, he didn’t feel compelled to do so much skipping, hopping, spitting, pirouetting, juggling, capering, nostril pulling, scampering, and walking on his hands.

She lied to Jocko. Lied about the tastiness of soap. Otherwise, however, she was a positive influence.

Eighty or ninety feet away, Victor Helios appeared. Out of the master suite. Tall. Trim. Excellent hair on his head, probably none on his tongue. Pretty suit.

Jocko thought: Die, juggler, die!

Victor walked past Erika. To the stairs. Said one last thing to her. Started down.

Jocko had the knife. The knife belonged in Victor.

A thousand knives belonged in Victor.

Jocko only had two hands. Could juggle three knives with two hands, put them in Victor. Trying to juggle a thousand knives, Jocko would probably lose some fingers.

To reach Victor with one pathetic knife, Jocko must run past Erika. That would be awkward.

She would see him. Would know he broke his promise. More than one promise. Would know he lied. Would be disappointed in him.

And she might smell soap on his breath.

Erika moved to the stairs. Watched Victor descend.

Maybe she saw Jocko. From the corner of her eye. She started to turn. Turn toward Jocko.

Jocko ducked back. Away from the corner.

Hoppity-hoppity-hop. Hoppity-hoppity-hop. West along the south hall. Backward down the stairs.

Kitchen again. Apples on the floor. Oranges would be even more round. Jocko must ask for oranges. And scissors to trim his tongue hairs.

Jocko capered out of the kitchen, through a butler’s pantry, across an intimate dining room.

Beyond was a large, formal dining room. Jocko didn’t see it too clearly because he had to, had to, had to pirouette.

Room after room, small connecting halls, so much house. Walking on his hands, knife gripped in one foot. Cartwheeling, cartwheeling, knife in his teeth.

North hall. Back stairs. Second floor. His suite.

Jocko hid the knife in his bedding. He scampered back into the living room. Sat on the floor in front of the fireplace. Enjoying the fireplace without fire.

She would say: I thought I saw you in the hall.

He would say: No, not Jocko, not Jocko. No, no, no. Not I who am from he who was, monster from monster, no, not Jocko, not in the hall and not eating soap.

Or maybe he would just say No.

Jocko would play it by ear. See what seemed right at the time.

After gazing at no fire for half a minute, Jocko realized he had forgotten to kill Victor.

Jocko hooked fingers in his nostrils and pulled them toward his brow until his eyes watered. He deserved worse.