Part 9 (2/2)

”Oh,” I said. ”Well, could I get his home address, then? I can swing by there.”

”I'm sorry. We can't give that out. There's a policy. But if you want to leave a message, I'll get it to him as soon as he comes in,” she said. ”I don't know when exactly that'll be, but I'll make sure he calls you back.”

Calls you back. Not he'll see it. Not that he knows you came by. She was promising to make him act on it. I was pretty sure by now that she wasn't lying. The way she held herself, the way she spoke, reminded me of my mother talking about someone from church. Someone who wasn't doing well.

There was probably a graceful way to do this. Something subtle and clever. The right words. But since I didn't know what they were, I went for blunt.

”He's in trouble,” I said. ”You know he's in trouble, right?”

Her smile didn't vanish, but the air went out of it. She swallowed once, and when she spoke her voice had lost its cheerfulness.

”Big Dave's doing fine.”

”Something's been wrong with him, though,” I said. ”Acting strange. Missing work. Maybe he doesn't look as good as he used to. Like he's not sleeping?”

”Well, I don't know that-”

”It started about a year ago,” I said. And then, ”It's getting worse.”

The smile collapsed like a mask falling away. With the concern and fear clear on her face, she looked more genuine. When she spoke, it was like hearing her for the first time.

”How do you know him?” she asked.

It would have been easy to lie, but I had the sense that the woman was watching me very closely. I shook my head.

”My uncle knew a lot about him,” I said. ”I'd never heard of him until yesterday. But if there's something eating him, I know what it is. And I can help.”

She looked down at the table. Her jaw was set firmly. The computer chirped once and the screen changed. In my peripheral vision, Aubrey leaned against the wall, his arms folded.

”If I'm right,” I said softly, ”I may be the only one who can help.”

”Can you tell me what's the matter?” she said. ”Is it drugs?”

”It's not drugs. And it's not gambling. And it's not women. But it is important.”

”Can't you just tell me?”

I could, but it would blow my chances of holding her trust. I didn't say anything, and let the silence drag. The woman sighed, leaned back, and pulled the thin top drawer of the desk open. She didn't look at me as she picked out a business card and a pen. She wrote with small, fast strokes, like someone brus.h.i.+ng away sand. When she did look up, she seemed almost angry.

”We love Big Dave,” she said. ”We need him back.”

”I'm on it,” I said, taking the card. She'd written a street address on it. I put it in my pocket, turned to catch Aubrey's gaze, and then nodded to the door.

”I'm trusting you,” she said as we walked out.

I didn't know how to answer that, so I didn't try.

WE PULLED up at the place. Two stories, windows obscured by cream-colored drapes, a tree in the front yard with a tire swing on an ancient, untrustworthy rope. The green gra.s.s lawn got a little patchy at the edges, and the black fake-iron house numbers by the front door had chipped. A dog was barking somewhere nearby in a lazy, conversational way.

Aubrey walked just ahead of me up the thin concrete path, and I had a small cascade of memories-Trevor chiding Aubrey for putting himself in harm's way to protect me, another house we'd walked to about a year ago when a haugtrold had nearly killed us both, Chogyi Jake warning me not to push the wards and protections that kept me safe. And then I was at the door. I fidgeted with my backpack and took a deep breath.

”I hate this part,” I said.

Aubrey nodded.

”Hi,” he said, ”can I talk to you about your relations.h.i.+p to immaterial, abstract parasites? Does kind of make the Jehovah's Witnesses seem plausible by comparison, doesn't it?”

”And yet,” I said, ”it's what we do.”

I rang the doorbell. The dog, wherever it was, took note and stepped up its color commentary. We waited. I knocked.

”Not home?” Aubrey said.

”Maybe not.”

The doork.n.o.b felt surprisingly cool. The door wasn't locked, and the hinges were silent. I looked at Aubrey looking at me, and then I swung the door wide.

”h.e.l.lo?” I called as we stepped into the living room. ”Anybody here? David?”

Piles of paper littered the room-magazines, newspapers, printed websites, sketchbooks. The smell of rotting food was faint but distinct, almost more taste than odor. A worn leather couch dominated the room, a wide, low coffee table before it. An open doorway showed a small kitchen, and a dark hallway ran beside and behind a flight of carpeted stairs. The art on the walls mixed old-time ads for coffee brands and soda crackers that I'd never heard of with amateur photographs. David's work, I a.s.sumed. A flat-screen television hung on one wall, an incongruous line of Post-it notes fluttering beside it. I walked to them carefully, trying not to disturb anything. I wondered whether it counted as breaking and entering if I didn't have to break anything. Someone-David, I guessed-had drawn simple pictures on each little yellow sheet. Little architectural cartoons by someone who knew something about architecture. They were all slightly different, but since I'd seen Grace Memorial so recently and paid so much attention to it, I could see it in each of them.

”He doesn't know it,” I said, ”but he sort of does.”

”Hmm?”

Aubrey was standing by the coffee table, looking down at the papers and printouts. I gestured toward the drawings.

”Grace,” I said. ”But not. Close, but never quite right.”

Aubrey nodded and pointed to the table before him.

”He's been reading up too,” he said.

”On?”

”Schizophrenia. Dementia. Compulsive personality disorders.” Aubrey c.o.c.ked his head, reading the t.i.tle of a book. ”Dream interpretation.”

The kitchen was a mess. Piles of old dishes teetered by the sink. The smell of spoiled food thickened. Dark brown beer bottles stood in uneven ranks on the countertop. A few had the labels picked off. One was broken. Out the back window, a small yard had been neatly kept not too long ago. I didn't see anyone back there. In the living room, Aubrey whistled low. When I got back, he was holding up an old-looking leather-bound book. The t.i.tle on the spine was worked-gold Gothic lettering and looked German to me.

”I've heard about this book, but I've never seen a copy,” Aubrey said. I stood beside him. The t.i.tle page sported a woodcut print that looked at first glance like a human form, until I noticed that all the parts-arms, legs, improbably oversized p.e.n.i.s-were also drawings of buildings and people, like one of those optical illusions where you could see something as either a face or a collection of objects. The t.i.tle was Der Korper und der Geist, and below that, in smaller, bright red letters: Ein Versuch auf dem verklemmten Leviathan.

”It belonged to the grandfather,” Aubrey said. ”His name's on the flyleaf.”

”Any idea what it says?”

”The t.i.tle translates to 'Body and Spirit,' but the subt.i.tle's new to me. Versuch is experiment or trial, but I think it can also mean essay. So, I guess an essay or an experiment of the something-or-other Leviathan?”

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