Horace’s heart fluttered when he heard the door open. He reached for his weapon and held his breath. Somewhere in the back of his mind he railed against killing this man. But it was already too late. There was only one way out of that room.
He waited a few minutes and then rose. He couldn’t see Prescott above the pots and pans, so he went down the aisle, looking. In the fourth aisle he saw the small white man. He was squatting down as Horace had done. His back was partly turned, but Horace could still see what he was up to.
Prescott was down on one knee masturbating, making little grunting sounds.
Horace knew what was going on. Prescott had a cellmate and was too shy to be heard enjoying a little jack-off. It was a pleasure to get alone and make some noise, maybe even call out the pinup’s name.
“Oh, yeah!” Prescott moaned.
Then the knife-sharpening rod cracked his skull open.
Horace tried to stop thinking about it. He actually got out of prison and collected $2,500 from Beldin Starr. Starr said that he had used the rest for the lawyer.
Horace didn’t argue about the money. He couldn’t sleep for weeks without thinking about the sound when he cracked open Prescott’s head. He just wanted to spend a few moments with a whore without thinking about Prescott’s last orgasm.
Finally he just wanted his fix. A little brown powder, and he was all right. He was just fine.
“Mr. Redstar,” Joclyn whispered. “Mr. Redstar.”
Horace opened his eyes to see the dark young woman. It was morning, and Horace was happy that he’d awakened in his own body.
“Mr. Redstar, are you okay?”
“My name ain’t Redstar,” the dead man uttered. “Not Redstar. LaFontaine. Horace LaFontaine.”
“That was old Miss Elza’s maiden name,” Joclyn said. “LaFontaine.”
“You knew Elza?”
“She used to own this house and she rented out rooms. She rented to my uncle, but she was already real sad because her husband died and her brother disappeared. My uncle took care’a her and when she died, she left the buildin’ to him.” Joclyn reached out to touch Horace’s tear. “Were you related to her? You know Miss Brown across the street says that you look a lot like Miss Elza’s brother, but she knows that that couldn’t be because he had bad cancer and even though he disappeared, he’d have to be dead by now.”
“I am her brother, Joclyn. But I’m somebody else too.”
“Huh?”
Horace felt stronger in the morning. But the task of telling his story seemed impossible.
“Do you believe in the devil, Joclyn?”
“I don’t know. I guess I do. I mean there sure is a lotta evil, and I cain’t see where it makes no real sense.”
“The devil is in me, girl. He’s in me.” Horace lifted his right hand and tapped the fingertips against his chest. “Right in here.”
“Uh-huh.” She nodded but still looked unconvinced.
“Did you hear about what happened in the park in Berkeley yesterday?” he asked.
“You mean the killin’s?”
“Look in the bottom drawer, honey,” Horace said. “Look in the bottom drawer down there.”
Joclyn went to the dresser and pulled open the bottom drawer. She took out the bundle of clothes. Horace turned his head to watch as she unfurled the trench coat. She gasped when she saw the bloody jacket and pants, the shoes covered in dried gore. Then she looked up at him and slowly rerolled the parcel. She stood up with the armful and left without saying another word.
“Mr. Redstar. Are you awake?”
It was night again and Horace felt almost strong enough to sit up. Joclyn was sitting on the bed beside him.
“How are you?” she asked.
All day he had been dozing, coming awake at every sound, expecting the police to come. Horace thought that it would hurt Gray Man’s pride so much to be jailed that he might die, or kill himself, from the humiliation. But they hadn’t come.
“What happened?” he asked the girl.
“I burnt your clothes in the backyard. You don’t have to worry.”
“You what? Why?”
“You were just sick, Mr. Redstar. That’s all. But now you’re okay. I’ll take care of you. You don’t have to be scared. They said on the radio about them killin’s, but nobody knows what really happened. All I know is that you couldn’t have done it. You ain’t even strong enough to pick me up. You just got confused, Mr. Redstar. You just thought you did bad ’cause you was there an’ saw all that blood.” She had taken his hand in both of hers. She had dry hands, working hands.
Horace forgot about Gray Man for the first time since his resurrection. He was thinking that no one had ever loved him outside his mother and sister. He felt a tear run down to his nose. Joclyn, smiling, brushed it off with her hard fingertip.
“I ain’t gonna give you up, Mr. Redstar.”
At that moment Gray Man came awake deep down in Horace’s mind. He rose quickly to the surface, pushing Horace aside.
“Mr. Redstar?” Joclyn asked, seeing a change in his face.
Gray Man sat up and reached out for the girl.
Watch your little toy die, Horace, Gray Man thought. He put his hand on Joclyn’s neck and smiled.
No.
Gray Man’s smile turned to puzzlement.
“What’s wrong, Mr. Redstar?” Joclyn asked.
No.
Gray Man tried to increase his pressure but could not. Horace tried to make him put down his hand, but that too failed.
“Are you okay?” Joclyn wanted to know.
Let her be, devil, Horace cried.
Do you think you can order me?
I think that Joclyn’s a friend and I’ll fuck you up if you thinkin’ ’bout messin’ around. Horace felt his mind inhabiting the same body as Gray Man. He knew that the devil was still weak, still recovering from his fight with the old lady. He was risking his own life by trying to kill the girl.
“I have to go,” Gray Man said to Joclyn.
“But you’re sick.”
“I have to go away for a while. I have to go but I’ll come back soon.” He took his hand away from her throat and smiled. “Go on now, let me get dressed.”
When she had gone Horace let out a shout of life in the chambers of the death master’s mind.
Fourteen
Nesta Vine returned to the Bay Area four days after the massacre in the park. She went back to her grandparents’ house and was met at the front door by a familiar-looking black woman, somewhere in her forties.
“Yes?” the small woman asked of the girl.
“Who are you?” Nesta asked.
“Renee Ferris.”
Renee Ferris, of course, Nesta thought. Renee was from a group of her mother’s cousins who lived down near La Jolla. She hadn’t seen Renee since she was a child. And Renee would never recognize her, because Nesta had become the image in the mirror. Taller and jet black with bigger feet. Her hair had taken on a coarse straw color and her eyes were bright amber. Her face, which was once round and sad, had lengthened and thinned.
“What are you doing here?” Nesta asked Renee.
“Say what, child? Who are you?”
“Oh,” Nesta said, remembering herself. “I’m sorry, ma’am. My name is Ebony, Nesta’s friend from Back East.”
“Oh. Oh.” Mrs. Ferris looked down the stairs and then up the street. “Is Nesta here?”