Darwinia

“I feel the loss of him every day. Of course I know it.”

“Then you have a funny way of grieving.” Alice stood up, not concealing her anger. “Who told you you were special, Caroline? Was it Liam? I suppose he treated you that way, walled you up in his big Boston house, the suffering orphan. But everyone lost someone that night, some more than their parents… some of us lost everything we loved, every person and every place, sons, daughters, brothers, sisters, and some of us didn’t have wealthy relations to dry our eyes and servants to make our comfortable beds.”

“Unfair!”

“We don’t get to make the rules, Caroline. Only keep them or break them.”

“I won’t be a widow for the rest of my life!”

“Probably not. But if you had any sense of decency at all you might think twice before conducting an affair with a man who helped murder your husband.”

Chapter Seventeen

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”

The voice seemed to condense out of the tavern air, smoky, liquid, and ingratiating. But it wasn’t a message Vale wanted to hear. How best to sum up his response?

Be succinct, he thought. “Please fuck off.”

A figure took the stool beside him. “That’s not called for, is it? Really, don’t mind me, Elias. I’m only here to chat.”

Groaning, he turned his head. “Do I know you?”

The man was tall. He was also suave, carefully dressed, and handsome. Though perhaps not as handsome as he seemed to think, flashing those horsey white teeth like beacon lights. Vale guessed he was twenty-two, twenty-three — young, and far too confident for his age.

“No, you don’t know me. Timothy Crane.”

Hand like a piano player’s. Long bony fingers. Vale ignored it. “Fuck off,” he repeated.

“Elias, I’m sorry, but I have to talk to you whether you like it or not.” The accent was New England, maddeningly aristocratic.

“Who are you, one of the Sanders-Moss nephews?”

“Sorry. No relation. But I know who you are.” Crane leaned closer. Dangerously close. His breath tickled the fine hair on Vale’s right ear. “You’re the man who speaks to the dead.”

“I’m the man who would like to convince you to fuck off.”

“The man who has a god inside him. A painful and demanding god. At least if it’s anything like mine.”

Crane had a cab waiting at the curb. Jesus Christ, Vale thought, What now? He had the blurred sensation of events accelerating beyond his comprehension. He gave the cabbie his home address and settled in next to this grinning jackanapes.

It had been a quiet autumn, a quieter winter. The gods followed their own agenda, Vale supposed, and although the game with Eugene Randall had not played itself out — there had been two more séances, to no visible effect — the resolution seemed comfortably distant. Vale had even entertained the wistful notion that his god might be losing interest in him.

Apparently not.

The chatty Mr. Crane shut up in the presence of the driver. Vale tried to force himself sober — braced his shoulders, frowned and blinked — as the taxi crawled past electric light standards, globes of ice suspended in the frigid night. Washington winters weren’t supposed to be so cruel.

They arrived eventually at Vale’s town house. The street was quiet, all windows primly dark. Crane paid the cabbie, removed two immense suitcases from the vehicle, lugged them through Vale’s front door, and dropped them insolently next to the umbrella stand.

“Staying a while?”

“Afraid so, old chap.”

Old chap? Preserve me, Vale thought. “Do we have that much to talk about?”

“Lots. But it can wait until morning. Suppose you get a good night’s sleep, Elias. You’re really in no condition. We can discuss this when we’re both more refreshed. Don’t worry about me! I’ll curl up on the sofa. No formalities between us.”

And damned if he didn’t stretch out on the velvet settee, still smiling.

“Look here. I’m too tired to throw you out. If you’re still here in the morning—”

“We’ll talk about it then. Fine idea.”

Vale threw up his hands and left the room.

Morning arrived, for Elias Vale, just shy of noon.

Crane was at the breakfast table. He had showered and shaved. His hair was combed. His shirt was crisp. He poured himself a cup of coffee.

Vale was faintly aware of the stale sweat cooking out of his own clogged pores. “How long do you imagine you’re staying?”

“Don’t know.”

“A week? A month?”

Shrug.

“Maybe you’re not aware of this, Mr. Crane, but I live alone. Because I like it that way. I don’t want a houseguest, even under these, uh, circumstances. And frankly, nobody asked me.”

“Not their style, is it?”

The gods, he meant.

“You’re saying I have no choice?”

“I wasn’t offered one. Toast, Elias?”

Two of us, Vale thought. He hadn’t anticipated that. Though of course it made sense. But how many more god-stricken individuals were out there walking the streets? Hundreds? Thousands?

He folded his hands. “Why are you here?”

“The eternal question, isn’t it? I’m not sure I know. Not yet, at least. I gather you’re meant to introduce me around.”