Caroline Spector - Worlds Without End

There were other items as well: suspicious bones, the source of which I knew only too well. How had they come to this place again? And so obviously long ago.

There was also a small painting depicting a crea- ture I knew for a fact had not walked the face of this planet for at least seven thousand years. Yet here it was depicted in a piece that could not have been more than fifty years old.

I wrapped my treasures carefully and returned them to their innocuous hiding places.

I felt grimy and hungry all at once. It was almost five by Hyslop's grandfather clock. I pulled the chain to the light, then shut the closet door. It had an automatic lock, but I still jiggled the doorknob to see if it would open. It didn't.

On the whole, things were going well. I would have Hyslop crate everything up and ship it to my estate in Scotland. I'd already made the necessary arrangements with Customs^ so there would be little delay in my receiving them once I was back home. I felt quite smug and pleased with myself and de- cided that I needed a decadent dinner to celebrate. I picked up the phone on Hyslop's desk and made a reservation for one at Antoine's for eight o'clock. I would feast tonight.

Walking back to the Fairmont, I noticed a van parked on a comer of one of the side streets I passed. It was painted dull black and had reflector stick-on numbers on the back window: 666. I glanced inside the van as I passed. A man, about forty-five or — six with a scraggly beard, sat in the passenger-side seat. He had a large potbelly barely covered by a faded- gray T-shirt. Around his neck he wore a pentagram. I had obviously just seen-Satan's Van.

Uh oh, I thought. I better watch out because someone is going to come and carry me off in… Satan's Van. The Armageddon starts tonight be- cause-Satan's Van is in town. Oh, you better watch out, you better not cry, 'cause Satan's got his Van to- night. Satan's Van is coming to town.

I really needed dinner.

Antoine's was unchanged. I'd been coming there for years whenever I was in New Orleans. I knew it was a bit touristy, but I couldn't help myself. They had the most marvelous Baked Alaska.

The elderly maitre d' seated me at a small table in the front room. Like the rest of the buildings in the Quarter, Antoine's was made up of many rooms. People came through the front doors and disap- peared like they were going down Alice's rabbit hole. There was even a hidden door or two in the place.

I'd just ordered and was admiring myself in the mirror over my table when I saw him. The black T-shirt from the airport. Only he wasn't wearing a black T-shirt now. He never would have been al- lowed inside in that. He wore a black jacket over a white shirt and muddy green tie. The jeans had been set aside for dark trousers.

I didn't take my eyes away from his image in the mirror as he talked to the mattre d' for a moment, then walked toward me. I couldn't believe his brass.

"Dinner for one?" he asked. "That seems a lonely proposition."

"I like it," I said as I turned toward him. "And who the hell are you?"

"Ah," he said. "Well that's not as interesting as «who the hell you are."

"Look," I said, beginning to get impatient. "I don't know anything about you except that I saw you at O'Hare-and now you pop up here acting as though you know me. I don't like mysteries or peo- ple who think they're being clever when in fact they're just annoying."

He pulled out a chair and sat down opposite me.

"You haven't been invited," I said, frowning. "Go away."

"Now, now," he said. His voice had the faint twinge of British lower-class to it. "Someone your age shouldn't get so excited. It might not be good for your health."

I looked around for the mattre d', but he was talk- ing to a new group who'd just arrived.

"I must say, you look awfully good for someone who's at least five hundred years old by my calcula- tions."

He had my attention.

I looked at him carefully. He was working far too hard at being nonchalant. There was a telltale shine to his upper lip, and I could hear the dry click of his throat as he swallowed. Whatever he knew, it wasn't as much as he wanted to let on.

The waiter came with my soup. Vichyssoise. Thick and heavy with cream. He looked inquiringly at my new companion.

"Be so kind as to bring my friend here the same," I said. The waiter nodded and went away.

"What's that?" Black T-shirt asked.

"Vichyssoise," I replied.

He looked blank.

"Cold potato soup," I said.

He wrinkled his nose.

"Beggars can't be choosers and neither can you." I leaned back and studied him. This seemed to make him preening and nervous at the same time. "What's your name?"

"John Mortimer."

"And what precisely is it you want of me, Mr. Mortimer?"

He leaned forward, I resisted the urge to do so also. Habits die hard.

"I want to know the secret," he said. "I want to know how to be immortal."

"What on earth makes you think I'm immortal?". I asked.

He got a big grin. It was toothy and surprisingly 1 | sweet. I almost liked him for that smile. |

"It started out by accident about four years ago," he began. "I was doing some research after reading] an article in the newspaper." He pulled a small, yel- lowed newspaper clipping from his pocket. The headline read: Mystery Buyer Purchases Earldom for $700,000. I glanced over the article. It pretty much gave the dry facts of my acquisition of the Earldom of Arran. Everything except my identity, which I'd had them keep quiet.

"What has this to do with me?" I asked, handin| the clipping back.

"You bought it," he said.

"And what makes you think that?"

"I like computers," he said. "I'm quite good wit them. Every aspect. Programming, hardware-yc name it. It's just this knack I have. Well, for son reason this article caught my attention. So I got c the Web and started trying to find out what I couM about this mystery buyer. But pretty much every-1 thing after you bought the place was under deep| wraps. Oh, I know all about the history of the place| That earldom was created in 1503 by King James IV | 154

The title is linked to the land instead of by blood. All that stuff. History is easy enough to find out.

"But about the new buyer-bloody nothing. That got me curious. Who would want so much privacy and why? So I started contacting other Net surfers in Scotland and eventually I came up with a few who knew all about the island. They were day workers hired to refurbish the house the new owner would be occupying.

"That's when I found out about you. It was quite a stir you being, well, not white. I even got along so well with my Scottish connection that they invited me for a visit. You were off on one of your myste- rious trips. Everyone who worked for you always talked about your trips.

"So I went to visit my friends, and they showed me around the castle and the grounds. You've done a wonderful job keeping up the place. By the way."

I snorted and went back to eating my soup. The waiter came and placed a bowl in front of him. He frowned slightly at it, then took up his spoon and gave the soup a small taste. Apparently it was to his liking, for I got no more of his tale until he had fin- ished the whole bowl.

"I never would have thought cold potato soup could taste so good," he said as he wiped his mouth.

"The things you leam every day," I murmured.

"So, as my hosts were showing me around, I began to notice a couple of things. There was all this °ld stuff around, but not all of it seemed to belong Asre, if you know what I mean. Not the usual rich collections of plates, clocks, and the like. No, your choices were so much more-peculiar.

"But the thing that got me most excited was this picture of you. A painting, I mean. Paul-that's the friend who I was staying with-had gone off to the bathroom and he left me alone in your study. There was a photo of you and some guy on your desk. Then noticed a stack of paintings against one wall. I flipped through them and came across this portrait.