Уолтер Мосли - Blue Light

“Has she been seen by a doctor?” George Clemmens asked the agents.

Neither Briggs nor Bonhomme would answer.

“Have you seen a doctor?” the prosecutor asked Claudia.

Claudia went from nausea to a bright smile in an instant.

“Of course,” she said, not to Clemmens’s question. “I’m pregnant, and all the power has gone to nourish them.”

“Excuse me?”

“Leave me,” Claudia commanded, a goddess again. “I must rest.”

“Mrs. Zimmerman—” George Clemmens said.

“Leave me.”

“Come on, George.” Bonhomme patted the lawyer on the back. He was smiling. “Let’s leave her to boil in her own soup.”

The indictment was easy to obtain. Claudia Heart refused to recognize the court or to speak to the attorney that the court appointed. She didn’t mind the jail cell or the green-and-white striped dress she was given to wear.

George Clemmens asked for an extension to prepare his case and was granted six weeks. In the meantime, Bonhomme and Briggs plotted with ex-Detective Barber to find the whereabouts of Winch Fargo.

Gerin Reed was already under arrest and being held on various charges, including the unlawful detainment of his wife. Robert Halston also awaited trial. Bonhomme had Mackie Allitar transferred from the prison infirmary, where he was dying, to a secured room in the city hospital in Sacramento.

“It was all me by then, Chance,” Miles Barber said. “That bitch had scared all of them. The men that had been her studs were dying. All of Allitar’s friends were already dead. All they had left was Allitar, Reed, Heart, and Halston. They had them together for a trial that would never be, but I knew that Gray Man would be there if Heart was. I knew it.”

He sounded like a good cop on the trail of an exceptionally hard-to-catch crook. But the sweat on his face and the glaze on his one eye told me that all he’d really felt was fear. He was compelled to hunt. Compelled by his previous life. He couldn’t help himself, and so he created a lie and a false faith. He had convinced himself that he could conquer Death — but somewhere, just below the surface, he knew that it was all a lie.

Miles Barber fooled himself that he was the puppet master, that the forces brought together were working for him. But much more than he knew was to unfold.

Nesta Vine had read an article in the San Francisco Chronicle about Claudia Zimmerman and her arrest. Even though the journalist, or her editor, played down the power that Zimmerman’s followers claimed she had, Nesta felt something from the article, from the words that were missing. She went to visit the lovelorn remnants of the commune in the Haight. The empty structure, which was once a small appliance store, was filthier than the worst crash pad or drug den. The members at first glance seemed as if they might be related. But it was the glassy eyes and emaciated bodies that made them kindred. They lived on corn bread mix and beer. Not one of them ever ventured farther than the supermarket. They didn’t bathe or groom, speak or dream. All they did was huddle together in threes and fours in the low, dark room.

“What’s wrong with you?” Nesta asked a small cluster of forlorn lovers.

“Just sad,” one of them said.

“We’ll be better soon,” another added.

One doe-eyed and acned acolyte looked up and said, “She said that we had to wait until she came back. But that means she’s comin’ back, don’t it?”

On the upper floor Nesta found three bodies that had been piled in a closet. It was the closest thing to a burial that the love cult members could muster.

“They’re dead.” The woman’s voice startled Nesta.

“Who are you?” Nesta asked, addressing the darkness of the larger room.

A young woman came from the gloom. Her large eyes and slender form marked her as a member of the cult, but she seemed to have more life to her.

“I’m Trini.” The girl spoke clearly but slowly.

“What happened here?”

“Without Miss Heart they don’t wanna live,” Trini said. “She was all they wanted and now she’s gone.”

“Why didn’t the reporter write about this? Why haven’t the police come?” Nesta found her humanity pulsing in the wake of this destructive blue light.

“They been gettin’ worse. At first they was just sad, but now it got worse and they started to die.” Trini was a white girl. Nesta classified her accent as coming from Tennessee.

“Why aren’t you sad, Trini?”

“I am. Just not so sad. She balled all’a them. But she said that I was her special girl ’cause’a how it was when I was a girl back home. I crashed here with my boyfriend, Lloyd. He’s in there.” Trini looked at the six bare feet sticking out of the closet door. “But she liked me. Every morning she’d give me a French kiss and I’d follah her just like a dog. And when she left I was sad, but not like everybody else.”

Nesta was sure then that the woman who’d abandoned the commune was her sister in blue light. The notion disgusted her.

“Come with me, Trini.”

“Where to?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

“Okay.”

Miles Barber thought that he was pulling the strings when he was no more than a tick grasping on to a lion’s mane.

The deficient Blue, the dog, and Death all converged on the state capitol for their own special reasons.

Gray Man bit on a bath towel in the Transient Hotel, eleven blocks from the state building where the prisoners were being held. The fires still burned in him, pained him. Redwood had transferred into his fiber all her placid memories of water and light coming together — life. This light heightened the death god’s senses and his pain. Gray Man felt two Blues, maybe three, maybe four, barely a mile away. He had come to kill them, but somehow the perception of their strong blue light brought even more pain. Life was trying to grow in him even though Horace had finally dissipated and gone.

If he closed his eyes, he could see it like a brilliant red-and-blue tumor growing inside. He conjured up an army of maggots to eat away the fibrous heart. They set at it, gnawing and squirming, but then flew outward, having become crystal-winged butterflies. Gray Man sent sharp flying blades to lacerate the flesh and sinew. But the rich blood flowed out as flowers that fell to the ground and grew.

Gray Man opened his eyes and bit his towel. He took a step toward the door but fell to the floor, moaning.

Winch Fargo walked, on faltering feet, the length of the 700 block of Proctor. His body caught between the music of love and death. The closer Winch got to one, the other one seemed to wane. He’d get to the end of the block and then, feeling the fading of light at his back like the cool breeze from a dark closet, turn to follow that.

Back and forth Winch Fargo staggered, between love and death. His skin was rough and burned from the desert sun and wind. His found pants were too short, revealing thin ankles — one of which was bruised and bloody from its manacle. The overcoat he wore was too warm, with sleeves that went down well below his fingertips.

His senses were assailed by the murmurs of dreams that the people walking by had had in the past few days. Snatches of serene beaches on crisp, cold mornings, of rude rituals, and of sex — not the act of sex, but the feeling of it in their chests and arms and genitals. He eavesdropped not only on human dreams but also on the feral dreaming of cats and rats and dogs. His mind fluttered with the insanity of fleeing birds and the complex geometric flight patterns of flies. Winch Fargo’s perception surpassed animal life and went into the deep serenity of the granite beneath his feet and the confusion of bricks, seeking only dissolution.