Marc Zicree - Angelfire

She turned her head enough to see me, but her eyes met mine only for an instant. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand. You’re not cynical enough.”

“Oh, yes. I’m such an idealist, such a Pollyanna. Always, the rose-colored glasses.”

“You are an idealist. You see people the way they want you to see them. You buy their hype.”

“Ah. Do I?”

She sat up straighter and met my eyes. “You do. It’s an endearing quality, Viktor, but stupid, and will probably someday get you killed. And it’s not just you. Goldie is hot for that cute little flare, and Cal’s hot for the Source, and he looks at Mary McCrae as if she were… I don’t know, Joan of Arc and Mother Teresa rolled into one. Somebody has to keep a straight head.”

“And that would be you, yes?”

“Somebody has to.”

“And how do you see them, boi baba ?”

“As they are. I see them as they are.”

“Vitsishye glaz choozhoi da nyeh vidishyeh svoy,” I said. “What?”

“A proverb of old Russian grandmothers: ‘The eye that sees all things sees not itself.’ ”

“Yeah, well, I know a few proverbs myself, like: ‘Trust no one.’ And: ‘If something seems too good to be true, it probably is.’ ”

“Ah. And I suppose it’s because you are such an untrusting person that you are marching off into the heart of darkness with the rest of us?”

“I’m marching into the heart of darkness, as you put it, because it improves the odds. I’m not good with people, Doc, but I’ve got damn good survival skills, which have really come in handy lately, wouldn’t you say?”

She was right, of course. She had skills that very much increased the odds of Cal getting where he needed to go and doing what he needed to do. I could not help but contrast them with my own, which were conspicuously lacking.

Even Colleen’s dream had reminded her of something that now might be of use. It had reminded me only of a lesson I had learned most recently from my failure at the mill-that while I might be an asset in a medical emergency, I could be a liability when the goal was simple survival. An unpleasant truth. And despite Colleen’s belief to the contrary, my glasses were not rose-colored enough to disguise it.

CAL

I’m no entertainment lawyer, but legalese is legalese, and the intent of the contract was crystal clear. It relieved Enid Blindman of a great deal of personal control over his career and the music it rode in on.

The parties named in the contract were Enid himself (hereafter referred to as “the Artist”), Howard Russo (hereafter referred to as “Management”), and Primal Records (hereafter referred to as “Primal Records”).

Stripped of that squishy outer skin that legal jargon provides, the stipulations were draconian: the Artist was not to perform his music except with the express written consent of Management. Outside of Primal Studios, he could only record it by “special arrangement” with Management and Primal Records. And heaven help the poor fan who bought a bootleg tape or CD.

All in all, it was a fabric I was more than familiar with. I had constructed contracts like it with my own two hands and glibly defended their provisions, trying to be worthy of Ely Stern’s regard. The thought turned my stomach and made my skin itch. I recalled that Tina’s skin had itched while she was changing.

If there were a God, I’d pray that He let me redeem myself in some way before I mutated into something in keeping with my occupation. Alas, alas for you, lawyers and Pharisees . If I changed right now, I might end up as a viper with good intentions.

I gave the contract a second thorough reading, underlined a few clauses, jotted a few notes, then sat back and stretched, aimlessly clicking the point of my pen in and out. It was late… or early, depending on how you looked at it. The Lodge’s roomy lounge was quiet except for the snap and crackle of the fire in the grate. Beyond the aura of the lamp, it was swathed in moody but comforting shadow.

Mary had gone up to bed, Colleen and Doc were curled up in opposing chairs on either side of the fire. They seemed in emotional opposition just now, too. It bothered me-the strange static between the two of them. But I couldn’t afford the head space at the moment to worry it or puzzle it out. Later, I told myself. Later, I’d talk to Colleen.

Enid was drowsing, too, his breathing labored, his lanky frame draped over one end of the rustic plaid sofa. Magritte had fallen asleep and come to rest on the sofa’s lumpy padding, her head in Enid’s lap. Goldie was hunkered down at the fireplace, trying to make coffee.

I had contemplated putting this off until I’d had some sleep, but it was hard to look at Enid and imagine sleeping. In all probability I wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway until I’d at least gotten a handle on the legal issues. There was a mystical part of me that hoped I might ingest the contents of Enid’s contract while my very literal consciousness was half asleep, then digest it while I was fully asleep.

Maybe, I told myself, half seriously, I would dream the answer. My dreams had not been terribly productive lately, although they were predictable. Inevitably, I would find myself in a maze that seemed to be made of wet or oily glass. The maze was dark and full of cryptic, disturbing sounds that shredded the senses. Its thick walls seemed to ripple and pulse as if alive.

I always started out leading Goldie, Doc, and Colleen through the maze, while I whispered or shouted, “Follow me!” at intervals. But at some point I’d turn around and realize they were no longer behind me. I could only hear their voices, nearly buried in all the other voices and sounds. They’d call my name and plead with me to find them, but the walls of the maze closed in and the glistening corridors went on and on, and though I turned this way and that, I never came any closer to finding anyone.

In the past few nights a new element had entered the nightmare: through the translucent walls of this stygian fortress, I could see a vague, glowing form. It seemed to shadow me as I searched, becoming clearer and closer. At length I would see that it was a flare, and that the flare was Tina. I would throw myself at the glass, trying to break it, while she pressed herself against it as if, like light, she might pass through.

The dream would end with us face-to-face, separated by viscous, cold translucence. Her face was a wraith-blur behind the glass, pale and distorted. Her eyes were no more than deep smudges of shadow, and though her mouth moved, it was the others I heard, still crying out to me to find them.

“ ‘Earth control to Major Tom,’ ” Goldie sang, practically in my ear.

My weary nerves failed to leap. “Hey,” I said.

“You’ve been suspiciously sphinxlike for a very long time. Anything?”

“Goldie, I’m not even sure what I’m looking for.”

“I believe ‘legal loophole’ is the operative term.”

“What good would a legal loophole do? This thing’s not operating in the same continuum it was written in.”

“Ah, yes, and…” He perched on the corner of the little table, rocking it. “… if the contract is tweaked, then any loopholes in it would be tweaked, too, right?”

I laughed. “You’re trying to apply logic to the situation?” “Meaning Goldie doesn’t do logic or logic doesn’t apply?” “Meaning, logic doesn’t necessarily apply.”

“Yeah, but I’ll bet twisted logic does.”

He had a point. I gave my faltering attention back to the contract, smoothing the paper. My fingertips left a smear of pale violet light across the page.