Doyle After Death (26 page)

The crack closed and sealed. The sky cleared, the clouds evaporating, but only over the circle enclosed by the walls of rain.

I tried to get up . . . but the pain was too much. Struggling at it, I managed to sit, hissing to myself with the lancing agony in my back, and watched as Doyle went to Touie. There was a hand-­width wound under her ribs, but it was not bleeding much.

Dole took off his coat and wrapped her in it, then sat beside her and picked her up in his arms, to cradle her.

She opened her eyes, seeming still half unconscious and dreamy. She smiled. “Why Arthur! Are you suddenly feeling romantic?”

I lay back down, and closed my eyes. I listened to the rain pouring down not far away—­and I sank into a trancelike doze . . .

H
ot day. But not too hot. Sun glancing off the windshield of my Gran Torino as I washed it. Was just finishing washing the car when Chino came strolling up. His feet, in red Converse sneakers, were sort of splayed, and he was chunky, but he was a bright, happy guy. He lived right around the corner. He had a crazily wide smile and long black hair held by a headband; his gut strained at a T-­shirt for the 13th Floor Elevators.

“Hey Nick, you coming? We're gonna go see the Flamin' Groovies!”

Chino liked sixties and seventies psychedelic bands.

“That band still around?” I asked, tossing a sponge into a bucket.

“Hell yeah, they're playing at a club down the street and you are legal to drink now, man!”

“What the fuck, Chino, let's do it, man!”

I called Luella, and she was always ready to go hear music. I had just gotten paid from working at the hardware store. So I cleaned up, dressed, then Chino and I got into my restored Gran Torino. We rode the wide suburban streets, listening to early Funkadelic on the stereo, and we picked up Luella.

Chino got in the backseat so she could sit with me. She had her left hand on my skinny thigh as I drove to the club. I felt like I was master of the world.

There were three bands. The Screaming Geezers, some band that claimed to be Moby Grape but probably wasn't really, and the old rockers in the Flamin' Groovies. They rocked, we danced, Chino got a plump girl who didn't speak much English to dance with him and give him her phone number . . . and then . . .

T
hen I woke up. The sunlight woke me.

Sunlight—­yet I could hear pouring rain. I sat up—­and felt only a little pain.

I was still in the Raining Lands within the circle of downpour . . . the clouds were around us . . .

But directly overhead was clear sky. Morning sun. I couldn't see the sun itself but its light penetrated to us.

Touie, wrapped in Doyle's coat, and Doyle, were both sitting up nearby. Touie was smiling. Doyle seemed emotionally weary.

“You guys okay?” I asked.

“We're very well,” Doyle responded. “ The sun has healed us. Take some of its energy, Fogg, do—­and we shall set out.”

D
oyle had collapsed the antenna, and now he carried it in the bag. He'd taken his coat back and given Touie his slicker.

I carried one of the lanterns. We abandoned the other. Then we stepped into the wall of rain, Doyle putting his coat over his head. We trudged through the rain, and up the path toward the rim of the canyon.

“Fogg,” Doyle said, after an hour, “did you notice those soul sparks over the ectoplasmic geyser?”

“Yeah.”

“They didn't seem to be truly in Long's control. They seemed . . . I had the impression something else had sent them.”

“There's something that can control those things?”

“Under certain conditions. Something or someone. Or both. But . . . it suggests that perhaps Long was not working entirely alone. In some ways he was. But . . . something, or someone, somewhere, may have been, ah, pulling the strings on him, so to speak.”

“Who?”

“I don't know. Not someone on our level. I don't wish to speculate. It might draw the wretched thing here. For now—­it is defeated . . .”

We lapsed into silence. The rain beat down.

A few miles farther, and Touie was slowing, sometimes stumbling—­Doyle perceived her bare feet were hurting and badly. He formulated some simple shoes for her, and they worked till we got through the Raining Lands.

We retraced our way up the steps, passing the “Doyle” golem—­Touie averted her eyes from it.

And at last we passed from the rain.

I was relieved to get out of the rain. I was as relieved as I'd ever been by anything in my life—­my Before life, or my afterlife.

On the way back through the long trail between the boulders, I saw they were stone heads quite clearly now. Occasionally they smirked at me.

“Oh, cut it out,” I told one.

“What's that, Fogg?”

“Those
heads.
” I swept my hand to indicate the boulders. “They're smirking at me.”

“Don't be absurd. Nothing of the sort. They're not heads and they can't smirk.” But he looked at the boulders in a troubled way.

It was dark when we got back to the remains of Roscoe Higgs. “Oh the poor man!” Touie said. We found Higgs's clothing and Touie took off the slicker, put the oversized clothing on. For a Victorian lady, it was better than nothing. She even put on his boots.

“You make quite the picture, my dear,” Doyle said.

“That'll do till we get home,” she said, laughing. She seemed strangely merry.

We trekked on and on, resting now and then. It was pitch-­dark, late, and we all wanted a drink when we reached Garden Rest. Suddenly, Touie came to a stop.

Doyle looked questioningly at her. “Do you need a rest, my dear?” Something in you could need a rest even when your afterbody didn't.

She shook her head.

Arthur,” Touie said suddenly. “I have something to tell you. And I wish to tell you now. I'm leaving you.”

 

SIXTEENTH

D
oyle and I were sitting around in their dining room, drinking brandy in the soft light. Louisa “Touie” Doyle had bathed and washed her hair and put it up in a simple way, and changed into a soft sun-­yellow housedress. She was having tea, herself.

“I know I must seem like such an ingrate, Arthur,” she said, putting her cup down on the saucer. “You came after me, you rescued me like a knight rescuing a princess. How like you! The author of
Sir Nigel
and
The White Company
! You always were a white knight. And I know I've always been under your protection.”

“I hardly know what to say,” Doyle said. He did seem confused—­his eyebrows bobbed up, first the left, then the right. He drank some more brandy.

“But you see, Arthur,” she continued, pouring herself another cup of tea, “When I realized it wasn't you, calling me to walk with him . . . when that golem thing wouldn't slow down, and I began to realize it wasn't you . . . why, I turned to run! The creature came after me, and, and knocked me down . . .”

“Long!” Doyle rumbled. “The cur!”

“Yes. It was his little toy, doing it to me,” Touie agreed, gazing up at the chandelier. “And then he was there himself. He stood over me, and told me he was going to destroy me, and send my soul wandering wildly among the forgetters and he wasn't sorry a bit. Then I seemed to see all my time with you—­the way they say someone sees their life pass before their eyes when they're about to die. And I knew I'd . . . forced myself on you. When you'd got here, I knew that Jean wasn't around . . .”

“My dear . . .”

“No, Arthur, let me finish. I did impose myself. I made you feel that you had abandoned me, somehow. Though really you nursed me quite diligently for years and years through the consumption. Then after our time, here in the afterworld, when I realized you were thinking about Jean again, I pretended . . . I am ashamed to say it . . .”

“You need not be ashamed of anything, Louisa.”

“Yes I do. I need to confess . . . if only to that chandelier.” She smiled mischievously. “And to you two! Arthur—­I pretended to be sick. Oh of course you know that. But I tried to make you think of me as you did when I was ill with the consumption. I wanted to bring out the physician in you, so you wouldn't leave me. And that was wrong. Why, Arthur—­I saw it all in that moment, before he struck me unconscious . . .”

“How did he do that?” I asked, as she paused.

“He struck me with a dark energy—­that's the only way I can describe it. And when his golem carried me off I had terrible dreams. And I didn't wake until the Scargel was consuming that villain . . . and then I saw the rest of it.”

“Touie,” Doyle pressed. “What was it you saw, in that moment?”

“I saw myself, Arthur! As I was—­and as I should be. I saw myself as I should have been, in the afterworld: heading out into the unknown! Finding my role in the universe! I'd been so dependent on you for my role. Now I will find myself, my place in the great theater of the afterlife. My own role . . .”

Doyle reached out and took her small hands in his big ones—­the way a brother would, I thought.

I figured I had to leave them to talk it over. So I said my good-­byes, shook hands with Doyle, and went back to Brummigen's bar.

When I got there, the major was just locking up.

“Uh-­uh, Major,” I said. “You're not locking up. Not if you want to hear the whole story. Let's go inside.”

So we did.

A
sparkling morning, a week later. In afterworld time.

I was walking along the beach holding hands with Fiona. That alone would have made it a good morning. But it was pretty out, too. The sun was making the low fog along the beach sparkle; it was bringing out the translucence of rose`-­wine in the tips of the waves on the Purple Sea.

I had new boots, and a new jacket, thanks to Deirdre. I'd used up the last of my Garden Rest money, but I didn't mind. I'd earn more, somehow, if I needed it.

Fiona and I walked happily along. I wondered, again, if I'd see Luella, someday, when she came over to this side. Or if I'd see Bettie Black. I hoped they were okay, in the Before.

Fiona and I had kissed the first time, the day before, as we admired the sunset over the hills.

I could still feel the kiss.

“You know,” I said. “That kiss, that first kiss . . . and the ones after it . . . those were some great kisses. I mean for me. I'm not saying they were great for you.”

“Are you fishing for compliments?”

“No, I'm giving you one. That was a cosmic kiss, Fiona.”

“Was it? Then I guess we don't have to go any farther than a kiss.” She smiled secretively and kicked at the sand with her bare toe. “If that was so cosmic.”

I didn't like the way this was going. “Well, of course, there's, uh, more than cosmic.” I scratched my head. “Is that possible?”

“Maybe. If I have time. I have so much to do . . . look here, for example. The painting I've done . . .”

We had come to something I hadn't seen before—­but then I hadn't walked far in this direction on the beach before.

It was a sprawling, one-­story Roman–style villa, just off the beach, standing unevenly amongst the overgrowth. Actually, it was the ruins of one . . . and it wasn't just Roman style. It was Roman.

“Romans who crossed over to the afterworld built this place about eighteen hundred years ago,” she said. “I've been restoring the paintings on it.”

“I knew you were arty—­didn't know you painted, too.”

“You're learning something new every day, detective.”

We went into the ruins—­the villa was missing its roof, but quite a bit of it was still standing, and there was a now dry fountain in the courtyard surrounded by plastered walls on which were colorful paintings of Romans hailing the sun—­a godlike face was looking down from within the pictured sun. “Apollo, I guess.”

“
Helios
is what the Romans called him. There's ancient Roman writing here. Doyle was able to read them.”

“Doyle! Oh, Conan Doyle doesn't know everything.”

“I suppose you caught Charles Long yourself.”

“He helped a little.”

She laughed. She was getting to know me, and knew I was kidding though I did it with a straight face.

We were still holding hands and she drew me into the next room of the crumbled villa.

It was a bedroom. On the walls were explicit erotic paintings. The ­people in them had impressive Roman noses and big eyes.

“Whoa. That's what you've been restoring?”

“Yes it is. Do you like it?”

“Sure! They're . . . inspiring!”

There was a brief silence as we gazed at the paintings. I didn't want to make assumptions, so I said, “I wonder what happened to the ­people who built the villa? I mean, ­people don't exactly die here . . .”

“They don't, exactly. Closest thing to it is what happened to Charles Long. The ­people moved on, Diogenes says. He knew them.”

“He knew them? Really. They got the . . . Summons?”

“Yes. Is this handholding all that's going to happen in here? You didn't notice those big cushions I put down over there, yesterday?”

I didn't need any more encouragement. I kissed her, and we went to the cushions.

I
t was getting close to sunset when we left the villa, a little rumpled, and walked back to her place. She had invited me to stay there for the night. I hoped the stay would last longer than that.

As we passed the path to Garden Rest, Arthur Conan Doyle and Diogenes came down the hill.

Doyle waved at us. Diogenes had his lantern, swinging by his side just now. Doyle had a pipe, trailing smoke.

Fiona stared at him big-­eyed. “Doyle—­what are you smoking?”

“Tobacco,” he said, as if it should be obvious. He grinned. “We found it, at last, growing in the woods. I followed a soul spark . . . it seemed to be urging me on. I feel sure it was Morgan Harris. A bit of gratitude. And there was a field of wild tobacco! It's a bit raw but I dried some and it's not bad as a pipe smoke!”

“Oh!” Fiona said. “Mr. Doyle!”

“Yes my dear. I
have
brought you some of the tobacco, dried.” He handed her a large envelope of loose leaf.

“Can we mix it with frip?” I asked. “Never liked tobacco much.”

“You can if you want,” she said, looking in the envelope. “This is lovely! Thank you, Mr. Doyle!”

“Tobacco's bad for you,” I said, keeping my straight face.

Fiona glared at me. “Not
here
it isn't.”

I kissed her, and hugged her to me.

Diogenes rolled his eyes. “If you are through with this vulgar display of pointless mating behavior, Doyle has something to tell you, Fogg.”

I drew away from Fiona and looked questioningly at Doyle. “Yes?”

He knocked the dottle from his pipe with the heel of his hand. “Yes! I've gotten another black butterfly from Jean. This was followed by a more detailed message—­she's learned how to transmit an afterworld phone message! It appears she's been contacting ­people on Earth. She's a spirit guide! You know, she went to hundreds of séances with me in the Before, so I shouldn't be surprised. And—­I'm going to see her! She's in a tower off to the Northeast. She hankers after me and I after her. Now that Touie has moved on . . . there's nothing to stop it. It's as if we had to go through that wait again in the afterworld, Jean and I . . .”

“Where's Touie gone?” I asked.

“Why, she got the Summons,” he said. Again, that touch of envy.

He turned to Diogenes. “I say—­is it a reflection on me? I mean—­my not getting the Summons?”

“In a way,” Diogenes said. “But it is not a judgment against you. It means you are needed here. Find your Jean, Doyle. Then return to Garden Rest. You are needed here. There is more for you to do. You and . . .” he looked at me. “Watson, here.”

Then Diogenes turned and walked slowly, serenely away. He soon vanished into the billowing fog.

The End