I must have lost consciousness for a time, because when next I looked about, the army had withdrawn, leaving behind their scorched and crumpled casualties. Painfully, I struggled to my feet, and as I leaned against the door, trying to get my bearings, to decipher the patterns of moonlight and shadow that lay across the entryway, the lights went on, confusing me for an instant. Standing at the top of the stairs were Amorise and Joan Gwynne, both dressed in nightgowns. At the bottom of the stair, his back to the banister, was Carl McQuiddy, wearing black slacks and turtleneck. He offered me an amused smile. Amorise, too, smiled, but it was an expression of pure triumph. Joan appeared upset.
“That was epic, David,” said Amorise. “Truly entertaining.”
The workings of my mind were clumsy, impaired, and I could only stare at the three of them, though I felt anger pressing against the fogginess that hampered my thoughts, like a dome of heat bulging up from some buried molten turbulence. Then Amorise drew Joan into a kiss, one almost as deep as that she had given her on stage at the Martinique, and the anger broke through, not clearing my head but seeming to irradiate the fog.
“And, of course, your machines are delightful,” Amorise said, breaking from the kiss. “Such a wonderful imagery. I imagine it must be strange for you to be attacked by them. Rather like old friends turning traitor.”
I tried to speak, but succeeded only in making a strangled noise. McQuiddy chuckled and said to Amorise, “I don’t think he’s up to a conversation.”
“Fuck you!” I said.
“Well, we don’t really have much to say to one another, anyway.” Amorise took Joan’s hand and they descended partway down the stairs. “David knows what he has to do…don’t you, David?”
“I’m not going to do anything for you,” I told her. “And there’s nothing you can do to make me.”
“I don’t know,” Amorise said. “I might find a way. You tried to assault me at the club. You stole from my locker at Emerald Street. Now you’ve broken into my home and destroyed considerable of my property. Those are serious charges. What will you say in your defense? That I’ve kissed the soul of a poet dead these six hundred years into your body? That won’t gain you much credence.”
“I have a witness who’ll back me up,” I said. “John Wooten.”
“Oh, I don’t think you can count on John,” McQuiddy said. “He was extremely distressed by the way you spoke to him earlier today.”
That they had been privy to my private communications did not surprise me, but McQuiddy’s assured demeanor was unnerving.
“You don’t have any friends, David,” Amorise said. “You offend everyone who tries to befriend you. No one cares about you. In fact, they’d love to see you fall.”
I was beginning to regain control of my body, to be more aware of my surroundings. The chandelier that lit the entryway applied a high gloss to McQuiddy’s forehead and put glittering points in the eyes of the two women.
“You did this!” I said to Amorise. “It’s not me.”
“Did I?” Amorise laughed. “The anger, the disdain for others…they’ve always been part of you. You were the perfect subject.”
“Actually,” McQuiddy said, “I think it’s a distinct improvement. At least the bastard will serve some purpose now.”
His smile acted on me like a goad, and I sprinted toward him. He flicked out a macroweb, but the strands dissolved as they touched me, and I knocked him off-balance with a glancing blow to the cheek. He recovered quickly and reached into his trouser pocket—for another weapon, I assumed. Before he could withdraw his hand, I struck him hard in the neck with my fist, and then again flush on the jaw. He fell backward, cracking his head on the banister, and went down. I stood over him, waiting for him to stand. His eyes were open, lips parted. Dark blood was pooling beneath his head, spreading across the marble floor. I knew he was dead, but I hunkered down beside him anyway and touched my fingers to his throat, hoping to detect a pulse. Yet at the same time I exulted in the death of my old tormentor, Tacque Thibault.
“Oh, David! What will you do now?”
Amorise was pointing a small caliber automatic with a chrome finish at me. Joan stood at her shoulder, her expression horrified.
“You can wait for the police here if you like,” said Amorise. “Or if you prefer, you can make a run for it. But I can guarantee that the authorities will meet you at the ferry dock.”
I wiped my fingers on my slacks to clean them of McQuiddy’s blood and glared hatefully at her.
“There’s something you may want to factor in to your decision,” said Amorise, descending the stair—she gestured at me to move away from McQuiddy and I complied, retreating to the door. “Running will certainly lend the appearance of guilt. If you stay, you might be able to justify a plea of self-defense. Of course the validity of such a plea will depend upon my testimony. And I’m certain I’ll be too distraught for several days to be clear on the details of what has happened here. Perhaps in the interim, you’ll consider how you might influence my decision.”
Once again I was astonished by the neatness of her scheme. I recalled Villon’s fragmentary history, how he had been charged with murder and released once it was established that he had acted in self-defense. Had he begun writing “The Testament” while incarcerated, and changed his mind after his release? So I suspected, and I suspected further that Amorise had been instrumental in obtaining that release, and that when he had failed to complete the Text, she had subsequently managed to have him indicted for another capital crime, which she then managed to have commuted. She was duplicating those events to a nicety. The Sublime Act was halfway to being complete.
“For example,” Amorise went on, “I might testify that I’d been having difficulty with your machines and called you here to make some adjustments. I might say that poor Carl had tampered with the machines with the idea of killing you. He has a history of enmity with you. You caught him in the act of sabotage. He attacked you and you defended yourself. Who knows what his specific motives might have been? An emotional entanglement, perhaps. It’s well known that he was attracted to Joan.”
I tried to catch Joan’s eye. Concern was written in her face, but she refused to look at me. I believed she wanted to help me, but could not, being under Amorise’s thrall.
Amorise kneeled beside McQuiddy and to my surprise, still pointing the gun at me, she kissed him on the mouth. She closed her eyes, as if savoring the kiss, and then smiled as if enjoying a subtle aftertaste. The kiss had been brief, not at all like the one she had given me at Emerald Street. I imagined the soul must quit the body more readily than it entered, and that McQuiddy’s sour scrap of vitality now was lodged in some secret cavity within Amorise’s flesh.