Daniel unfurled his blackout blinds just in time to head off dawn’s feeble smirk behind the Cascades. He had to find and block the few occasional flickers of light that knifed through the untrimmed edges of siding. He pulled on an extra-long-sleeved shirt, Laplander hat, veterinarian’s gloves, and welder’s glasses. He slowly turned a circle, arms extended, and stopped when he felt a tingle on his nose, lips and chin. He returned a few degrees, back a couple, then chalked an arrow on the concrete between his feet. He covered himself nose to chin with a blue shop-towel bandana.
“Can’t blame him, working alone,” he told himself. “Lifting that sheathing up there by himself, then holding, securing, nailing it off …”
He cut several 6-inch strips from a roll of roofing paper, pulled a ladder to the east wall and felt for the gap up by the sill plate.
“Not bad, not even a quarter inch.”
Wind whined against the eaves and slipped through the gap. Daniel stapled up the thick, black strips but kept his gear on, just in case the paper failed behind his back. Workbench, rolling tool chest, double sink and stacks of plastic crates awaited new cabinets against the north wall. A half-dozen sixty-gallon, blue plastic barrels lined up against the house-side wall. Four plywood shipping crates, each seven feet long, two feet wide and a foot deep were stacked next to the utility room door. Bill the Odd-Jobs Man’s truck dripped oil onto the clean concrete in front of the barrels. He’d tarped Bill’s truck and backed the Mercedes wagon right next to it, leaving himself barely enough room to work.
He could think undistracted in a workshop, lab, or studio alone. Passing as other among others consumed his attention on any job.
Lots of humans pass as “normal” humans, like high-functioning autistics.
He’d met several autistics in nearly empty night labs across the country. To a person they likened their situation to nerve-jangling, full-time, onstage improv. Anxiety and insufficient food exhausted him at home. Diana’s deliberate devolution, his own weakening against a buffet of temptation at work and their mutual cabin fever led to the greatest string of mistakes in their very long lives.
How to think our way out of this? he wondered. Sometimes she heard him when he wondered.
He pulled down the top crate and set the lid aside. The armature of heavy wire welded to a stainless steel, snap-out, three-legged base and his bulky protective clothing made wrestling it out of the crate a struggle. Daniel laid the framework onto the tarp next to Bill, who lay on his side with the cedar stake through-and-through his chest, Hawaiian shirt and all.
He shook his head at the shirt. “Northwesters!”
No sign of granulation in the bluish-white lips of the wound, no pinking. Daniel selected the reciprocating saw from his workbench and nipped off the ends of Bill’s stake at the shirt buttons and the back. He tossed them into the scrap wood barrel. A large scoop dangled from the lip of the next barrel, and he dipped out about a half-liter of gray powder to encircle the dripping oil under the truck. The oil turned the gray powder into a lime green, taffy-like plastic where they touched. Daniel slid a stock-watering trough next to Bill and scooped in ten liters of gray powder. He brought the sink hose over and slowly added water, mixing with a round-nosed trowel. This mixture also turned green, a “Hunter Green” like his choice for the kitchen. With mixing, it textured like wet clay.
Next full moon and low tide, he thought, clay strata should show up in the bluff face. He preferred local clays, when available. They added indigenous flavor to his work.
He turned to the opportunity to clean up after Diana. The art part. Creation.
At least she did her own disposal last time.
He grumbled to himself about the dead Proxy.
I had to thaw him enough to stake him.
He was back there in the freezer when that cop knocked on the window!
Just two days after the Portland proxy’s disappearance, that midnight radio wacko from Pahrump identified an insurance adjustor’s mysterious fate in Oregon as “… another alien abduction.” Daniel tuned in every night, awaiting radio wacko’s inevitable confirmation of the goth girl’s “… genuine spontaneous human combustion.”
He dragged Bill to the wire-and-rebar frame and secured him into place.
Organic, he thought, with a nod. Non-GMO.
With considerable effort, he wrestled Bill upright, gripping the frame at Bill’s chest, looking him right in the eye.
“Who’s in there now, Bill?” He patted the dead man’s cheek. “Nobody?”
Daniel adjusted Bill’s head to open the pale gashes and tears in his neck, head almost severed with vertebrae visible. Hands into empty claws chest-high.
Scare ALL the children, Bill!
Daniel reached into his Mercedes and hit “play” on Mozart’s Requiem at full volume. He lifted a bloody wallet and phone from Bill’s pants pocket. He held the phone like it might bite him, pulled out the battery and chip, then smashed the rest with his hammer.
Careless, careless, careless Diana!
He used his acetylene torch to melt the chip and debris like he’d done with the ex-Proxy’s. He turned back to his new Empty and slathered his quick-drying mud from Bill’s feet to the top of the framework. He left an opening around Bill’s eyes for the transformative sunlight that would bake the mold from the inside.
“Ah, Bill, you never looked so pretty!”
Daniel heard something through the music and turned it down.
Doorbell!
His security monitor revealed a cop at the front door. The night cop who gave him directions.
Shit! he thought, then he pressed the “Talk” button and said, “One moment! Be right there!”
He flicked mud off his gloves, rinsed his hands in the sink then adjusted his hat, gloves and goggles to go into the house and answer the door.
The day was cloudy, but Daniel was overwhelmed by the glare that framed Tom Aldrich in the doorway. Even with his goggles in place he had to cover his eyes with his gloves.
“Please come in,” he said. “Hurry! Please hurry!”
Tom took a cautious step over the threshold, unsettled by Daniel’s Road Warrior getup and the gloved hand pulling on his sleeve. Tom barely squeezed through the half-open doorway before Daniel slammed the door shut. The room was as close to coal mine dark as Tom had ever seen, so he stayed put in front of the door, hand on his weapon. Daniel switched on the light and raised his goggles to his forehead.
“Thank you for hurrying,” he said. “No time to explain. I’m severely allergic to sunlight.”
He unwrapped his face, took off his hat and gloves, and offered a handshake.
Tom hesitated and took in the heavy blackout curtain covering the large picture window in the back wall. A fringe of blue drapery stuck out from the bottom of the curtain. The walls were a shiny, dark blue with some vividly colored abstract paintings, or Asian writing, leaning against them, ready to be hung.
“Sorry, Officer,” Daniel said, still extending a hand. “You caught me in my workshop.”
Tom shook the offered hand and studied the man’s face for malice. The gaze was steady, hand cold, handshake firm and not lingering. “I’m Sergeant Aldrich,” he said. “I believe we’ve met?”
“Yes, I remember you. I’m Daniel. Thanks for the directions. I was very tired from the drive.” Daniel gestured toward the dining room. “Can I get you some coffee?”
“No, thanks,” Tom said. “I can’t stay.” He looked closer at Daniel’s face. “You got quite a burn there. You couldn’t get that on a day like today.”
Daniel touched his nose and forehead. “Yes. That’s why the gloves, goggles, blackout blinds. My sister is even more allergic than I. She won’t leave her room until well after sunset.” He peeled back his sleeves to reveal lumpy red welts. “A little burn on the nose, but it triggers these itching hives all over. I can take it for a little while. For my sister, it could be fatal.”
Tom said, “That’s pretty inconvenient, with your remodel work.” He ran a hand over the shiny blue wall. “Real enamel,” he said. “Everything’s usually latex these days.”
“Enamel doesn’t gather dust like latex does,” Daniel said. “My sister likes how it sets off the paintings, and it’s easier to keep clean. Won’t you have a seat?” He swept a hand toward the couch.
Tom shook his head. “No, thanks.” He lifted a photo from his shirt pocket. “Ever see this guy?
Daniel controlled the surprise he felt at the sight of the adjustor, his ex-Proxy. He accepted the photo with both hands and studied it carefully without a trace of emotion.
“No, I don’t believe so,” he said. “What has he done?”
“Well, somehow he managed to disappear in Oregon but drive his car into the bay a couple of miles from here. Salmon fishermen snagged it. He was an insurance adjustor, so I thought maybe he’d been out here on business. I’m checking all the building permits, just in case.”
Daniel’s first thought was that his new Darkest Knight had made a fatal mistake already. He handed back the photo.
“We got our insurance in Seattle,” he said. “But we haven’t put in a claim. No reason to send out an adjustor for us.”
Tom pocketed the photo. “I thought it was worth checking,” he said. “I can let myself out if you want, so you don’t get more hives.” He turned to go, then changed his mind. “Maybe he stopped for directions?”
“You’re our first visitor since we arrived,” Daniel said. “We’re pretty out-of-the-way.”
“Right,” Tom said. “Thanks.”
He walked to the door and hesitated while Daniel put on his hat, goggles, gloves and scarf.
“Oh, have you hired any transient labor? People passing through who need a few bucks or a meal? We get a lot of those in town.”
Daniel shook his head. “I hire only licensed local contractors and am only getting started. I’ll be sure to check on any subs they hire and give you a list. I forgot … the PODs with our belongings came with two workmen to help unload, but they were both black, and the guy in your photo is white.”
“Alright, that’s fine.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Thanks for your time—”
Daniel interrupted, trying to look like a worried homeowner. “Do you think some homeless guy killed this insurance agent?”
“Adjustor,” Tom corrected. “His brother in Seattle said he liked driving back roads. Could’ve run into anything, anywhere between here and Oregon. You don’t have to see me out.”
Daniel said, “Come by any time, Sergeant.”
Tom hesitated again, hand on the doorknob.
“You’re the goo salesman, right?”
“Goo? I don’t … oh, I see,” Daniel said. A crease of frown formed between his eyebrows. “How’d you know—oh, of course, you’re a police officer.”
“Small town talk,” Tom said. “I also hear you’re a sculptor. Let me know when you have a show. Thanks again.”
Tom let himself out, and Daniel let out the breath he’d been holding. He peeled off his gloves and looked toward the stairs, listened for Diana. Nothing. Then he put the gloves back on, shook his head and hurried back to his chore in the workshop.
He finished troweling his mixture over Bill and gave him a gargoyle head and shoulders. Daniel was exhausted, his skin and clothing stained with sweat, dirt, mud. He listened for stirrings from Diana upstairs. Still nothing. He donned an extra ski mask, adjusted his goggles, then opened the garage door. He dragged the trough outside, dumped the dregs beside the driveway, and rinsed the tools and trough. The rain had quit, so he used a barrel dolly to get the new Bill into the side yard daylight. Then, hurrying and out of breath, he closed himself inside the garage and rushed to the blacked-out kitchen. He stripped off his cover, scratched furiously at his hives, and removed one of his bags of charged Matrix from the refrigerator. His trembling hands had trouble measuring out exactly one cup of the blood-red goo into the top of his appliance. “Martini,” he said. The green light winked on and he placed his martini glass under the spout. He washed his face and hands at the kitchen sink while blood pulsed into his glass.