Dagger Key and Other Stories

The guard ushered me into a closed-in metal booth equipped with a telephone and scored with graffiti, most of it obscene in character. Seated opposite me, separated by a divider of scarred, clear plastic, Amorise was wearing a green silk blouse adorned with delicate silver accents. Her long black hair was loose about her shoulders, and her hawkish face was made up to seem softer and more feminine. She picked up her receiver and asked, with no apparent irony, how I was doing.

“Is that a formality?” I asked. “Or do you really care?”

“Of course I care, David. You’re dear to me…as you well know.”

Though I despised her, I had become acclimated to hate—it was an environment in which I dwelled, and I felt I could speak to her without losing my temper.

“Then you’ll be glad to hear I’ve been writing,” I said, and held up several sheets of paper that I had brought with me from my cell.

“May I see?”

One after the other I pressed the pages against the plastic so she could read them. When she had done she said, “It’s good…but not up to standard. You’ll have to do better.”

“I might be more highly motivated if you were to recover your memories of the crime of which I’ve been accused.”

Her brow furrowed, expressing a transparently insincere degree of concern. “I’m working very hard in therapy. I’m sure I’ll have a breakthrough soon.” She brightened. “But I do have something to tell you. Whether you perceive it as an encouragement…that’s entirely up to you.”

I signaled that she should continue.

“Joan Gwynne, as you recall, came to embody the soul of Villon’s lost love, Martha Laurens. Carl was Tacque Thibault. John Wooten…Guillaume du Villon. But have you ever asked yourself who embodies the soul of Amorise LeDore, and why, of all those people gathered in the Martinique to celebrate the inception of the Sublime Act, she is the only one with whom you have no apparent previous connection?”

“Is that important?”

“Everything is important, David.” A note of venom crept into her voice. “Surely as a craftsman, a devisor of murderous machines, you realize the importance of details?”

“Very well,” I said. “Who are you?”

“Let us suppose that this woman, the woman whom you know as Amorise LeDore, is also named Allison Villanueva. And that her brother Erik and her sister-in-law Carmen were murdered by one of your security devices.” She gave these last two words a loathing emphasis. “Let us further suppose that in her grief Allison came to recognize that if the courts would not punish you, she must seek her own vengeance, and after the lawsuit against you was dismissed, she traveled from her home in Merida to do that very thing.”

Astonished, I jumped to my feet and the guard stationed behind Amorise gestured at me with his baton. I sat back down. “What are you telling me!”

“What I’m telling you,” she went on, “is what I am telling you. Make of it what you will.” She reached into her purse and withdrew the book I had taken from her locker at Emerald Street Expansions. “Novallis. Did you notice, David, that by rearranging the letters you can also spell out the name Allison V? It’s not a difficult chore to forge an antique, and Allison may have taken pains to do so. Or she may not. Did you verify the book’s age?”

“No,” I said in a tight voice. “I did not.”

“Well, if you had, you might have discovered that the book, if a forgery, is a very good forgery. I doubt any expert would claim that it is inauthentic. Be that as it may…” She restored the book to her purse.

“I don’t believe you!”

“What is it you don’t believe? That I’m Allison, or that I’m Amorise? Perhaps both are true. That would suit the subtle character of the Sublime Act, would it not? The subjects must be suitable, and Allison is perfect for Amorise. But then, too, Amorise is precisely what Allison needed.”

“You fucking witch!” I said. “Don’t try to con me!”

“Why not, Francois? You’re a natural-born mark.”

“I know who you are…and I know who I am.”

“Let’s examine who you are,” said Amorise. “I must confess I’ve deceived you to an extent. We did do a little something to you at Emerald Street.”

“That’s crap!” I said. “The woman there…the blonde. She told me the machine didn’t work. The leads were burned out.”

“Jane Eisley. She’s a friend. Actually, you know her, too. You dated her sister at Stanford. There was some slight unpleasantness involved. A pregnancy, I believe. An abortion, a broken heart. And a very long time ago, you may have known her as Fat Margot, a Parisian prostitute.”

I was at a loss, capable only of staring at her.