Dagger Key and Other Stories

Beyond the cells lay a door taller and wider than the first; the doorknob was a clenched fist of black iron. Shellane was still afraid, but he was operating efficiently now. Fear had become a resource, an energy he could tap into, a means of refining judgment—he did not necessarily heed its promptings, but remained aware of them. He inspected the frame and the wall beside it for projections, a declivity that might conceal a control, a switch. At about eye level he found a patch of wormy ridges in the surface of the boards, like a cross between circuitry and varicose veins. He tried pushing at them and felt some give; he pushed harder but achieved no result. At length he opened the door and was swept forward into a space full of shattering light. Like hundreds of flashbulbs being set off. For a second, he seemed to be in a place that was all bright movement and crystalline geometry, and then he found himself on a balcony guarded by a sway-backed railing, overlooking a confusing perspective of other balconies and windows and doors and stairways, above and below and beyond, every structure fashioned of black wood. The scene was confusing partly because of the lack of variation in color, and partly because the architecture had such a uniform character, an Escher-esque repetitiveness of form. It reminded him, in sum, of old wooden tenements in New Orleans with their courtyards and step-through windows and rickety stairs. These structures, with their sagging balconies and cockeyed doors and unevenly set windows, had the same louche aura and arthritic crookedness, the same apparent degree of age and disrepair. But unlike New Orleans, there were no planter boxes, no music, no bright curtains, no brightness of any kind apart from the white glare in which everything was bathed. Instead of a sky, the space was roofed with boards and massive beams, but it was unclear if what he saw was a single enormous building or many separate ones. About a dozen people were in sight and, whether on balconies, in the various rooms, or passing along the street of boards below, they went slowly, hesitantly, their movements suggesting that they were on medication. He wasn’t close enough to see their faces, but they appeared to be of ordinary human dimension.

A stairway led down from the balcony on which he stood, and he descended it, passing empty rooms, crossing other balconies. Three floors down, he encountered a pretty black-haired woman leaning against a railing. Her pale blue eyes flicked toward him—they matched the background color of her flowered summer dress. Though she was young, no more than eighteen or nineteen, a consequential term of disappointment was clearly written in her kittenish face.

“I’m looking for a woman named Grace Broillard,” he said.

“Good luck.”

“You know her? Red hair, green eyes. About thirty.”

She refitted her gaze to the crooked black distance. “Goodbye.”

He was silent a moment. “I need some help, okay?”

“Help? That’s a concept I’m not familiar with.”

He rested a hand on the railing next to hers. “What’s wrong with you? I’m not asking you to do anything except answer…”

“I don’t want to talk,” she said. “I don’t want to share your pain. I don’t want to hear about your pitiful life. I’ve…”

“I’d like to ask you some questions, that’s all.”

“I’ve got my own pitiful life to think about. So fuck off.”

He put a hand on her arm, and she looked up angrily; but anger faded, replaced by shock.

“Shit, man!” She placed a hand on his chest as though to feel his heartbeat.

“What?” he asked. “What is it?”

“You’re alive.” This was voiced in an astonished tone, reminding him of how Grace had behaved toward him on the beach that first day.

“You didn’t notice?” he asked after a pause.

“Un-uh.” She touched his hair. “You’re going to be very popular here…as long as you stay alive.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because of how you make me feel. I’m assuming the effect isn’t specific to me.” She smiled. “It’s okay if it is.”

“What did you see just now that made you aware I was alive?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t notice, I guess. Life’s not something you expect to find here.”

Shellane thought about the gray-haired man in the cell. He had ascribed his delayed reaction to his presence to the fact of his being in pain; but that might not be the case. He had stopped only briefly in front of the other occupied cells.

“Maybe you can help me,” she said. “And maybe I can help you find your friend. I bet the jerks have got her.”

“The jerks?”

“Do you even know where you are? The freaks, the creeps. The tall, geeky fucks.” She disengaged from him and retreated along the railing. “If you can’t find her, she’s probably with them.”

“I don’t follow,” he said. “She could be anywhere. Why would you think she’s with them?”

“That’s how it works here. If you know someone from outside the house, you never stray far from them inside it. So if you can’t find her, she’s probably with the jerks.” She went back to staring out at the black tenements. “You’re not going to help me, are you?”