“You look sick,” Whitehead said.
“I never thought . . .”
“What? That the dead can get up and walk? Oh, Marty, I took you for a Christian, despite your protestations.”
“I’m getting out,” Marty said. “Both of us.”
“Both?”
“Carys and me. We’ll go away. From him. From you.”
“Poor Marty. You’re more bovine than I thought you were. You won’t see her again.”
“Why not?”
“She’s with him, damn you! Didn’t it occur to you? She went with him!” So that had been the unthinkable solution to her abrupt vanishing trick. “Willingly, of course.”
“No.”
“Oh, yes, Marty. He had a claim on her from the beginning. He rocked her in his arms when she was barely born. Who knows what kind of influence he has. I won her back, of course, for a while.” He sighed. “I made her love me.”
“She wanted to be away from you.”
“Never. She’s my daughter, Strauss. She’s as manipulative as I am. Anything between you and her was purely a marriage of her convenience.”
“You’re a fucking bastard.”
“That’s a given, Marty. I’m a monster; I concede the point.” He threw up his hands, palms out, innocent of everything but guilt.
“I thought you said she loved you. Still she went.”
“I told you: she’s my daughter. She thinks the way I do. She went with him to learn how to use her powers. I did the same, remember?”
This line of argument, even from vermin like Whitehead, made a kind of sense. Beneath her strange conversation hadn’t there always lurked a contempt for Marty and the old man alike, contempt earned by their inability to sum her up? Given the opportunity, wouldn’t Carys go dance with the Devil if she felt she’d understand more of herself by doing so?
“Don’t concern yourself with her,” Whitehead said. “Forget her; she’s gone.”
Marty tried to hold on to the image of her face, but it was deteriorating. He was suddenly very tired, exhausted to his bones.
“Get some rest, Marty. Tomorrow we can bury the whore together.”
“I’m not getting involved in this.”
“I told you once, didn’t I, if you stayed with me, there was nowhere I couldn’t take you. It’s more true now than ever. You know Toy’s dead.”
“When? How?”
“I didn’t ask the details. The point is, he’s gone. There’s only you and I now.”
“You made a fool out of me.”
Whitehead’s face was a portrait of persuasion. “An error of taste,” he said. “Forgive me.”
“Too late.”
“I don’t want you to leave me, Marty. I won’t let you leave me! You hear?” His finger jabbed the air. “You came here to help me! What have you done? Nothing! Nothing!”
Blandishment had turned into accusations of betrayal in mere seconds. One moment tears, the next curses, and behind it all, the same terror of being left alone. Marty watched the old man’s trembling hands fist and unfist.
“Please . . .” he appealed, “. . . don’t leave me.”
“I want you to finish the story.”
“Good boy.”
“Everything, you understand me. Everything.”
“What more is there to tell?” Whitehead said. “I became rich. I had entered one of the fastest-growing postwar markets: pharmaceuticals. Within half a decade I was up there with the world leaders.” He smiled to himself. “What’s more, there was very little illegality in the way I made my fortune. Unlike many, I played by the rules.”
“And Mamoulian? Did he help you?”
“He taught me not to agonize over the moral issues.”
“And what did he want in return?”
Whitehead narrowed his eyes. “You’re not so stupid, are you?” he said appreciatively. “You manage to get right to the hurt when it suits you.”
“It’s an obvious question. You’d made a deal with him.”
“No!” Whitehead interrupted, face set. “I made no deal, not in the way you mean it anyway. There was, perhaps, a gentleman’s agreement, but that’s long past. He’s had all he’s getting from me.”
“Which was?”
“To live through me,” Whitehead replied.
“Explain,” Marty said, “I don’t understand.”
“He wanted life, like any other man. He had appetites. And he satisfied them through me. Don’t ask me how. I don’t understand myself. But sometimes I could feel him at the back of my eyes . . .”