"That's more than you got out of Loretta."

"Fuck Loretta."

"Has it ever occurred to you that we might be underestimating these people-"

"Let it go."

"No, you listen to me. They could be conspiring behind our backs."

"Let 'em. What the fuck can a couple of women do?"

"You don't know Rachel."

"Yes I do," Garrison said wearily. "I've seen her type over and over. She's nobody. Anything she has, you gave her, this family gave her. She's not worth one minute of our time." With this he turned his back on his brother, and walked away. He was almost at the door when very quietly Mitchell said:

"I can't get her out of my mind. I want to. I know what you say is right. But I can't stop thinking about her."

Garrison stopped and, after a moment, pivoted on his heel to face Mitchell again. "Oh," he said, very slowly. He regarded his brother with a new sympathy. "What do you want to hear?" he said. "Do you want me to tell you it's okay to get her back? If that's what you really want. Go get her."

"I don't know how," Mitchell said. His anger had drained away completely; suddenly he was Garrison's little brother, desperate for guidance. "I don't even know why I want her. I mean, you're right: She's a nobody. She's nothing. But when I think of her with that… animal…"

Garrison smiled, comforted. "Oh I see. It's Galilee."

"I don't want her near him. I don't even want her thinking about him."

"You can't stop her thinking." He paused for a moment, the smile still on his lips. "Well… you can, but you probably don't want to go that far."

"I've thought about it," Mitchell said. "Believe me. I've thought about it."

"That's how it starts," Garrison said. "You think about it and you think about it and one day the opportunity presents itself. And you do it." Mitchell stared at the littered carpet. Garrison stared at Mitchell. There was a long silence. Finally Garrison said: "Is that what you want?"

"1 don't know."

"So think about it some more."

"Yes."

"Good."

"No. I mean: yes, that's what I want." He was shaking. Still staring at the ground, and shaking. "I want to know nobody is ever going to have her but me. I married her; I made her into something." He looked up now, his eyes wet. "Didn't I? Didn't I make her into something?"

"You don't have to convince me, Mitch," Garrison said, oh-so-gently. "It's like I said: just a question of the right opportunity."

"I made her into something and she turned her fucking back on me as though I was nothing."

"You want to punish her for that. Of course. It's natural."

"What do I do?"

"Well for one thing, you find out where she is. Make nice to her."

"What the hell for?"

"So she doesn't suspect anything."

"Okay."

"And then we'll sit down after the old man's buried and we'll work out how to get this sorted out for you."

"I'd like that."

Garrison opened his arms. "Come here," he said. Mitchell went to him. Garrison hugged him tight. "I'm glad you told me," he said, his mouth against his brother's cheek. "I didn't realize how much you were hurting."

"She just treated me like shit."

Garrison patted his back. "It's okay," he said. "I understand. It's okay. We've got a long way to go, you and me. And I want you happy."

"I know you do."

"So whatever it takes to make it better, that's what we'll do. You've got my word on that, okay? Whatever it takes."

Later, Garrison went to see a lady whose company he hadn't kept in several weeks: his lovely and ever-accommodating Melodic. It was thoroughly relaxing to keep such quiet company after the stresses of the day. He watched her lying there for fully half an hour, touching her chilly feet now and again; her thighs, her belly; slipping his fingers into her pussy. Lord, she was good at her job. Not once did she flinch, even when he rolled her over and roughly fucked her ass.

When he'd shot his load into her he didn't leave, as he would normally have done. He went into the narrow lime-green bathroom and washed his dick and his reddened neck, then returned to sit and look at her for a while longer. In rolling her over he'd crushed the flowers around her body, and their perfume seemed to quicken all his senses. Her skin looked almost luminous to him, the brandy he sipped contained nuances of flavor he could not remember tasting before; even the glass was silky against his fingertips.

What was happening to him? It was as though there was some kind of transformation about to take place; as though the Garrison he'd been-the dogged, nose-to-the-grindstone Garrison whose presence had never truly inspired anybody, least of all himself-was about to be sloughed off like a dead skin, and something else show itself: something brighter, stronger, stranger.

It was surely no coincidence that this other self was only coming out of hiding now that Cadmus was dead. The old regime was finished. Its rules, its hypocrisies, its limitations were a thing of the past. It was time for something new to make itself known; to impress its visions upon the world. And that something was moving in him-deep, deep in him-tantalizing his senses with the bliss that would come when it made itself known.

Yes, of course a corner of him was afraid of the prospect. Any transfiguration was a kind of death; a passing away of what had been in order to make room for what was to come. But he wouldn't be losing anything he'd much cared for. The man known as Garrison Geary had been a construct; he'd learned by example-much of it Cadmus's-how to present a bland, civil face to people so as to distract their attention from his real motives. Naively enough, he'd assumed those motives were identical to those of his mentor: the advancement of the family, the accrual of wealth and power and influence.

Now he knew better; and what more perfect place to come to that realization than here, where he'd showed a truer face than he'd ever shown his family? Shown it, but been unseen, because its only witness had never opened her eyes.

Perhaps it was time. He set down his brandy glass, got up off the chair, and went over to the bed. The woman remained as still as stone. He reached across her body, hooked his hands beneath her, and rolled her over onto her back. She rolled most convincingly. He went down on his haunches, and lay his hand, palm down, on her stomach.

"The game's over…" he said.

She didn't move. He lifted his hand off her belly and laid it against her breast.

"I can feel your heart," he said. "You're good at what you do, but I can always feel your heart." He leaned dose to her. "Open your eyes." He tweaked her nipple. "No more playing dead. I'm resurrecting you."

A tiny frown nicked her brow.

"You've been wonderful," he went on, "really. Very convincing. But I don't want to play any more."

She opened her eyes.

"Brown," he said. "Your eyes are brown. I always thought they'd be blue."

"You're done with me?" the woman said. Her voice was slightly slurred. Perhaps she played the corpse so well because she was in a drugged state.

"I'll be done with you when I tell you I'm done with you," Garrison said, "not before."

"You said you didn't want to play any more."

"Not that game," he said. "Another."

"What?"

"I haven't decided yet."

"I'm not letting you mess with me-"

Garrison laughed, so hard and loud the whore gaped. Then he reached out and took hold of her breast. "I can do what the fuck I like to you. I'm paying for your company. And you're very expensive."

She visibly brightened at the mention of her commercial value. "What do you want?" she said, looking down at his hand, the fingers of which were digging deep into her breast.

"Look at me."

"What?"