The Six Messiahs - Mark Frost [53]
His eyes had changed most of all, and yet they were the first thing about him Doyle had recognized; he remembered seeing in them this same haunted, spiritually disrupted look during their most troubled times together: Now it seemed a constant presence, deeper set, withdrawing from life. Impossible not to notice eyes like those and be disturbed by them.
A cruel irony, thought Doyle; here I am, an honored guest in this palatial suite, celebrated beyond all reasonable proportion for the exploits of a fictional character, and here its principal inspiration stands before me, a sorrowful, reduced shadow of the man I had known. Over the years, Doyle had wondered hundreds of times how it would feel to see his friend again. The one emotion he had never anticipated was the one he felt now.
Fear.
Perfectly natural. I thought he was long dead; it's a bit like encountering a ghost, isn't it?
Jack made no move toward him, offered no hand in greeting. Nothing warm or welcoming in his look or manner, only a dull glare of rectitude and regret.
"The reason why no approach was made to you on the ship," said Sparks, his voice flat, deflated.
"You knew I was there from the day we sailed, why didn't you?..."
"Didn't want to involve you."
"It wouldn't have troubled me...."
"Not your affair. Wasn't aware you were going to be there. Taken aback. Stern or his book either, for that matter. Couldn't be helped."
"I'll take you at your word." Why was he so cold?
"Suspected those four men were on board. Suspected they were involved in the other business."
"The theft from Oxford; the Vulgate Bible."
Sparks kept his hands folded behind his back, offering no nods or shrugs, a complete economy of movement and gesture, with no concession to the comfort of the other.
"Sorry to see you there," said Sparks.
"No reason to be . . ."
"Caused enough trouble in your life."
"Nonsense, I would have been happy to know you were alive...."
Jack shook his head once, with emphatic vehemence.
"I'm not."
Doyle's heart tripped. Sparks wouldn't meet his eyes.
"Not in the way you suppose when you say it. Not in the way you assume."
"Of course I had no way of knowing that, did I?" said Doyle.
"That woman. On the ship."
"The medium? Sophie Hills?"
"You asked her about me."
"She said that you weren't dead."
"She was wrong. I did die. I stayed in this body and I died."
"But Jack; you are alive, the fact remains you're standing here...."
' 'Life ... does not mean ... the same thing ... it does to you. There is no way ... this can be described.. . that would make you understand. Not any way ... that would have made you .. . happy."
Jack spoke like an automaton, face drained of expression; unreachable. Spitting out the last word like a bitter seed. He was right about this much: He didn't seem human. And using the skills Jack had taught him to now analyze the man himself made Doyle feel vaguely treacherous.
A long silence. Jack turned away, looked out the window. Doyle's skin crawled, palms moist. But he waited for Jack to elaborate. You'll find I'm not the same man either now, old boy; I don't intimidate so easily.
"Didn't want you to see me like this," Jack said finally.
Was there a trace of shame in his voice? For the first time, Doyle noticed Jack's hands folded behind his back; they were scored with angry red and white scars, fingers crooked, mangled. The fourth and fifth fingers of the left hand were missing. What had happened to him?
"Larry told me about it," said Doyle. "Found me in London. Nearly ten years ago now. How the two of you followed your brother's trail to Austria. Finding Alexander at the waterfall. Your fight. How you fell."
"Yes. I read your story," said Jack dryly, staring down at the city.
"And I'll make no apologies for writing about a man I thought long dead," said Doyle, his back bristling; then, softening his tone: "I went there, years afterward. With my wife: I'm married now. To Reichenbach Falls. I didn't see how anyone could