The Orpheus Deception Read Free

help you . . . adjust. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

    “No. I sure as hell don’t. This is just some nasty dream. A nightmare. Anyway, dammit, no offense, Porter, but you’re dead. Over a month dead, not to put too fine a point on it. Cashed in your chips. Bought the farm. Vertically deployed into the terrain. Deceased. You’re now ex-Porter. A goner. Like the parrot. You follow? That sort of impeaches your credibility.”

    In spite of the circumstances, Naumann smiled.

    “You’re starting to get on my nerves, kid. Here I am on a mission of fucking mercy, and you’re giving me these old Monty Python riffs.”

    “Well, Jesus, Porter. You’re the corpse and you’re telling me I’m dead! How do you know you’re not just dreaming that you’re alive?”

    This concept seemed to give Naumann something to think about.

    “Jesus. I see your point. Maybe a drink will help clarify the—”

    “Micah!”

    They both turned. Someone was calling Dalton’s name, a woman’s voice. It was Cora Vasari. She was standing a little way up the Via Santa Margherita, holding her wide black hat with a gloved hand, her hair blowing in the rising wind off the valley.

    “Micah,” she called. “Where are you going? They’re waiting for you.”

    “That’s Cora,” he said, turning to Naumann.

    “I know who she is,” said Porter. “I’ve seen her before, remember? Stunner. Reminds me of Isabella Rossellini. If I’d known about her when I was still alive, you wouldn’t have stood a chance.”

    “Look, Porter, setting aside the queasier aspects of you being both feet in the grave and still having a sex drive, I happen to have a life to go and live. I should go back.”

    Naumann’s face became solemn, unreadable.

    “Think about that. Do you really want to, Micah?”

    Cora’s voice carried down the hill, calling his name again.

    “Micah . . . ?”

    Dalton’s face became set, his expression conflicted. Naumann looked up the laneway at Cora for a time, his face marked with longing.

    “You know you can’t stay with her, don’t you?” he said, the wind plucking at his coattails. “Clandestine will send a team. Cather won’t back off until you’re dead. And if you’re with her when they find you, they’ll kill her too. That’s just policy. You might have told her. They can’t take a chance. Don’t pull her into this one. If you’re dead, it’s all over with. Let it end here.”

    Dalton hesitated. Naumann pressed the point.

    “Grief is coming, Micah. More than you know,” said Naumann, his eyes sharp and his face hard. “You could miss it all. Just let go. Come with me. We’ll go down to the piazza and have some wine. There are people there waiting for you.”

    Dalton looked down at the crowd in the piazza. He could hear music playing, a string quartet, and the soft murmur of voices.

    “People I know?”

    “A few. You’re kind of hard on friends.”

    “Any enemies?”

    “None invited. Too many of them to fit on the piazza. How about it, Micah? ‘Home is the hunter . . . home from the hill . . .’”

    “‘And the sailor home from the sea,’” Dalton finished. His throat was closing up. For a moment, he wondered what it would be like to just let go, not struggle for another breath, another pointless day.

    “I’d like to, Porter,” he said, after a time. “I really would. But . . .”

    “Not yet?”

    “Yes,” said Dalton, with a thin smile. “Not yet.”

    “Saint Augustine said that. They tell me it’s what everybody says.”

    “Do they? Well, if it was good enough for Saint Augustine . . .”

    “You sure?”

    “Yeah,” said Dalton, with a sudden grin. “Dead sure.”

    Naumann’s hard face changed; he flashed the same lunatic grin, and then his expression became solemn again.

    “Then run along, kid. I’ll be seeing you.”

    Dalton looked at his dead friend’s face. There was friendship there, as well as a kind of affectionate envy. His eyes were