by Dan Stout
“I kinda got that,” I said. “Probably during the constant news coverage.”
“Yes.” Her voice was clipped, impatient. That was good—it meant that she wasn’t considering what she was saying. “So if the whales produced manna naturally, as was long assumed, then how did it get deep below ground in a uncivilized, frozen wasteland?”
“You should talk to our tourist board,” I said.
“And if it’s not from whales, is this the same material at all? My belief is that it is, in fact, the same material, but that previously it emerged at depths in the ocean. The whales consumed it, or perhaps plankton consumed it and then the whales consumed them. Either way,” she gripped her elbows as Charles swabbed and bandaged my arm, “it’s possible that this manna is pure. A pristine connection to the threads that bind the world.” She scanned the room full of unwilling test subjects. “Animus manda.”
I thought it over. “Sounds to me like you have no idea what it is.”
“I know exactly what it is,” she said. “An opportunity.”
“To do what? Why are we all here? Manna is the one thing that lets people cheat physics, so why try to force it into a categorized box?”
“Nothing defies physics,” she said. “But there are admitted issues in reconciling the behavior of the very big, when we deal with distances light-years apart, with the very small, at subatomic levels. There is a theory that if we can understand how objects that have been manna-bound interact, we’ll have the framework for a unifying set of rules that connects all of known space, from the infinitely vast to the infinitesimally small.”
“You lost me,” I said. “What I want to know is why are you doing this? For grant money? A tenured position?”
“I’m doing this to win, Detective.” Her expression was as cold and piercing as any of her needles. “In twenty years I want to look at the world and say that I shaped our understanding of it.”
“And that’s winning?”
“It’s certainly not losing.” She hugged her clipboard to her chest. “The sooner we know that this manna reservoir is safe, the sooner all your grime-covered rig workers can clamber back onto their jack pumps and drills, and resume dismantling the environment.”
“All those rig workers are people, who have families. And the halt on drilling is destroying their lives.”
Baelen frowned, and let out a disdainful huff that smelled of swamp gas and coffee. “Indeed. We can only hope that it’s a situation that will be resolved posthaste. Now, I’ve been meaning to ask whether you’ve had any phantom limb sensations in your hand? There was something in your file about leg pain . . .”
“Yeah.” I answered quickly. “Though everyone told me it was in my head.” I didn’t mention that Doc Mumphrey had given me a prescription to manage the pain, or how I’d finally laid it to rest.
She sniffed, her fin pulling tight to her scalp. “A common enough occurrence. Roll up your other sleeve.”
Baelen prepared another round of blood draws. I closed my eyes and hoped to Hells that Guyer would keep my stories of cobwebs and magical tingling to herself.
28
AFTER WE WERE RELEASED FROM Dr. Baelen’s clutches we drove back to the neighborhood where we’d first met Jane. I parked in a fire lane, popping one tire on the curb to sneak between two other cars whose drivers had the same idea. Jax exited the passenger door with a wobble, a pair of sunglasses not designed for Mollenkampi ears in danger of slipping off his face.
“You feeling okay?”
“I’ve been better,” he said.
“Well, that’s the price of a good time.” We started across the street, climbing the stairs to the sixth floor, where we’d met the woman who’d shown such strange and unnatural strength.
The building looked much the same as before, though it had collected a few more holes in the walls, and at least one torn-down handrail in the stairwell. One apartment looked to have been abandoned, the door kicked off its hinges and the opening covered with hastily hung plywood. Sometimes it seemed like the whole city was going farther to Hells with each passing day.
We arrived at our destination. I pounded on the door of 6F, but there was no answer. I knocked again, louder and longer than before.
“I think you can stop.” Jax pressed a hand to his temple and kept his voice low. “No one’s answering.”
“She might be in there sleeping one off.”
“Doesn’t matter if she’s in there or not,” he said. “No one’s coming to the door.”
I felt the slightest twinge of pity for him as I resumed knocking. The door remained shut, but another opened down the hall. A Mollenkampi woman poked her head out, mandibles flexing as she squinted at us.
“People are trying to sleep!” She clutched a nightgown around her shoulders, anger winning out over any fear of two strange men in the hallway.
Jax showed his badge and bent his head respectfully.
“Sorry to disturb you, ma’am. It’s important we speak with the woman in that apartment. Do you know how we can reach her?”
The older neighbor waved him off. “Never spoke more than two words with her, and I’ve lived here about all my life.”
The faded colors of her head plates made it clear that had been a long time indeed.
“What about her friends?” I said. “You know who she spends time with?”
“Don’t know and not my business. All I know is that crazy Hellspawn can keep her distance from me!” She hmmphed and pulled her nightgown tighter.
“What do you mean? Is she acting erratic?”
“Erratic?” She snorted, a sound that echoed in her oversized biting mouth. “I work third shift, and I sleep during the day, so I wouldn’t know. But let me ask you this: Does this hallway look ‘erratic’ to you?”
Jax and I turned a circle, taking in the holes in the walls and damaged doors.
“Sherri did this?” It seemed hard to believe, even considering the encounter I’d had with her.
“More than that,” she said. “Like I say, I wouldn’t know. But I hear a couple young punks tried to shake her down the other day, right outside the building! That crazy woman beat the snot out of ’em, too.”
“When you say—”
“I wouldn’t know. But I hear it was broken arms and bloody faces. Even tore the ear off one.”
I thought of Dale Turner’s battered corpse in the body stacks, speaking through Guyer’s voice, with half-healed injuries including a broken arm and missing ear. What have I done?
The woman sniffed the air. “Sherri can hop a one-way ticket to the Hells.” She leaned closer, though she still spoke loud enough to be heard by anyone who might be passing by. “Her and that kid of hers both, far as I’m concerned.”
I turned my back on her, towing Jax away by the elbow. “The kid,” I muttered. “He said something about an arcade. You remember which one?”
He flipped through his notes, humming something to himself as he did. “I think . . .” he said.
“We find him, we can find his mom. We find her, we find her dealer.”
“I know,” Jax said.
“Then we’ll get the dealer’s connection to Turner, and then Jane.” I could feel how close we were getting. But it was the night before Titan’s Day, and celebrants would be in the streets. “We need to find the kid fast, Jax.”
“Hold on . . .”
I thumbed the flaking paint of the door, sending flakes tumbling to the never-cleaned hallway floor. I’d walked through the cobwebs surrounding Ronald and his mother, telling myself I was imagining all of it. But her strength hadn’t been imaginary, and the cobwebs that represented the strands of manna connection were every bit as real as the tingle in my hand when we found Jane.
I knew there was no way that Ronald’s strung-out mother was a sorcerer. Had the angel tears really been enough to allo
w her to work magic? Or had I somehow accidentally triggered it?
“Got it.” Ajax snapped his notebook shut. “Full Tilt arcade.”
I gave the door one last touch. More paint fell, revealing the original crimson coat. Then we were on our way.
* * *
A quick call to information gave us an address on Foundry Avenue and a storefront whose garish neon sign proclaimed that we’d arrived at Full Tilt.
Inside, the arcade was lit only by high score screens and flickering graphics. The place was wall-to-wall games, a mix of pinball, mechanicals, and video games. The most popular attractions had teenager-sized spaces to either side of their cabinets so that the inevitable crowd of onlookers would have someplace to stand while chugging sodas and practicing swear words they didn’t fully understand. We shoved our way through the aisles, surrendering to the ocean of buzzers and bells. Every step was accompanied by a peeling sound as long-neglected soda spills adhered themselves to the soles of our shoes, every breath by the bitter scent of patrons who’d opted for cheap perfume or cologne rather than a decent shower. The lights from the games pulsed and strobed, bathing us in alternating shades of magenta and teal, like the neon signs that guided drunks to barstools and flies to a buzzing, electrical death. The clientele was a mix of lanky teens and slump-shouldered adults, every one of whom stared daggers at us. Still, it was a nice change of pace from the bars and back alleys, in that no one was looking to make their name by beating down a couple of plainclothes cops.
We found Ronald playing something called Moon Diver, competing against an older boy, both of them huddled against the game, eyes narrowed in concentration. The older kid’s pixel avatar expired with a squeak of protest. Seeing the graphics made me think that maybe NICI wasn’t as flashy as the TPD brass wanted us to think she was.
Ronald raised his hands overhead, triumphant, but the older kid demanded a rematch. I glanced at Jax. The sounds and smells were hitting his hungover senses even harder than mine. I stepped up to the side of the game and tapped Ronald on the shoulder.
“We need to talk,” I said.
“Naw, he’s gotta play again,” said the bigger kid.
“Huh,” I said. The back of the cabinet was plain and utilitarian, holding only a screwed-on access hatch and a power cord that plugged into a central outlet. A simple sweep of my foot was all it took to put an end to the simulated space war.
“Technical issues,” I said. “Go tug your joystick somewhere else.”
“Screw you!” He threw his arms back, a gesture widely favored by people who didn’t actually want to fight, but wanted to look the part. I ignored him and turned to Ronald.
“Walk with us for a minute,” I said. He waited long enough to show any onlookers that he didn’t like the idea, then took the escape we provided. I led the way, Ronald at my heels and Jax behind, making sure the kid didn’t stray. We paraded to the concession stand.
“You want a soda?” I asked. The stand had a hard plastic picnic table, suddenly made available as the group of teens occupying it faded away at our approach.
Ronald sat on the tabletop. “What do you want?”
I cleared my throat. “We want to talk about your mom.”
His shoulders drew in and his eyes narrowed.
“We need to find her,” I said. “Because she might be in danger.” It wasn’t a lie. Whoever had killed Jane and Dale Turner in public alleys didn’t have any hesitation about resorting to more violence. If they were after snake oil, then Sherri was in danger.
The kid absently pulled out a pocket knife. That’s never a good idea when talking to a pair of cops, and I had a flare of defensive reaction. But I exerted enough self-control, and Jax was likely standing there with his eyes closed, trying to shield himself off from the lights and sounds of the arcade, that neither of us did anything. Ronald began adding to the already significant amount of carving on the table’s surface.
“Where does your mom hang out,” I said, “when she’s using?”
“I dunno.” He kept his eyes on the knife’s edge.
“We’re not after your mom,” said Ajax. “We want to lock up whoever’s hurting people like her.”
“The other day,” I said. “Your mom seemed really strong. She ever act like that since?”
“No.” The carving deepened, as he put the stress of his lie into the knife blade.
I leaned in closer. “Kid, listen to me. I promise she is not in trouble, okay?”
That earned a nod, so I continued.
“We want to find her,” I said. “Because the person who’s supplying her is dangerous. You understand?”
I pulled out an old mug shot of Turner, one that showed his arrogant smirk rather than the scarred and mutilated man I’d found in the alley. I cleared my throat and started on the short speech to put Ronald at ease. “Do you think—”
“That’s him,” said Ronald.
I blinked. “Who? How do you know this guy?”
“Didn’t you listen before?” Ronald shook his head, annoyed. “That’s the guy who sold manna in the alley down the street. Before he moved to another spot.” He creased his brows. “I already told you once.”
I realized he had. Ronald had told us that someone he didn’t know from the area was selling in the alley where Jane had been killed.
The kid looked at me, concerned. “You think he’s gonna come after my mom?”
“No,” I said. Firmly, letting him know I meant it. “He’s dead. But whoever did that to him is dangerous, and we want to make sure your mom’s safe.”
The knife stopped. Ronald looked at me. “She can take care of herself.”
I cleared my throat, and chose my words carefully. “I’m afraid she’s gonna get a bad batch.”
That got to him in a way more abstract dangers hadn’t.
“She goes to a place on Welles Avenue, down by the athletic center.”
“You know its address?”
“No.”
“You ever been there?”
The kid’s knife started moving again, carving away plastic and leaving his mental state imprinted on the bench surface with the elegant simplicity of straight gouges. “Yeah.”
I didn’t want to think about what it would be like, for a kid waiting on his mom to come out of a drug den. I didn’t push him any harder than absolutely necessary.
He gave us a description of the building, told us his mom would be on the fifth floor, and to watch for the eye marking when we got there.
“Thanks, Ronald. Go on back to your friends.”
The kid’s lips pressed into a thin line. He stood, folded the knife, and walked away, shoulders slumped. I hoped that we’d be bringing his mom home to him that night.
29
IT DIDN’T TAKE MUCH DETECTIVE work to identify the building from Ronald’s description. It was in the Borderlands, the outer ring of Titanshade, where the thermal vents were fewer, the buildings were taller, and the population denser. On the top floor, where the poorest of the poor huddled at night for warmth, we found the angel’s roost. A hastily carved insignia of an eye on the doorframe was the ever-subtle sign angel tears could be found within.
We knocked, waited, and knocked again. The door opened a crack, and I opened it the rest of the way with a kick. I braced myself for the tingling sensation of cobwebs, and we walked into the angel’s roost.
The front room held a scattering of furniture, most of it barely standing. The human man who’d opened the door had caught its edge in his face, and he rolled on the stained carpeting, while a Mollenkampi bundled in thick layers leaned against the far corner of the room, watching us slack-mandibled as he whistled an out-of-pitch tune.
“Special sauce is all gone,” he said. “All we got is standard stuff.”
Ajax and I spread apart, the distance allowing us to cover each other’s back
. I was three steps to the right when I noticed the absence of feathery cobwebs on my cheek, or buzzing tingle over my arm. A distinct lack of snake oil magic.
A couch was set up across from a television teetering on milk crates. The shredded fabric on the couch arms told me there was likely a cat somewhere in the apartment, and I fought the impulse to find it and take it to a rescue shelter. The cushions were covered with dried stains, and made my own tattered couch look like the high-end furniture in Gellica’s office. Sprawled on the couch, mostly covered by a blanket, was a human male, slack features and pallid color making it clear that we’d need a call to the coroner’s office as well.
I put my knee on the back of the bearded man moaning about his jaw. Jax kept his back to the wall, weapon out and at the ready.
“Who else is here?”
“You’re not s’posed to come in! Nobody comes or goes till Dale gets back. Boss’s orders.” His beard muffled his voice, but didn’t hide the note of fear. Fear of someone other than me. I secured his hands and patted him down, fishing out the knife and vial in his pocket. I lifted it to eye level. It was milky-white, showing none of the manna-infused sheen of snake oil. I secured the Mollenkampi while Jax covered me, then we moved through the rest of the apartment.
The space was small enough that Jax was able to station himself at the end of the hall, observing the two restrained men while I cleared the rooms. The bathroom was filthy but unremarkable, while the first bedroom held only a linenless bed, collapsing nightstand, and a garbage bag full of dirty clothes and discarded fast food wrappers. The second bedroom had the same furniture, but it also held an occupant: an emaciated woman lay in the bed, wrapped in a stained sheet. Ronald’s mother struggled to raise her head when I entered. Her once-lush brown curls had faded, and clumps of hair littered the threadbare pillowcase. I called out to Jax to update the ambulance run, then knelt beside her.
“Sherri?” I peered into her eyes, hoping to find a spark of recognition.
She gave me a wide grin.
“How’d you find me, cop?”