by Peter Hartog
“They say the guy was melted,” a blonde with pigtails and tight leggings gushed excitedly. “Like someone lit him on fire!”
“That’s so fucked up!” the other exclaimed, a skinny brunette with more face hardware than Kaplan’s jewelry store over on Fifth. “Wish I’d been there to see that shit!”
I wandered over to Deacon, who gave me a perfunctory nod. He eyed the place with ill-concealed suspicion and distaste.
“Deacon, try not to look so menacing,” Leyla admonished in a motherly tone.
“Shut the fuck up,” he growled back, a bit too loud.
The two young women glared at the Confederate.
“Fuck off, old man,” the brunette said, bristling with annoyance. “Go find some nursing home to die in.”
The blonde made a rude gesture at us as she and her friend exited the store.
“You sure do have a way with people,” I observed wryly.
Deacon grinned. With an unspoken word, we made our separate ways deeper into the store.
Along one aisle, I poked at small containers and tubes of paint stored in the tall metal and plastic racks lining the sides. Each showed branding labels highlighting pigmentation, type and style. Soft, folksy music played in the background, pumped through little speakers strewn throughout the store.
“Remind me again how we’re going to find the signal?” I muttered under my breath.
“The signal is coming from somewhere in the back of the store, within two hundred feet of your current position,” Leyla replied. “The store has a second floor above for classes and workshops. There should be some stairs leading to the second floor, located behind the main checkout area.”
“You still can’t pinpoint its exact location?” I asked, surprised.
“No,” she sounded troubled. “Whatever is cloaking the signal is constantly re-modulating its frequency. It’s all I can do to adjust my program on the fly to keep up. I can tell you the signal is there, but that’s about it.”
“Which means someone’s carrying it,” I grumbled.
“You can’t body search everyone in the goddamn store, Holliday,” Deacon snapped in irritation.
“I’ll think of something,” I muttered darkly. “Just keep looking.”
The aisle spilled out into a large open space where the store’s salesforce held court. Off to the left was the exit leading out to Broadway. Several customers stood in a queue before a circular checkout counter. Holo-signs hovered above the counter detailing daily sales as well as a list of current and upcoming art workshops. One of the classes, “Fun with Watercolors” hosted by Patricia Sullinger, had started ten minutes ago.
Several feet beyond the counter was a staircase leading up to the second floor. Past the stairs lay an open space containing long tables upon which sat canvas, frames, and other samples. A closed door with a hand-written sign on it that read “Employees Only” was on the far wall.
I profiled the customers and employees. Some held the age-old bored expression so common to people accustomed to waiting in line for their turn. Others stared at their holo-phones or were engaged in friendly banter. Even the employees appeared polite and mild-mannered.
Just another day of buying art supplies, I suppose.
I reached for the Insight to summon its power, but it slumbered, and I wondered if it needed to recharge, like a battery. So far, the mercurial ability had worked like a champ, but I was in unfamiliar territory now, unaware of my own limits, worried it wouldn’t be there when I’d need it the most. The past few days had been a rollercoaster of events full of emotional and physical wear and tear, leaving behind scars I’d need time to process. For now, I couldn’t let up. If I stumbled, those responsible for the exploitation and murder of Vanessa Mallery would get away unpunished.
Insight or no Insight, I wasn’t about to let that happen.
Deacon sidled over to me.
“My gut’s telling me it ain’t one of them.”
“All right then. Back door, or upstairs?” I asked, indicating the door with my chin.
“I’ll take the door,” he replied.
“Always took you to be a backdoor man,” I joked.
Deacon grunted, giving me a blank expression before moving away.
Nobody got my humor. Their loss.
I swept the area again before climbing the stairs, absorbing the sounds of different voices drifting down from the second floor. At the top, I found another open space separated by clusters of easels, worktables, and several virtual workstations. At the far end, opposite the stairs, squatted a massive oven made from heavy stone and brick. Even from this distance, I felt the heat it generated. Three people wearing gray smocks and heavy gloves pulled out pieces of pottery with flat, fire-scarred wooden spatulas.
I turned away from the kiln to explore the rest of the room.
A class was underway in one corner. More than a dozen easels atop paint-splattered drop cloths were set up in a semicircle facing several tall windows. Rain patterned the glass. Some of the fog had lifted, revealing indistinct images of the buildings across the street. The coffeehouse music was louder up here, reminding me of Armin’s. The people behind the easels ranged in age, from late teens to a couple of grandmothers. All of them sat on stools or stood by their canvas, focused on their work. I wandered up to an elderly woman holding a palette in one hand and a thin brush in the other. A deep frown troubled her lined face.
“Afternoon,” I greeted in a friendly tone, linking my hands behind my back as I inspected her work.
“Hello,” she said absently, then realized I’d spoken to her. She had a nice smile. “Oh, hello! I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were standing there.”
“Having trouble?” I asked, offering a critical glance at the partially-painted canvas.
“Nothing behind the door,” Deacon reported in my ear. “Employee break room, a bathroom, and an exit out to a side street. I’m headed your way, Holliday.”
“Well, this is my fifth class,” the woman sighed, her face downcast. “And I still cannot figure out how to blend the shadows and light evenly, without making it all look like one giant mess! The strategy of the composition can be so overwhelming, don’t you think?”
“Umm, yeah,” I replied, trying to sound knowledgeable and failing. “Maybe if you used more white paint and less black paint, that would help things?”
Her eyebrows shot up, and then she laughed.
“That might do the trick!”
“Is everything all right, Miss Talbot?” a woman with a pleasant voice asked from behind me.
“Oh yes, Patricia,” Miss Talbot replied, her smile shy and embarrassed. “I was just telling this gentleman how difficult it’s been to come up with the right blend of colors. Your classes are always so insightful, but I just can’t seem to put it all together!”
“That’s all right,” the woman replied, moving up to study the canvas. “These things take time.”
My jaw dropped.
Standing next to me was Vanessa Mallery.
“Art may be in the eye of the beholder,” she continued. “But true art is born from our hearts and imaginations. I’m certain you’ll find what you need. Just keep at it.”
I stared. A pod could’ve rolled through my gaping mouth.
“Hello, I’m Patricia Sullinger,” the red-haired woman said with a bright smile. She had gray eyes. “Did Rory send you up? We’ve only just started, so you can take one of the empty easels over there and set up your things.”
She was the spitting image of the murdered girl. A handkerchief, not unlike one Besim wore, wrapped Patricia’s radiant red hair above her neck. She wore a colorful blouse and matching skirt, a few hand-crafted bracelets on each wrist, and a long silver chain with small baubles and beads that clicked whenever she moved.
“Um, yeah, Rory,” I fumbled, staring at her like some awestruck kid meeting his idol for the first time. Where the hell was Deacon?
Patricia’s smile faltered.
�
�Are you all right?” she asked, concern etched on her freckled face.
Gooseflesh tickled my arms.
“Fine,” I said with a weak smile, and stumbled away from them. “I’m fine. Sorry, just getting over a cold. Would you please excuse me? I…I need a moment.”
“Doc, what’s going on?” Leyla asked in alarm. “What’s happening?”
Deacon materialized next to me a moment later.
“Holliday’s fine,” he said, glancing toward the class before returning his attention to me. “He’s just seen a ghost, is all.”
Deacon led me to an empty chair over by the kiln. I sank into it heavily, kicking out my legs as I stared at the ceiling tiles.
“A ghost?” Leyla was excited. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means we’ve found Vanessa’s twin,” I replied, shock and awe coloring my voice.
“Holy shit!” she exclaimed. “You mean the one from the portrait? She’s real?”
“Yeah, she’s real,” Deacon replied sardonically. “Like seeing the dead walk again, only different.”
He looked down at me, folding his arms.
“You gonna survive, Holliday? Or do I need to carry your sorry ass?”
“You mind?” I whined with wide-eyed innocence, recovering quickly. “My feet are really tired.”
Deacon snorted.
“What do we do?” Leyla asked.
Patricia returned to the front of the class, but I caught her casting curious looks our way.
“Where are we on that signal?” I asked.
“You’re right on top of it,” Leyla replied. “It hasn’t moved in a while.”
“Maybe she’s wearing it?” I shifted my eyes to Deacon. “A piece of jewelry? One of those bracelets?”
“It could be planted in a light fixture, or in that kiln over there,” he grumbled in frustration. “Who the fuck knows?”
A sudden thought hit me.
“Leyla look up the home address for Patricia Sullinger and see if the signal originated from there. It might give us an idea if she has it on her person.”
“Hmmm,” Leyla said. “It’s a Manhattan address. The third signal definitely propagated there. It’s on the list of places I made. But from what I can tell, it doesn’t seem like the signal ever went into or out of her apartment.”
“Well, that’s something,” I said. “Vanessa had her entire brownstone bugged. If this signal hasn’t been inside Patricia’s apartment, then maybe she wasn’t under as much surveillance as Vanessa.”
“Or maybe Crain’s cleaners already took out all that tech,” Deacon countered.
“Deacon’s right,” Leyla said. “The original signal from those cameras shut off and hasn’t reactivated. Once I discovered the third signal, I’ve been focusing on it, and ignored the other two. But when I go back over the history of the original one, Patricia’s apartment was definitely one of the more active transmissions.”
“Which brings us back to here,” I sighed, running a hand over my eyes. “Do I walk up to Patricia, tell her she’s under secret surveillance by some shadowy organization with a nefarious scheme, and ask her to come with us?”
“Why the fuck not?” Deacon said. “The woman’s in danger, Holliday. She just don’t know it. Vanessa said she’d found her twin. Maybe she didn’t get a chance to tell her what she knows?”
The man had a point.
I slapped my hands on my knees and stood up.
“Stay here,” I ordered. “And keep an eye out.”
I made my way back to the workshop, passing the students at their easels. Miss Talbot was using more white paint than black. I smiled. Maybe Kate’s art appreciation had rubbed off on me after all?
Patricia noted my approach with raised eyebrows and an uncertain smile.
“Feeling any better?” she asked solicitously, tucking a loose strand of her hair beneath the handkerchief with a trembling hand.
“Uh, yeah, about that,” I replied, presenting to her my badge and ID and introducing myself. “Could I have a moment of your time, please?”
Patricia opened her mouth to respond when someone with enormous strength shoved me hard from behind, hurling me into the wall with a loud crash. Blank canvases, bottles of paint and palettes flew everywhere.
“What are you doing? Let me go!”
I rolled to my side and into a crouch, gun in hand.
Marko stood behind Patricia, holding her hostage. Gone were the eighties rock star clothes from the night before, replaced by jeans and a flannel t-shirt covered in splotches of paint. One hand gripped her neck easily, while the other was wrapped around her waist. Patricia was white as a sheet, her eyes rounded with terror as tears ran down her cheeks.
Crain’s flunky betrayed little as he stared at me with empty, dead eyes.
“You’ve got nowhere to run,” I said in a deadly voice, training the gun on him.
Marko edged a few paces backward, Patricia in tow. I advanced slowly, ignoring the panicked art students as they scrambled from us. Deacon moved opposite me, truncheon ready, blocking Marko’s other avenue of escape.
“We can do this in one of two ways, Marko,” I said evenly. “Let her go, I’ll take you back to the precinct, and then you can tell me all about Rumpelstiltskin, Orpheus, and the murder of Vanessa Mallery. Or I can shoot you right now, you’ll bleed all over the place, and we’ll just do the rest anyway. Choice is yours.”
In response, Marko bent his knees, lifted Patricia off the floor, and jumped backward using his back as a battering ram. The tall window shattered in a shower of glittering shards and broken support struts as Marko and Patricia dropped from sight.
A blast of cold wind and rain buffeted me. I rushed to the sill. One story below, Marko raced along the alley, carrying Patricia over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
“Holliday!” Deacon shouted. “Move!”
The Confederate flew out the window after him, landing in a tumbler’s roll onto the wet pavement. He recovered instantly and pelted after Marko and Patricia.
“You’re not getting away this time, motherfucker,” I swore, and leapt out after Vanessa Mallery’s killer.
Chapter 31
My teeth mashed together painfully as I hit the pavement and rolled the way I’d been trained. It hurt like hell, but I lived, so I had that going for me, which was nice. The fall didn’t have to look good so long as you didn’t break anything important. With my heart pounding, I limp-ran after Deacon and Marko.
“Doc!” Leyla’s high-pitched shriek screamed through my earpiece. “What’s going on?”
“Marko’s got the girl,” Deacon explained before I could catch my breath. “Grabbed her and jumped through the goddamn window.”
I tried to add something, but all I could manage were grunts and wheezes.
“Holliday, you taking the slow boat to New Shēnchéng?” he demanded in an exasperated voice. “Where the fuck are you?”
“Right…behind…you,” I puffed, slowly gaining speed as my knees settled into something just short of agony.
Flickering lights from vehicles, billboards, storefronts and street lamps painted everything in chiaroscuro. Early evening’s gloom had settled in, casting everything else at the edge of the city’s coruscation in a shrouded gray slate. The effect made the world appear like I was stuck inside the curved walls of some giant fish bowl.
I reached the end of the alley and banged right following the commotion caused by the foot chase. The rain wasn’t helping, but the mist lifted at ground level to give me a better idea of what was happening ahead. Marko’s progress was hampered both by the bulk of the woman he carried and the intervening pedestrian traffic, although he still held the lead. Deacon was closing in, shouting for everyone in his path to clear the way. I lurched along, passing loose clumps of startled people waving excitedly in the direction I was moving. At one point, the slight-bodied Marko lowered his shoulder and bowled over several surprised pedestrians as if they were paper dolls without slowi
ng down.
“The signal is on the move,” Leyla chattered excitedly. “And it’s transmitting and receiving. Tracing it now.”
“Determine the signal’s point of origin first, girl,” Deacon interrupted with a growl.
“I can’t,” she replied, frustrated. “There’s a lot of interference, and it’s messing with my program. I’m having a hard time locking onto anything specific. I need to get closer to you guys.”
“Son of a bitch,” Deacon swore. “Someone’s jamming the line. Stay at your post, girlie.”
I shook my head as I ran, trying to catch up. Deacon smoked like a chimney yet didn’t sound winded chasing after Marko these past few minutes.
And he was also half a block ahead of me. Show-off.
Scowling, I picked up my pace. Somehow, we needed to slow the skinny little bastard down in a way that didn’t involve mixing pedestrians with a hail of bullets. Suddenly, I had an idea, and prayed EVI’s functionality would be up to the task.
“EVI,” I huffed between breaths. “Lock onto…my position…and give me…a current layout…of the streets near me…in a ten block…radius. Include…traffic patterns, irregularities…and account…for the weather.”
A split-second later, a color-coded map of the area was uploaded into my visual center, along with a colored dot assigned with my name.
It was hot pink.
I grinned. That’s my girl.
“Leyla,” I puffed again. “Jack…into…EVI’s map…and add your…tracking program…to it. EVI, upload…the new program.”
I shifted part of my attention to the map as two new colored dots appeared, blue for Deacon and red for Marko. Taking a quick note of Marko’s current heading, I made a call.
“Mahoney here.”
“Cap’n…it’s Holliday,” I blurted out in a rushed mess. “No time…for ‘splanations. Need you…to get me…override control…for all ground…and pod…traffic signals…for my current…location…in a…ten-block…radius. In pursuit…of suspect…on foot.”