“What?” Sookie said.
The Screamer just shook her head. She let go Sookie’s hand, pointed at the tattoo parlor, and shook her head again.
“All right,” Sookie said. She backed away from the tattoo parlor, then turned and worked her way through traffic across the street. A transplant crew was already set up, loading the bodies into their van. Lots of money was changing hands, and she didn’t see a single cop anywhere. Cold smoke rolled out of the van. The crew got the bodies lashed down inside and slammed the doors shut. They climbed into the cab, and the van pulled away.
Sookie stared at the street and gutter, watching the blood. Some of the deeper pools rippled from traffic vibrations. Pieces of Max’s mirrorshades were scattered across the pavement, and she could almost see herself in one of them.
“You still following him?”
Sookie looked up, saw Mixer crouched against the building, watching her. She shrugged, walked over to him.
“Who?”
“Hah.” Like a dog bark. “You know, Sookie. You’re still following him.”
“I guess.” She sat down next to Mixer. He took out a couple of cigarettes and gave one to her. Flicked open a lighter, lit them. “I’m worried about him,” she said.
“You should be,” Mixer said. “He’s going to get himself killed. Which is why you shouldn’t be following him. You can’t help him, Sookie, but you’re liable to get yourself offed along with him.”
“I can take care of myself.”
Mixer sighed heavily. “I know,” he said. “But I know you, Sookie. Weird shit happens around you, you know that. And anyone can get into it around here. Just leave it alone, Sookie. Leave him alone.”
Sookie nodded, looking at the tattoo parlor. She wondered how long it would take her to pick up Tanner again. She sucked in on her cigarette and settled in to wait.
30
TANNER STOOD ALONE in the corridor, waiting to be admitted to Rattan’s “sanctum.” That was what the woman had called it, though she had been smiling. He felt as if he were waiting for an audience with a king. Maybe that was how Rattan thought of himself.
The corridor was short but wide, the walls dark gray cinder block. There were only two ways out—the door at the far end of the corridor, through which the woman had brought him, and the door he now faced, which led to Rattan. The woman, whose name was Britta, had ordered him to wait in the corridor, then had gone through the door. He had been waiting fifteen or twenty minutes now.
He could not be sure, but he thought he was underground again. The way in had been relatively simple, though extremely secure: multicoded door seals, body searches, radiation scans, and two elevator rides so smooth he had not been able to gauge distance or direction for either one. He and Britta had encountered only two other people; both were silent and thorough guards.
The door opened and Britta appeared. “You can come in now,” she said.
Tanner entered a large room filled with a cool, swirling fog of odorless smoke. The ceiling was high, close to twenty feet above the floor, and there was too much smoke to see how far back the room went. Through the mist, Tanner made out stretches of bamboo along the windowless walls, and the flickering light of torches. This was Rattan, all right. Theatrics. Absurd, Tanner thought. A machine was probably producing the smoke, swirling it about the room.
Rattan was nowhere to be seen. Hidden in the mists? Tanner walked farther into the room and nearly stepped into a narrow stream of water that flowed silently through a curved channel in the floor. The channel was no more than a foot and a half across, maybe two feet deep.
“Wait,” Britta said.
Tanner stood at the edge of the channel and gazed about the room, searching through the mist for Rattan. On the right wall, set against a stand of bamboo, was a wooden bench flanked by two flaming torches. Toward the left, along the channel where it entered another stand of bamboo, was a second bench. He still could not make out the rear wall because of the smoke.
“All right now,” Britta said. “Cross the water, go to the right, and sit on the bench.”
Tanner stepped across the channel and walked to the right, listening for Britta’s footsteps. She did not follow him. He reached the bench, glanced at the two flaming torches, then looked into the dense stand of bamboo, wondering if it hid anyone or anything. He could see nothing inside the bamboo, could only hear a slight hiss and creak of the plants rubbing against one another.
“Sit,” Britta said.
He turned around and looked at her. Partially hidden by the shifting mists, she remained at the door. Tanner sat.
There was silence for several minutes. No, not complete silence. The torches, burning atop wooden poles, made an occasional light whipping sound, and there was the irregular hiss and creak of the bamboo, as if its own height and weight were too much to maintain without great effort.
Then new sounds, almost inaudible—a faint whir, a sliding sound, a tiny squeal. Tanner looked at the rear wall. The smoke had parted enough to reveal an opening like the mouth of a tunnel. A large, complex wheeled contraption appeared at the opening, then moved into the room. Rattan.
The contraption was a fantastic wheelchair mounted with a framework of scaffolding and hooks from which hung clear plastic sacks filled with variously colored fluids and a complex network of tubes and modular units, all feeding into Rattan’s limbs. Or what remained of his limbs. Rattan sat in the midst of it all, manipulating the controls with his right hand—the only whole limb remaining. His left arm was cut off at the elbow, his left leg halfway up his thigh, his right leg at the knee. Strange sacks and webs enveloped the cut-off limbs, with several fluid tubes emerging from each. Rattan’s face was still recognizable, intact except for a long, ragged scar on his left cheek.
Rattan maneuvered himself to a spot a few feet in front of Tanner, then locked the chair into place.
“Hello, Tanner.” He gestured at the various fluid bags dangling above him. “Can I offer you something to drink?” He laughed, closing his eyes, then shook his head as the laughter faded. He opened his eyes. “Seriously, Tanner. Britta can get you whatever I haven’t got.”
“Nothing,” Tanner said. He did not want to be affected in any way during the coming encounter with Rattan—not by alcohol, not even caffeine. And he did not want to be affected by pity. Much of Rattan’s presence and power appeared to be gone now. Entrapped in the fantastic wheelchair, Rattan seemed very much a different person. But Tanner knew that could also be deceptive.
Rattan reached back and opened a small cabinet mounted on the right side of the wheelchair, withdrew a glass, then a bottle. He poured himself a drink—scotch or bourbon, Tanner thought—then set the bottle in one of the holders on the chair arm. He held out the glass toward Tanner, nodded, then drank from it.
“I hear you’re looking for me,” Rattan said.
“Yes.”
Rattan nodded, smiling slightly. “You wouldn’t have found me.”
Tanner did not doubt that. He had no illusions about that now, nor did he have any illusions about this meeting. Rattan had not set this up out of generosity. Rattan wanted something from Tanner. The biggest question, though, was whether or not Tanner had any chance of getting what he wanted from Rattan.
Rattan adjusted himself in the wheelchair, then took another drink. Tanner glanced toward the door, but Britta was gone. He searched through the mists, but did not see her anywhere. He had not noticed her go out the door, nor had he noticed her leave through the tunnel. He wondered if she was still in the room somewhere, hidden.
“You sure you don’t want something to drink?” Rattan asked.
Tanner returned his attention to Rattan. “I’m sure.”
Rattan nodded, finished off his drink, then poured himself another. “I drink a lot these days,” Rattan said. “Takes the edge off the pain.” He shook his head. “Never liked pharmaceuticals. They’re a great business, but I’ve never trusted them for myself.” He frowned, set down his drink,
then manipulated the controls, unlocking the wheels and moving the chair slightly before relocking them.
“You know who did this to me, don’t you?” Rattan asked.
“Max.”
“Yeah, Max. And he almost killed you. I screwed up on that one. But Max is taken care of now, permanently, and you’re here.” He paused. “Three weeks ago, I didn’t give a rat’s ass where you were or what you were doing. I want something, I’m sure you realize that, but three weeks ago I had no way to get to you. I’ve been pushing some other lines, without much luck. But something changed.”
“The Chain Killer.”
“Yeah, the Chain Killer. You all thought he was dead, didn’t you? Well. You were wrong.”
Rattan lapsed into silence, gazing into his half-empty drink. Tanner needed patience now. He wanted to press Rattan, ask him questions, but he knew that would only work against him. Rattan was in control of the situation, and they both knew it. He would get around to things in his own way, at his own speed. Tanner just had to be patient and wait; everything would come out.
“I knew you’d come looking for me,” Rattan said. “I know you, Tanner. I knew you’d remember my message, and I knew, I know you’re not a cop anymore, but I knew you’d come looking for me. I knew you wouldn’t be able to let it go.” He swirled his drink, but did not bring it to his mouth. “I was waiting for you. With Britta. I wasn’t in any hurry, I mean, I had some other things playing out, I wanted to kind of check in on you, let you flop around a couple of days. Pump up the pressure a little.” He shook his head. “But I screwed up, and I didn’t count on Max, that bastard’s been more fucking trouble. Well, not anymore, not where he is. I let you go, and I didn’t know you’d made contact with him. I would never have let it go any further, I’d have brought you in, but by the time I picked you up again, you were on your way to meet him, which I didn’t even know, and I lost you. Nearly lost you for good.”
He stopped and took a few sips from his drink. He punched several buttons on the chair console, studied some figures flashing across the display, flickering green lights reflecting from his eyes.
“It’s what I get for being an honorable man,” he resumed. “Max and I had an arrangement. After he tried to kill me. We were both out to kill the other, someone was going to get it sometime, but it might take months, or longer, for one of us to pull it off. Max, he’s an artist. Was an artist. I didn’t care much for his crap poetry or his performances with the Red Giant, but that was beside the point. I understood and appreciated his…what? Dedication. So we worked out an arrangement. We had a way, he’d notify me in advance when and where he would be performing. I’d stay away, pull all my people back during his performance, an hour before and after, too, so he could come and go without giving away where he was bunkered in. We could trust each other. He knew I’d honor the agreement and stay away, and I knew he wouldn’t pull any shit, like maybe set up a phony performance to put me off guard so he could come at me again. With this, we could trust each other. Might seem kind of weird, but there it was.” Rattan sighed heavily, melodramatically. “Which was how I missed you meeting him.”
Patience, Tanner reminded himself. Rattan was liable to ramble on for hours, but Tanner had to go with it. Patience. He’ll get there eventually. We’ll get there.
“How’s the smuggling business?” Rattan asked.
Tanner hesitated a moment, surprised by the change in direction. “It’s all right.”
Rattan nodded slowly. “Think you could smuggle a body up to New Hong Kong? A live body?”
Again Tanner hesitated. A live body. Who? Rattan? Yes, he thought—Rattan. He was starting to put it together. “I don’t know,” he said. “Never thought about it before. Not as a passenger, you mean.”
“Not as a passenger.”
“I suppose it would be possible. It would be expensive as hell, but I imagine it could be done. Who do you want smuggled up?”
Rattan shook his head and waved his glass in dismissal. He put the glass in another of the holders, then grasped the wheelchair armrest, fingers tightening over it.
“I do know who the Chain Killer is,” Rattan said. “And I know where he is.”
Tanner watched Rattan and waited.
Rattan smiled. “You know what he calls himself?” Rattan said.
“What?”
“Destroying Angel.” He nodded. “I may be the only person alive who knows that. And now you know it.”
Destroying Angel. Christ. It fit with everything the bastard did. Destroying Angel, angel of death. Jesus Christ, Tanner thought, the hard bite of certainty digging at his chest. Rattan does know who it is.
Tanner breathed deeply and slowly, trying to calm himself. Who is it? he wanted to ask, but he knew he couldn’t. He had to wait.
“I want my legs back,” Rattan said. “I want my arm back.” He tossed off the rest of his drink, poured another. He stared hard at Tanner. “I want them back.”
So did Brendan, Tanner thought. So did Spade. Well, maybe not Spade, he probably liked having a leg that converted into a scattergun. And Rattan wanted his legs and arm back. Here it comes, he thought.
Rattan looked at his left arm, what was left of it, and moved it slowly, raising arms and sacks and tubes. What was all that stuff? Tanner wondered. He had never seen anything like it.
“I don’t like being confined to this damn thing,” Rattan said. “I want to walk again. I will walk again.”
There was something going on here that Tanner did not understand. The kind of money Rattan had, he could buy the best cyborged prosthetics available, be walking around as well as he ever had with his real legs.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Rattan said. “And if you knew…well, if you knew some things, maybe you wouldn’t be wondering. Prosthetics, right? That’s what you’re thinking. State-of-the-art cyborged prosthetics. Look and move like the real thing, if you want. Better.” Rattan finished off his drink, shook his head, then leaned forward, staring at Tanner. “Never. Never. I want to remain human.”
Rattan glared at Tanner for another minute, silent and tight. Then the intensity left his eyes and he sank back in the wheelchair, apparently exhausted. He closed his eyes. The only movement Tanner could detect was the labored rise and fall of his chest with each breath. Rattan opened his eyes.
“You don’t know what all this is for, do you?” Rattan gestured with his hand and head at the sacks and tubes.
“No,” Tanner said.
“To keep the stumps from healing over,” Rattan said. “An artificial circulatory system to keep the wounds open but alive.” He paused. “I’ve been like this for three months, ever since that motherfucking dwarf got at me.” Another pause. “It gives me the best shot at full regeneration.”
There, finally, confirmation; he had been right about what Rattan wanted. With the realization came a rush of elation, which he tried to control, because he knew he probably could give Rattan what he wanted, and get in return what he wanted.
“It was a mistake to kill those two cops,” Rattan said. “I didn’t think I had any choice at the time, but I guess I should have found, I don’t know, another way. It’s been causing me grief for two years. They were scumbags, Tanner. The worst, most corrupt cops I’ve ever known. They wanted a percentage of the profits, which was bad enough. But when I refused, they threatened the lives of my sister and her family. Not my life, my sister’s. So I killed the fuckers. No choice, I thought. But it’s been nothing but trouble ever since.”
Rattan stopped, picked up the bottle, started to pour another drink, then changed his mind. He recapped the bottle, then put it and the glass back inside the cabinet.
“I’ve had too much,” he said. “It’s not enough, but it’s too much.” He looked up at Tanner. “You see where we’re going?” he asked.
“I think so.”
“From the beginning I figured you could help me, but I knew you wouldn’t. You might be doing a bit of smuggling, but it’s too well
intentioned, and you’re basically too damn honest, and what the hell did I have to offer you? Money. You wouldn’t have done it for money, would you?”
Tanner shook his head. “No.”
“You know what I want, don’t you?”
“You want to get up to New Hong Kong.”
“Yes.” He was leaning forward again, straining the limits of the tubes running from his left arm.
“Have they been having successes I haven’t heard about?”
Rattan sagged back into the chair, slowly shook his head. “No. Some partial successes, with a very few. I know my chances aren’t good. But they get better with each one, and they’re the best damn chances I’ve got.” He smiled. “But I can’t get up there. The doctors doing the regen work are expecting me. We’ve made arrangements, I’ve even done the funds transfers. One hell of a lot of money. But I can’t get up there, and they can’t get me up there, either.”
Tanner understood. You couldn’t just book a flight on a shuttle as if it were an airplane or a train. Trying to use a false name would be completely useless because the security checks on every passenger involved fingerprint and retinal scan confirmations. No matter what name Rattan used, or how he made arrangements, there was no way to bribe his way through the security clearances. A few crates of cargo was one thing, if the loaders knew who you were. But passengers? Not a chance. And Rattan would be arrested on the spot when his name came up on the monitors.
“I’ve been trying to buy a way into police records,” Rattan said. “Get everything in the fucking computers changed. Prints, retinals, everything, so my prints and scans will match a nice, clean profile with a different name. But I’m not getting shit. That’s where killing those two cops has fucked things up for me. The only cops I’ve been able to buy into are scumbags so low they can’t do shit for me. Security on records is too damn tight.”
So that’s what’s been going on between Rattan and some of the cops. Things were starting to make sense.
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