“Let me explain something first,” Carlucci said. “I’ve been officially ordered not to say anything about this to anyone, period. Anyone asks me about it, newshawkers, official investigators, whoever, I say nothing. I don’t lie, I don’t confirm or deny anything, it’s just ‘no comment’ and refer all questions to my superiors. Which means Boicelli. I say anything, I lose my job, my pension, and any shot at working in this city again. Okay? I told them I would talk to you, tell you the same thing, but without any explanations. Just tell you that it’s in your best interest not to say a thing. Nothing else.” He sat back in the chair, shrugged. “So what I’m going to tell you now, well, I’m going to be way out of line. Thing is, you risked your life in all this, damn near lost it, and I figure I owe you. You deserve to know. But I want you to understand the situation.”
“I understand,” Tanner said. “And I appreciate the risk you’re taking. So tell me how the hell he died.”
Carlucci shook his head. “He didn’t. The bastard’s still alive.” He continued to shake his head. “The military’s got him back.”
“What’s with the newspapers then?”
“Official story. The company line. Given to us by the feds. I don’t know how those bastards got onto it so fast, but they were at the hospital, waiting, when the ambulance arrived. Cromwell never actually got into the building. The military guys kept him in the ambulance, kept things hung up until they got their own transport on the scene. Lots of shouting and arguing, believe me. We tried to hold on to him, get him inside the hospital, but they wouldn’t budge. They had their own doctor go in and work on him. They didn’t want him dead, either.” Carlucci shook his head, drank from his beer. “Pretty much a standoff, until McCuller, Vaughn, and Boicelli arrived. They told us to hand him over. I don’t know about the other two, but I know Boicelli wasn’t too happy about it. No choice, he said. Said word had come down ‘from so high up it’d give you nosebleeds.’ So they took him away. Everybody who knew anything was given orders: none of us knows a damn thing. I got a mandatory, fully paid two-week vacation, effective immediately. And that’s supposed to be the end of it. Case closed.”
“Why?” Tanner asked, though he had a few ideas already floating around in his head.
“Their official word,” Carlucci said, “is that they want him in custody so they can examine and study him, figure out what went wrong so it won’t happen again.” Carlucci snorted. “I’d guess there’s some truth to that, they probably do want to figure out what the hell this guy’s all about, why he went over the edge.”
“But what they’re really worried about,” Tanner said, “is bad publicity. They don’t want any of this public.”
Carlucci nodded. “You got it. They can’t afford to have him go to trial. Everything would come to light, any half-assed attorney would make sure of that. And if this went public, kiss off the program, whatever the hell it is they’ve got going. So he’s dead. He’s not, and they’ve got him locked away somewhere, but officially he’s dead. Albert Cromwell, deceased.”
“So everything we did was for nothing,” Tanner said. He slowly shook his head, returning his gaze to the slough and the junkyard on the other side of the water. “It’s all so goddamn futile.”
“No,” Carlucci said. “We caught him. He would have killed again if we hadn’t, who knows how many more?”
“He still could if he escapes again.”
“That’s pretty unlikely,” Carlucci said. “They can’t afford that happening, so they’ll pretty much make it impossible. If it ever happened again, they know the shit would fly. All agreements would be void, and we’d blow them out of the fucking water over it.”
Tanner just shook his head. “You may be right, but it’s still shit.” He looked at Carlucci. “You know, this is one fucked-up world we live in.”
Carlucci gave him a short, hard laugh. “Big surprise, Tanner. Look, I won’t argue that. But there’s something you ought to keep in mind.”
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“This is the only world we’ve got.”
Tanner did not reply. They sat in silence for a few minutes, both of them gazing out over the slough, the junkyard, the other ramshackle buildings and overgrown lots lining the water. The waitress came by for reorders, but Carlucci shook his head, saying, “I need to go soon.” Tanner ordered another mineral water. He wanted to stay awhile and think some more.
After the waitress came back with the mineral water, Carlucci got up from the table.
“I’m on vacation,” he said. “I’m going to spend it with my family. I don’t know, maybe we’ll take a trip somewhere. Where it doesn’t rain so damn much.”
He put out his hand, and Tanner gripped it with his own. “Thanks for talking to me,” Tanner said.
Carlucci nodded, then said, “Sure thing.” He released Tanner’s hand and stepped back.
“Enjoy the vacation,” Tanner said.
“I will. You might want to take one yourself.”
“I may do that.”
“I’ll see you, Tanner.”
“Yeah.”
Carlucci turned and walked inside, made his way through the tables, then headed down the stairs and out of sight.
Tanner remained on the balcony a long time, thinking and watching the shadows lengthen across the surface of the water. People’s faces shifted around in his thoughts, making appearances, then shifting away to reappear again later: Sookie, Carla, Valerie and Connie. Carlucci. Albert Cromwell. Destroying Angel. Sookie and Carla were dead, but they were still there with him. Maybe Carla too much so. Was that what Hannah had tried to tell him? Maybe Hannah was right. Could it be that he still had not let her go? And what about Valerie? Was Hannah right about her, too? He had not known what else to do.
And there was Albert Cromwell, Destroying Angel. Back with the military, who knew what was happening with him. Gone, missing again. But Carlucci’s words came back to him: ‘This is the only world we’ve got.’ It seemed to Tanner now, sitting here thinking and gazing out over the slough, that Carlucci was absolutely right.
It was late afternoon when Tanner finally left the Carousel Club. He had to walk three blocks before he could find a working telephone. He picked up the receiver, then put it back down and walked off. Two blocks farther on he stopped at another phone booth and again picked up the receiver. This time he ran his card through and punched up Valerie’s home number.
As he listened to the ringing, he thought about Connie and hoped she wouldn’t answer. He still wasn’t sure what to say to her; he still had not worked all that out. He wasn’t sure he even wanted Valerie to answer, so when the phone kept ringing, he felt relieved. Finally, he hung up.
He hesitated before trying the hospital, almost walked away from the phone, then finally punched up the number. When his call was answered, and he asked for Valerie, he was switched up to ICU, and the nurse who answered said Valerie was busy. Tanner left the phone booth number and hung up.
He was unsure about this, wondering if it was a mistake, wondering if it was worth trying. But it seemed like something he had to do. Something he needed.
The phone rang.
Tanner stared at it, again nearly turned and walked away. His heart was beating hard. The phone kept ringing. Then, something inside him released, and he let out a breath he had not realized he’d been holding in. He knew what he wanted to do. He knew. Tanner breathed in deeply once again, put out his hand, and picked up the phone.
Prologue
SMOKE AND SWEAT and hot lights and the smell of beer filled the club, all cut through with the ripping wail and thunder of the slash-and-burn band on stage. Three women—drummer in tank top and blue jeans, bleached hair whipping up and down with the beat; guitarist in dark emerald-green shimmer pants and silver rag vest, black on black hair falling across her face; and Paula, in black jeans and boots and white T-shirt, tearing at the bass and shouting and howling out the vocals. Black Angels.
Paula sang and rocked in
a kind of cocoon, earplugs protecting her from the worst of the sound. But she felt the bass pounding through her, driving into her bones, moving her. She was soaked with sweat, filled with fire. She was flying.
The Palms was jammed. It was a tiny club, more of a bar, really, but there must have been seventy or eighty people squeezed inside to see the Black Angels. Beer seemed to be the drink of choice, bottles and glasses everywhere; the smoke was a mix of cigarettes, pot, and fireweed. A few people up near the stage were trying to dance, jumping up and down in place. If she reached out, Paula could touch them.
She backed away from the mike and Bonita ripped into her solo, fingers clawing at the strings. Sheela lost a drumstick; it flew forward, bounced off the back of Bonita’s head, but she didn’t notice. This was their last song, they were too deep into it. Paula kicked the stick out of the way, pounding at her bass.
Too old for this? That’s what Pietro had told her. Because she was pushing forty. Shit. The fucker didn’t have a clue.
The screech of Bonita’s solo cut through the earplugs, not painful, just enough to pump her up even more. The crowd was into it, too; Paula could see it in their faces—eyes clamped shut or wide open, necks, cheeks, and lips clenched tight. Bonita was burning tonight, and Paula hoped someone was getting it on-line. Damn, she wished Chick could have been here.
Bonita took it longer and further than usual, but eventually swung it back around and down, turning to Paula and Sheela, and then it was time for Paula to come back with the final rep of the chorus. She moved up to the mike, waited for it, then sang:
Yes, the night will drown us
And the stars will burn us
If we step out on the ledge.
Oh, the fear will take us
And it just might break us
When we live out on the edge.
Then back from the mike, Paula and Sheela and Bonita all facing each other, closing it down with the final strokes, all of them smiling. They knew they’d been burning tonight, they knew. A crash of drums and guitars, then another. Two beats of silence. One final crash. Lights out.
Paula felt good. Wrung out, but good. They were playing The Palms the next night as well, and they had all their equipment packed away and locked up in back. Bonita and Sheela were already gone. Time to go home, wind down, get some sleep. Or maybe go see Chick. It was only two-thirty, he was probably still up.
The Palms was nearly empty now. Recorded music played softly in the background. A few stragglers sat at tables and the bar, nursing their last-call drinks. Randy and Carmela and the new kid (what was her name, Laurel?) were cleaning up, trying to close. A guy at the bar tried to wheedle another drink out of Carmela, but she just ignored him.
Jacket over her shoulder, Paula headed for the front door, waving good night to Carmela and Randy.
“Hey, babe, need a lift?” It was a guy she didn’t know, at the table closest to the door, so drunk he could hardly keep his head up. He wasn’t going to be any trouble.
“No, thanks, Ace. You’d better get a ride of your own.” The guy didn’t look like he could drive five blocks without crashing.
The drunk gave her a sloppy grin, then pointed his finger at her like a gun, made a kind of shooting noise. Asshole.
Paula stepped through the front door and out onto Polk Street. The air was warm, muggy. San Francisco nights. She put on her jacket anyway, left it unzipped. There were still people out, wandering, or lost, and a few street soldiers were in sight. She smiled, shaking her head. The Polk was such a half-assed Corridor. The street soldiers always had their hands out, and a lot of them were as likely to try to nail you on your doorstep as give you safe conduct. Still, they kept the street itself relatively safe, and Paula could take care of herself.
So, home or Chick’s place. Shit, she was too wound up to sleep. It had been a great set. Chick’s place, then. It was closer, anyway.
She started up the street, headed uphill and west. There wasn’t much traffic—a few cars, pedalcarts, and scooters. An electric bus heaved down the street, flashes of blue sparking off the overhead wires; it was almost half full. On the opposite sidewalk, a street medico was working on someone lying half in the gutter, two street soldiers standing over them. Paula watched, trying to figure if something shifty was going down, but she couldn’t tell. She let it go.
She passed a stunner arcade that was still open, but it was mostly dark inside, and she could see only a single jerking figure within. A scooter cab swung to the curb alongside her, the old, long-haired driver lifting an eyebrow. Paula smiled and shook her head, and the cabby pulled away. Two men, hardly more than boys, staggered in tandem along the sidewalk, and Paula had to step into the street to avoid them. She could see it in their eyes, and their twitching—net zombies. Poor bastards.
Most places were closed, but a couple of eateries were still open, and Margo’s Spice and Espresso Bar, a video parlor, Sherry’s Shock Shop. Paula stopped in front of Tiny’s, a twenty-four-hour donut house, seriously thought about going in. She had a real weakness for the damn things; all that fat and sugar, she knew they were bad for her, but she loved them. But the Mulavey twins were inside, the two women pouring coffee all over their donuts and the table, burning the cups with their cigarettes; coffee and ash and melted plastic dripped onto the floor. No, she didn’t want to deal with that shit tonight.
She walked up two more blocks, still energized. She was starting to sweat under her jacket. Two street soldiers offered to escort her home, but she declined. Neither followed her.
She turned a corner and headed away from Polk. Chick’s place was just two blocks down, but it was a creepy two blocks at night, not really a part of the Corridor. The street lights seemed to cast more shadows than light and the building windows were mostly dark. Paula didn’t see anyone on either sidewalk, which was just as bad as seeing someone coming toward her. She put her hands in her jacket pockets and gripped the charged gravity knife with her right hand. She wasn’t scared, but she wasn’t completely comfortable either.
Nothing happened, no one jumped out from behind a parked car or out of a doorway. When she reached Chick’s apartment building—a seven-story brick monstrosity called The Monarch—she unlocked the porch gate, went through, then climbed the half dozen steps and unlocked the building door. The lobby was well-lit for a change, but the elevator was still out of order.
She started up the stairs. Five flights. Good thing she was in shape. The building was quiet, though she did hear the faint sounds of a television as she passed the third floor, and saw the two Stortren kids sleeping in the hall on the fourth. Who knew what their parents were doing inside their apartment. Paula figured she probably didn’t want to know.
The sixth floor was just as quiet. Only ragged strips of the carpet remained intact, huge sections worn through to the wooden floor. Her footsteps were a mixture of soft and hard sounds. Chick’s apartment was at the far end of the hall, on the right. Nightclub notices for Pilate Error, the band Paula and Chick played in together, were tacked all over the door.
Paula knocked. No answer. She didn’t hear any sounds, which meant he was asleep or had his headphones jacked in. Before she dug out her keys again, she tried the door. Unlocked, as usual. Dumbshit. The couple next door had been cleaned out just last week.
She pushed open the door and stepped into the tiny entryway. All three rooms led off from it, and lights were on in all of them. Jesus, the place smelled worse than usual. She pictured rotting food leaking out of his fridge.
“Chick?”
She stuck her head in the kitchen first. The usual piles of dishes and crap on the table and counters, but otherwise empty.
“Chick?”
She checked the front room, which, as always, was a mess, books and discs and tapes scattered everywhere, half a dozen overflowing ashtrays. Chick was a chain-smoker and a slob: two of the reasons they didn’t live together.
She said his name once more, then walked into the bedroom.
; Oh, Jesus Christ, no.
Paula stood just inside the room, looking down at Chick. He was sprawled face-up on the floor, headphones plugged into his ears, and three holes in his head—one under each eye and one in the middle of his forehead. She couldn’t move, just stared at him, at the blood and the bits of flesh and bone and hair sprayed out on the floor around his head.
No, Chick, no…
She closed her eyes, nearly lost her balance, opened them and reached back for the doorjamb to steady herself. Her heart was beating hard and fast, pounding up her neck, pulsing her vision.
“Jesus, Chick, I told you,” she whispered. “I told you, one day…”
She took a couple of steps toward him, then stopped, shaking her head. She looked around the room, still dazed, not quite remembering it. The overstuffed chair, she could reach that without getting too close to him, without stepping in the blood.
She worked her way through the piles of clothes and books and scattered pieces of music, then dropped into the chair. Perfect spot, she could stare at Chick without moving her head. Jesus.
It occurred to her then that whoever had killed him might still be in the apartment. A shot of adrenaline arced through her and her heartbeat jumped up again. No, she told herself, she’d been in all the rooms; she couldn’t believe someone was hiding in a closet or somewhere. Besides. Paula looked at the blood around Chick’s head, the pieces of bone and flesh and, yes, Chick’s brain, that were stuck in it. She wasn’t an expert, but too much had dried; she could tell it must be hours old.
She tilted her head back and stared up at the ceiling so she wouldn’t have to look at Chick. Flyers and posters covered the cracked plaster, yellowed and wrinkled notices for Pilate Error, Black Angels, his old band Tab Rasa, and even a couple for Sister’s Machine, the first band they’d played in together, more than fifteen years ago.
She wasn’t going to cry now, she knew that. She thought she should, and she knew she would later, but right now she just didn’t have it in her. She was too damn numb, too wiped out.
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