by Adam Carter
“I’ll pick up where you left off,” Lin told Baronaire. “Try to get something out of her if you can. All I got was …” She shivered. “I don’t know. A coldness, a distance. There’s something about her I don’t like. She’s the most callous woman I’ve ever met, and I don’t even have a clear idea why I think that.”
She could see she had slightly unnerved Baronaire. “Thanks,” he said as he strolled away.
Lin watched him go and bit her lower lip. “This isn’t good is it, sir?”
“No, Detective,” Sanders said. “Nor is it normal. Well, tea break’s over, let’s get back to work.”
Lin complied. She would be glad to get home to bed. She just felt it was going to be a very long night yet.
CHAPTER SIX
Sitting while within the office of Detective Chief Inspector Sanders was a new experience for Baronaire. Dalton had had a second chair brought in so they could sit as equals with the desk between them. She was presently going over some of her notes, resting the end of her pencil on her moist and perfect lips, her large eyes roving her scribbles from behind her glasses. Baronaire was trying very hard not to look at her in any sexual way, but he was attracted to her and just wished he wasn’t. Baronaire did not usually go for strong decisive women: he preferred them submissive, weak. It was why he worked so well with Lin: she was simply too strong for him to ever look at that way. There was something about Dalton though, something he found irresistible.
She glanced up from her work and he looked away. When he looked back she was reading her notes again. He felt like a schoolboy caught taking a quick peek down the teacher’s top while she leaned over some books.
Finally Dalton set down her pencil and leaned her elbows on the desk, staring at him over a steeple of fingers. She did not speak and Baronaire attempted to meet her gaze. There was power within her eyes, supremacy, the knowledge she was untouchable. It was seldom that Baronaire was ever unsettled about anything, but this woman had put him on an edge from which he felt about ready to topple.
“So,” she said at last, “tell me how many people you’ve killed.”
As first questions went, it was a big one. It was also not a question, for he noted she was clever enough to phrase it as an open invitation. He shifted slightly in his chair, telling himself it was not because he was uncomfortable, even though he knew he was fooling himself. “I don’t know the precise figure,” Baronaire admitted, “but you have access to Sanders’s reports. All my assignments are fully documented.”
“I wasn’t talking about the assignments, Charles.”
Baronaire froze. He did not know what to say, how he should react, so he said nothing.
There was a small smile upon Dalton’s face. “Do you remember your first, Charles? What was her name?”
Baronaire shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Tell me about the last one then. Surely you have to remember her name at least?”
“Who are you?”
Dalton’s smile was broader now. “That’s the question I was going to ask you.” She carefully removed her glasses, folding them neatly and setting them to one side. As stunning as she was wearing them, Baronaire noticed a subtle change in her now. He could see her face more clearly, saw that she was indeed beautiful. There were no blemishes on her skin, no make-up even. Josephine Dalton was natural beauty through and through.
“Tell me about Agnes.”
That caught him out, and he knew he had waited too long to provide a cover. “Detective Lin, Detective Foster and I were in Scotland,” Baronaire said, “on a case. We completed the assignment and left. There was some issue with the local police, which we helped out with. Agnes McBright was employed to look after our target. She was unfortunately in the house when I took him out, but she didn’t see anything.”
“She ended up in the hospital,” Dalton said, checking her notes, although Baronaire knew she had no need to do so.
“There were problems,” Baronaire repeated. “We fixed them. The integrity of the case wasn’t harmed.”
“You drank her blood.”
Baronaire narrowed his eyes. “If you’ve read anything odd in the reports of either Lin or Foster, I can assure you …”
“Silly boy,” Dalton said, leaning back in her chair. “I’m here to investigate Sanders. He knows that, because I all but told him that much. Don’t you think it strange I turn up not long after you file that report? Just after I read about an attractive young woman admitted to hospital with massive blood loss?”
“I didn’t attack her.”
“If that’s your story, feel free to stick to it, Charles.” She was eyeing him playfully, plainly enjoying his discomfort.
“You’re not here to investigate Sanders are you?”
“Clever boy. I need Sanders running around, making phone calls to important people. I want him flustered and unfocused. Gives me an opportunity to talk with you and Jeremiah.” Baronaire could not help but widen his eyes slightly at this. “Yes,” she continued, “I know all about you and Jeremiah. Your little … secrets.”
“Tell me.”
Her frown was very slight. Baronaire had been hoping to trick her into revealing everything she knew and cursed himself for reacting so quickly. He was headstrong in his pursuit of knowledge and had revealed far too much in those two simple words.
“I’d rather you tell me,” she replied. “What does it feel like when you take the life of young women? Do you always have to kill them? Do you even mean to?”
“I’m a police officer. I save lives, not take them.”
Dalton sighed. “We’re really not going to get anywhere with an attitude like that. And you’re not a police officer. Not officially anyway. Otherwise you’d have a job title.”
Baronaire knew this interview was turning very sour for him very quickly and attempted to seize control, even though he knew he would probably fail miserably. “I have a condition,” he therefore said. “A rare condition. But I work through it, and I’m getting better.”
“You have powerful senses, the strength of twenty men, the ability to scamper up sheer walls.”
“I work out.”
“You can also become mist or the lesser animals; can that also be gained from working out in a gym?”
Become lesser animals? Baronaire had often found himself able to control dogs or rats – not talk to them exactly, just push them in the right direction – but there was no way he could actually become one, surely. He realised he was providing an incorrect reaction because Dalton was gazing at him quizzically.
“You didn’t know that?” she asked, genuinely surprised.
“What else can I do?”
She blinked, picked up a mug of paperclips and tossed the contents his way. The paperclips spread out across the table and she set the empty mug beside him. “You can do a lot, Charles. But you also have weaknesses. An aversion for water for one thing.”
“I don’t agree with the Channel Tunnel.”
She pulled a wry face. “Not quite what I was getting at. Your powers diminish in sunlight. And you can become … easily distracted.”
Baronaire wondered what she meant, then looked down to see that he had unconsciously counted out the paperclips into his hand and was replacing them into the previously empty mug. He pushed the mug towards her. Without any means of saving face, he shoved the remainder of the paperclips in his pocket. “So I have OCD,” he said. “Sue me.”
“A good save, but not an especially accurate one. Don’t you honestly have any idea what you are?”
“I’m a police officer.”
“I meant in a broader sense. Jeremiah knows what he is; have you never asked him?”
The truth was Baronaire knew precisely that Jeremiah could have provided him his answers at any time. But Baronaire did not trust Jeremiah. Sanders had a file on them both, of that he was certain, and he knew the file would be the truth. Jeremiah would twist things, play his mind games like he alway
s did. Ever since Baronaire had known him Jeremiah had been deceiving Baronaire into doing his dirty work. It had taken Baronaire many years to come to this realisation, but he was slowly beginning to break away from Jeremiah’s hold. He did not ask Jeremiah for the truth for the simple reason that he wanted to find out for himself. He wanted to owe the man nothing.
“Jeremiah’s a nutjob,” Baronaire said. “You’ve spoken to him. Did he tell you how old he thinks he is?”
“He did. Don’t you believe him?”
“Did he also tell you he thinks he’s an agent of God, put on this Earth to destroy someone or something called Alsa-Tet?”
There was a spark to Dalton’s eyes. She had not meant to give it, did not appear to have realised she had, although Baronaire had seen it. He had only mentioned Jeremiah’s ravings in order to highlight how unstable the man was. However, something truly disturbing had been revealed because of it. Josephine Dalton had heard the name before.
“Alsa-Tet,” Dalton repeated the word, playing it around her mouth for flavour. “And what exactly is Alsa-Tet, Charles?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know.”
“No.”
She continued to look at him for some moments, but finally turned away. Whether she had decided he was telling the truth, Baronaire could not say. Ultimately it did not matter. Whoever this woman was, she knew things about him she should not have. That meant she was either after him for a very good reason, or she was seeking information with which to destroy him.
“Are you looking to move me to some other department?” Baronaire asked.
“Your work here is good, why would I want to transfer you?”
“Why have you been looking for me?”
“I wasn’t. I just happened to find you. How close are you to your goals here? Jeremiah wouldn’t tell me anything, although I assume you’re intending to destroy Sanders at some point?”
“Sanders is my boss.”
“And also a man who could kill you. It’s very hard to kill someone like you, Charles, but Sanders could do it. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
It was, but Baronaire could not imagine that Jeremiah would have told her that. When he and Jeremiah had joined WetFish in nineteen eighty-three it had been to infiltrate the organisation and take out Sanders. Sanders and Baronaire had a history and Baronaire had vowed to make him pay. As the years progressed however it no longer seemed to matter so much, and Baronaire had finally found a place where he fit in. It was a secretive life, and therefore one he needed. He would not jeopardise that for the sake of revenge. He would not sacrifice his future for the sake of his past.
“People change,” he replied evenly. “I know Sanders doesn’t trust me, but one day that could change too.”
“How droll. Where’s Greyseed?”
Baronaire shook his head. “I honestly have no idea what you mean.”
Dalton stared at him again for some moments, then said, “Damn. I would have thought that formed part of your primary mission.”
“I don’t have a mission. Just a job.”
“Well go back to it then,” she said tersely. “I’ll call you again if I need you.” She put her glasses back on and returned to her notes. It took Baronaire several moments to realise he had been dismissed, although when he rose it was to leave the office as quickly as he could. He walked back to his desk in a daze, not having understood much of anything that had just happened. He could feel a dull ache forming in the back of his mind, which was odd considering he didn’t believe he’d ever before experienced a headache. He felt slightly giddy and all but collapsed into his chair.
“You look rough,” Sanders said, joining him then.
“She’s not after you,” Baronaire said before he could think to stop himself. “She knows what I am, and Jeremiah. She’s after us.”
Sanders’s raised eyebrow was the only indication that this news disturbed him. Baronaire knew the man well enough to understand this in itself was an extreme reaction of surprise. “Did she tell you this straight?” Sanders asked.
“Yes.” He debated whether to tell him her reaction when he had mentioned Alsa-Tet, but so far as Baronaire knew Sanders had heard nothing of the name either; and if Baronaire could hold secrets from Sanders it could only benefit him later. “She did ask me one peculiar thing though.”
“Oh?”
“Who’s Greyseed?”
Sanders shook his head. “I have no idea.”
“She seemed to think there was someone called Greyseed here. Is he one of the junior members of WetFish?”
“No. And no one I’ve ever interviewed or been interested in either.”
“A perp then?”
“Trust me, with a name like that I would have remembered. And the name of every perp comes across my desk. I do read every report, you know.”
Baronaire shook his head. “I need to get some sleep, my head’s a mess.” When Sanders did not answer he looked at the DCI to find him frowning. “What?”
“You don’t get ill, Charles.”
“I know. And today of all days. Stress of having someone throw the truth in my face I guess.” He had tried to make light of the issue, but he could see Sanders was still not smiling. Whatever this Dalton woman was after, Baronaire suddenly realised it was big.
“Go home,” Sanders told him. “Get some rest.” He smiled, placing a gentle hand upon his shoulder. “I think you’re going to need your strength tomorrow.”
Baronaire did not like it when Sanders was nice to him. It either meant the man was hiding something or that he was drunk. And Sanders was a notorious teetotaller.
*
Sergeant Daryl Flynn was trying to keep a close eye upon Dalton, although she was just sitting in her office scribbling notes. She had not so much as looked up in over five minutes now. He was sitting far enough away from the glass wall of the office for her not to be able to see him, hidden as he was by a desk partition. He became suddenly aware of someone standing beside him and looked up to see the DCI.
“We have a problem,” Sanders said severely. “She’s asking about Greyseed.”
The blood rushed from Flynn’s face. “You want me to get rid of her?”
“No. No, don’t be silly. If Dalton disappeared they’d only send another. And murdering police officers is never something to take lightly. Just be ready when this thing goes sour. We all need to be ready.”
Flynn nodded and turned back to his observation. He started. Dalton was still sitting at her desk, pencil in hand, but she was now staring straight at him. Their gazes met and Flynn was petrified, staring into those large dark eyes boring into his soul. There was a tight smile upon the woman’s face which told him perhaps Sanders was not the only one here who could lip-read.
Flynn shook his head. Dalton had returned to her work. He could not move for several minutes, and when he did it was to get a cup of water. His hands were shaking. Whatever Sanders said, there was a part of him which thought it would indeed be best to just put a bullet in Dalton and be done with it. It was a large part which was growing by the moment.
CHAPTER SEVEN
He had not wanted to leave his colleagues in the lurch, but in truth Baronaire was glad when he got home. Sanders could deal with most problems, but Baronaire suspected this new one was beyond even his abilities to control. Now that he knew this Dalton woman wasn’t actually interested in Sanders, that she had used that as a cover in order to get close to Baronaire and Jeremiah, he was a little more relaxed. It meant WetFish would not be shut down. What it portended for him personally he could not say, but he would feel a lot better about it once he had got some rest.
He fumbled for his key and it was only when he had entered his flat and was locking the door behind him that he remembered he didn’t ordinarily use the door at night. He could simply drift in from the outside and the neighbours never noticed. He was tired and not thinking straight, however, and put it all down to the silly problems at work.
Baronaire’s flat was tiny. He did not draw a salary from his work at WetFish, and in return Sanders paid for everything he needed, which was surprisingly little. Comfort was never really an issue with Baronaire since he didn’t spend much time at home. A television was an essential in order to create white noise, but aside from that all he had was a bed and a cabinet where he kept his books. He owned several, although most of his reading material came from the local library. Baronaire had never been a hoarder, and he often wondered what a burglar would do to pass the time should he happen to break in.
Noticeably there was no lighting within his flat, for he could see better in the dark than during the daylight, his super senses kicking in at such times. Also he had no gas bills, since he had no need for an oven. Baronaire gained sustenance from two sources, one of which was extremely regulated by Sanders himself. Ordinary food and drink held no interest to Baronaire.
Presently he headed towards his bed, not even bothering to read a chapter of the book he was currently halfway through. He undressed slowly, slinging his trench coat over a worn and battered chair, before stripping down entirely. Baronaire felt no extremes of temperatures: even in the winter months he did not feel the slightest chill. He lay upon his bed slowly, taking his time in getting comfortable. It was not a bed in the traditional sense of the word: there was no mattress, no sheets and certainly no duvet. It was a hollowed out wooden packing crate, one large enough to contain his giant frame, filled with a rich deep brown/black soil. The soil was specially treated, enriched with nutrients and vitamins which Sanders had provided for him. These nutrients cut down on Baronaire’s need to feed on the other substance which sustained him. Sometimes he felt Sanders knew far too much about what he was, what he could do and what he needed. However, that Sanders knew these things at all was handy, for it limited the amount of times Baronaire needed to kill, and that could only be a good thing if he wanted to continue living among ordinary people.
He thought back to what Dalton had asked him. How many people had he killed? Who was his first? How did it feel? That latter was a question he thought about often. He always told himself he did not feel anything, that it was the means to keep him alive and that he no more thought about it than an athlete thought about taking vitamin tablets. But that wasn’t the truth, it was simply the lie he told himself so he could keep a relatively clear conscience. The truth was far darker, far more inhuman. Charles Baronaire liked the feel of life ebbing away in his hands. He liked to experience the pain, the torment, of his victims. He revelled in the pleading in their eyes, the tremor in their voices, the screams as they slowly faded unto death.