Soul Food

by Gareth Lewis

  'And those of his followers.'

  'And that's what you think he has planned for the angel?' she asks. 'To capture it?'

  'Probably. How often have you visited recently?'

  'Not much. It'd been a few weeks before we...' Her face pales. 'Oh god, could they...?'

  'We weren't followed. I knew Carlisle was interested in you, so I was watching.'

  'What if Fiona had followed me there before? She could have deduced...'

  'If she knew anything, she wouldn't have needed to keep up the act,' I say in a calming tone.

  I don't need her upset and drunk. Or more upset than being kidnapped by a gangster left her.

  'Is it possible he could control the creature with his technology?' I ask.

  She considers it. 'It's more likely than a new demon appearing where it hasn't been seen before. It'd mean significant advances, but he's worked on it a while. I think I can see how he'd have done it. The why I have more trouble with. But he was the builder. I was better with design, but he'd get there.'

  'One thing about the bodies,' I say. 'They had some kind of non-radioactive radiation type damage. Especially to the brains.'

  Her gaze loses focus a moment as she thinks. 'That may make a kind of sense. It could be from the intense vibrational differences of the thing appearing here. Direct, or indirect, contact with it could do something like that. And might explain how Ian managed to control it.'

  'Would proximity do any damage?'

  'Unlikely. Not unless it's maybe inches away from you. Even then, I doubt it.'

  She gets lost in her thought for a while. I wait till she speaks again.

  'Is he right? Have I turned away from the truth? Feels like my life's still dominated by it. Trying to flavour my soul right. Doing the same for others where I can. Do I have a duty to do more?'

  'What more could you do?'

  She frowns. 'Part of me wants to study deeper. But I'm scared I'll end up with Pierre. Or in a similar place, anyway. But not with anyone who could understand. Why study it anyway? Would anyone believe the truth without seeing it? And would I want to expose anyone to that? I'm not sure knowing hasn't soured my soul. Maybe ignorance is the only true happiness.'

  'And you call me bleak.'

  That gets a faint smile from her. 'Lacking an angel, he's experimenting with a demon.'

  'Looks that way.'

  'The hotel making a convenient site for the moment. Could...?' She hesitates a moment. 'Mortimer's death there probably drew Carlisle to it, didn't it?'

  'Seems likely.'

  She broods a bit longer.

  'You okay?' I ask.

  'I thought I'd built a happy life,' she says, not really looking at me. 'Now I'm not sure it's either happy, or much of a life. Having to face all of this again, I realise the dread has probably permeated everything I've done. If I die now, my soul is sour. I know for certain where it'll end up. Makes me wish I believed in God. Then I could at least pray.'

  'You call them angels and demons, but don't believe in God?'

  She shrugs. 'Probably wouldn't help, anyway. If there is a God, I have a hard time believing he's benevolent. Maybe just some cosmic farmer. Planted us all here to harvest souls for his true flock. What about you? Do you believe?'

  'No. Never really have. And now... If there is a God, I doubt he cares about us as individuals. Maybe he doesn't even see us as such. We're too small. Idiots call him a shepherd, ignoring where the sheep end up. The shepherd doesn't do the job out of altruism. Any care for his flock is tainted by pragmatism. The lord's my shepherd. He leads me to a fleecing, and then the slaughterhouse.'

  I doubt I'm helping her back from the edge of despair in any concrete way. I may even be joining her. At least any panic and shock seem to have faded. The drink probably helped.

  'In your farmer analogy,' I say. 'We're not the flock. We're not even the crops he grows to feed the flock. We're the fertiliser used to grow the crop.'

  After this life, we're, at most, soul food for other-dimensional predators.

  I'm not sure the reality of all of this has really settled in on me. I don't feel anywhere near as broken as everyone else seems to have been by such encounters. Maybe I just can't see it properly from the inside.

  Or maybe I just don't see the soul as being me. I'm the body, not the parasite. Whereas she's worried what if she is the parasite. If it's the only part of us that does survive the death of the body, then it's all we have to care about after.

  'Will you be okay?' I ask.

  'You have to go?' She doesn't look happy at the prospect of being alone.

  'Might have to. Stone was under surveillance. I'm probably going to have to deal with the repercussion of coming in alone. But if I hadn't, they'd still be debating what to do, if anything.'

  'Oh. I'm sorry. Will I need to give a statement?' She's understandably uncomfortable with the prospect.

  'Hopefully not. The truth will hardly help matters. I'll try and keep you out of it.'

  Our gazes lock for a comfortably long time.

  'Thank you,' she says after a while. 'For coming for me.'

  She's refilling the glasses by the time IA call.

  Time to pay the price.

  30

  Doing the right thing always comes with a cost. It's no wonder so many don't bother. But I can content myself that I'm bringing joy to Wolfe.

  She's salivating in glee, preparing to feast on my career.

  Sinclair doesn't seem to care. He simply looks uncomfortable with the early hour. Although I suppose a happy partner would make his life somewhat easier.

  Portelli's actually put his phone aside. It must be serious.

  We're in the precinct interview room. The drearier décor is probably more conducive.

  'Detective Blake.' Wolfe rolls my name around in her mouth like a succulent steak. 'Were you, or were you not, ordered to stay away from Stone?'

  'Yes,' I say. 'I was.'

  'Yet you met with him last night.'

  'Unintentionally. I was tracking down a person of interest in my case who wasn't where she should have been. I didn't know Stone would be there.' With any clinical degree of accuracy.

  The phone trace that led me there will be on record, and they'll already be aware of it. Obviously, Wolfe doesn't think it's enough.

  'A person of interest who met with the owner of the murder scene?' asks Wolfe.

  'Am I allowed to call it the murder scene? Or even to mention it?'

  'Answer the question,' says Wolfe.

  'A please wouldn't hurt,' says Portelli. I'm beginning to think he just does this because he likes goading IA.

  Wolfe's glower seems to suggest saying the word might actually cause her physical pain.

  'Was it a question?' I ask. 'It sounded like a statement to me.'

  'Why were you looking for this Marcy Lyons?' asks Wolfe. Anticipation keeps her temper in check. More or less.

  'I couldn't find her. Her place was left unlocked. I wanted to make sure she wasn't running.'

  'And why was she meeting with Stone? Was it related to the Mortimer murder?'

  'Not necessarily.' It's difficult to be honest while lying through my teeth. 'It may just have been business.' Okay, that may have stretched any connection to the truth.

  'What business?'

  'She's a medium.'

  'A medium?' Wolfe's expression almost suggests I'm lying. Didn't she read the notes?

  'Yes.'

  'Why would Stone want a medium?'

  'Maybe to talk with the dead,' I say.

  That draws a glare. 'I'm supposed to believe this?'

  'You're supposed to present evidence if you want to charge Detective Blake,' says Portelli.

  'He had contact with an individual he was ordered not to,' says Wolfe. 'And he's on camera assaulting two of Stone's men.'

  'Are they pressing charges?' asks Portelli.

  'That doesn't matter,' says Wolfe, almost gleeful. 'With his existing record, it's only a matter
of paperwork.'

  'Your area of policework,' I can't resist saying.

  Sinclair speaks before Wolfe's temper can get the better of her. 'Why did you attack them?'

  'They had punchable faces.' There's really little point in playing good now.

  Portelli sighs. 'Please remember your right to remain silent.'

  They don't need an official complaint if IA, in the form of Wolfe, are intent on pursuing the case. Which I kind of suspect she is.

  I knew this was coming, but didn't really have many choices on the way here. I did the right thing, no matter the law.

  'You're finished,' says Wolfe.

  'Could you be more precise?' I ask. 'If you mean this interview, I could really do with some sleep.'

  'You're finished on the force.'

  'Detective,' says Sinclair. 'You're confined to desk duty until charges against you are formally filed.'

  Wolfe glares at the delay. But they're probably more strictly governed by procedure than real cops. Understandably so. At least we mostly trust each other. Even IA don't trust IA.

  I'm not sure what reaction Wolfe expects, glaring at me with that triumphant smirk.

  I give her a smile, just because. Let her make of it everything she will.

  Sinclair finishes up the interview formalities. Not that it wasn't all a formality anyway. The questions were required, and they don't care that the answers were only partial.

  They leave without even saying goodbye.

  'You should think about getting your own lawyer,' says Portelli.

  I nod, though I have little interest in that just at the moment.

  Captain Walters waits until he's gone before joining me. Her anger's just about held in check. Not necessarily only anger at me, but I'm the main recipient, and convenient. 'What the hell were you doing?' she asks in a growled whisper.

  I may as well be a bit more honest with her. 'Stone had Lyons taken. I got her out of there, but she's disinclined to press charges.'

  She glares. 'You should have called it in.'

  'Had a fair idea who had her.'

  It only takes a couple of seconds for her to follow my reasoning. 'IA'd have gotten involved when they knew Stone was, and messed everything up. It was still a dumb move.'

  'Probably. But it was the one I chose in the moment.'

  She paces about, her frustration obvious. 'What did Stone want from her? And is she still in danger?'

  'I don't think so. He learned what little she knows.'

  'You should've called it in,' she says. 'Let me make the call. What, you didn't think you had enough trouble on you?'

  'No sense spreading it to the rest of the squad.'

  She leans on the back of the chair opposite. 'Is Lyons just a witness, or a suspect?'

  'I haven't ruled her out.'

  'You also haven't shot her yet, which I suppose is something.'

  'And it'll be difficult from a desk.'

  'Good,' she says.

  Is that it then? The end of my career? And my involvement in the case in any practical way.

  What now? It's not like I've got anything better to do with my life.

  31

  I'm hardly unfamiliar with desk-hugging. Paperwork always seems interminable. And in certain types of weather you're unlikely to detect much out there, so the office gets busier.

  Being limited solely to the desk is a different matter. Not being able to properly work cases for fear of contaminating any prosecution is frustrating.

  Not that this case will necessarily see a prosecution.

  Does the fact I haven't actually been suspended offer some hope? Are they not sure enough to prosecute? Are they trying to force me to quit or top myself? Or it could simply be a matter of all the paperwork they have to do to get there. And Wolfe's sadism.

  At least my condition offers me a degree of peace. Most of the squad avoid getting close, in case I'm contagious. They avoid even looking in my direction. They don't want whatever scent IA likes the smell of rubbing off on them.

  Except Jake, of course. Even if our desks didn't back onto each other. He's irritated I didn't call him for help, but accepts my excuse it was to avoid drawing him into IA's sights.

  He still treats me like we're working the case together. I'm not sure the reality has sunk in yet.

  'I've IDed a car near the hotel the night its resident went walking,' he says.

  'Carlisle?' I ask.

  He nods. 'Registered to his company, anyway.'

  'If he wants to run more tests, he may go back.'

  'I have surveillance on the hotel,' says Jake.

  'The captain signed off on that?'

  'We have had a couple of bodies there. Not counting the one you dropped.'

  'And if Carlisle goes there?' I ask. 'We can't charge him without ending up in the nuthouse ourselves. We've little chance of stopping him.'

  'I suppose I could shoot him,' says Jake. 'It works for you.'

  'Does it look like it's worked for me.'

  'Sorry. But we can't just let him get away with it.'

  No. I don't want that either. Not sure why. Maybe I just dislike the bastard.

  I doubt Carlisle would be armed anyway. And I've never been the kind to simply execute people, no matter how bad. I always give them a fighting chance. Those're the rules of the game. Or at least the excuse I've given myself.

  'We have a duty to stop him,' says Jake.

  'We have a duty to uphold the law. Laws don't cover this. Carlisle isn't stupid. He knows we'll be watching. He won't give us anything we can use officially. Or an excuse to shoot him.'

  'I thought you said he was crazy. Doesn't that mean he's likely to slip up?'

  'He's not that kind of crazy,' I say. 'His crazy is bone deep, but not stupid.'

  'But he's a criminal,' Jake says in frustration.

  'Not technically. That we know. I can do some digging while I'm stuck here, but I doubt we can find anything that's in any way provable. Okay, he's probably guilty of manslaughter. But do you want to explain that to the DA?'

  Jake's voice lowers to barely above a whisper. 'If the law doesn't cover it, maybe we should act anyway.'

  I give him a look. 'Why? Since when has right or wrong mattered to you?'

  Okay, that was too harsh. My frustration is getting the better of me. I didn't mean to go there. But he needs to be kept on track. He can't go doing something stupid right now.

  'Fuck you,' growls Jake, still keeping his tone hushed. 'How's this any different from you shooting criminals?'

  'Never without a reason,' I say. 'Or at least an excuse. Don't go landing yourself in prison.'

  His glare shows no sign of cooling anytime soon. 'I'll try not to disappoint you.'

  He grabs his jacket and stands to leave.

  He turns back before getting a step from the desk. 'You know I've always had your back. Even with all the insane shit you pull. I kind of expected the same.'

  'This is me having your back. You're still not recovered from seeing the thing, and its colouring your thoughts. I'm the same. Which is why we need to rein in our instincts, think through what we do.'

  'Like you charging in to save Madame Anastasia?' he asks. 'How's that going for you?'

  'Exactly.' It could well have been a stupid impulse. Which makes it worse that it still seems the logical move. 'We need one of us to still be on the force. I'm not walking away from this. I won't leave it for you to handle alone. Don't go off trying to, is all I'm saying.'

  He glares at me for a few moments, then walks away.

  I've no idea if I got through to him. Or how to deal with any of this. Maybe I do need to kill Carlisle. But better it's me that does it. Jake isn't a killer. He doesn't need that in his head, on top of the demon.

  Carlisle is just one problem though. Probably fairly minor, in the grand scheme of things. But one we can potentially deal with. To give us a false sense of control.

  The rest of it, we probably can't do anything about. Other than a
ccept, if that's even possible.

  If not, then they'll just haunt our thoughts until we break.

  32

  As interminable as desk duty can feel, why then do I stay late? After most of the others have gone home.

  Probably because I don't really have anything else in my life. And if I'm not working, I'll have to contemplate that all the more now I seem to be finished here.

  I'm losing the one thing I have in my life. If I ever really had it. Maybe if it'd meant more to me, I'd have done it right. But I'm not sure I could have done it any differently. I'm not sure I have it in me to be other than I am.

  I'm not exactly feeling suicidal, though I'm probably only a few steps away from that precipice. But my mind keeps drifting to what comes after this life.

  It doesn't help that I've finished up pretty much all the paperwork I've let accumulate over the months. I must be more organised than I thought, damn it.

  What can I do with my life after this? This life is all I'm designed for. I'm pretty sure I can't just switch sides the way Stone did. When did that happen? I'm sure that wouldn't have been a problem when I started out. Or maybe now I simply know myself better.

  Private detective? Too cliché. And it'd require even more of an excuse to shoot people. Infidelity cases would hardly be that exciting anyway. They wouldn't really fit the rules. Arbitrary rules I created to keep myself in line. Based on my view of life then.

  What about now? How much does what I've learned throw into a new light?

  It doesn't. Life's still as indifferent as ever. And I'm no different.

  The rules were never really an artificial guide on how to fit in. They were an excuse for how I am. A reason to do what I'm going to do anyway.

  This is what I am. A cop.

  For a little while longer, at least.

  The reason I can't see life beyond this is because this is what I'm meant to be. Getting fired or going to prison isn't going to change me. It'll just make things more challenging.

  I'll never be happy, but there may be a kind of contentment to be had.

  I just have to hope that'll be enough.

  I guess I'd better get on with the job then.