by Ilsa J. Bick
“I told her she couldn’t afford me. Then she hit me.”
Scott felt sick. “Hannah hit you?”
“Don’t worry about it. I told her I’d burn out her eyes. She stopped.” Grace slid a packet of cigarettes off a broken-legged nightstand, knocked out a smoke, and jammed the cigarette into the corner of her mouth. Scratching a match to life, she touched it to the cigarette and sucked. The cigarette flared orange, and she shook out the match as smoke jetted from her nostrils. “So,” she said, tossing the cigarettes back onto the nightstand and the match into a butt-filled ashtray, “you think she’s still going to feel the same about her little Scotty once she finds out?”
“Don’t threaten me, Grace.” His lips shook. “Don’t goddamn threaten me.”
“I’ll do anything I want.” She gave a silent, taunting, dog’s laugh. “And such language, it’s blasphemy. Isn’t that what dear, sweet Hannah’s always saying? What will Hannah think if maybe I tell her all those dark little secrets she hasn’t got a clue about dear old Isaiah? Then what, Scotty? Kill me? I don’t think so. In fact—”
“Damn you!” Scott unfurled so quickly Grace didn’t have time to duck. He caught her right cheek with his open palm. The smack was a loud crack, like an icicle breaking off. The blow knocked the cigarette out of her mouth, and she stumbled back on her heels then went down, banging her head against the edge of the nightstand.
“Oh, God.” Hitting her knocked him off balance, and he’d come down hard on his right leg. Pain roared into his knee, and he thought he was going to burst with shame. “Oh, God, oh, Grace, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean . . . I wasn’t thinking . . .”
“Shut up.” Her long hair fanned over her face, and she nudged a shank away with the back of her hand. Her right cheek was blotchy, the outlines of Scott’s fingers tattooed in red welts. A trickle of blood inched from her mouth and when she spat, her saliva was foamy and red. She laughed, a little crazily. “Now I got a matching set. Who says you don’t take after old Mom?”
Scott squeezed his hands into tight fists, felt his nails bite his palms. Nothing was working out; he was supposed to make things right and now look. He’d hit her, and he didn’t hate Grace, he loved her. “Are you okay? Is the baby . . . is it . . . ?” His voice choked off when he saw her eyes.
“Screw the baby.” Her teeth were orange with blood and her eyes bright as lasers. “And screw you. Now I want you to listen really good, Scotty-boy, okay? You listening?” When he nodded, she said, “Here’s the deal. You touch me again, then you better not ever go to sleep. Because I’ll kill you. I’ll stab a knife through your fraccing heart. Then nothing gets settled. No one will pay. No one will ever know that your dad wasn’t crazy. But we do things my way.”
“All I care about is what happened to my dad. The rest of it, this stupid cause, Devlin Stone, the future”—and then his fury and regret got the better of him—“I don’t care!”
“Care,” she said. “Or you’re dead.”
22
1900 hours
The ER receptionist told Ramsey that Dr. Slade was discussing a patient with Dr. Summers and to go on through. When he wandered back, he found Amanda arguing with an older, round-shouldered, reedy, sixty-something man with thick snow-white hair and eyebrows, and bright black eyes.
“No, no. If that appendix is hot, I take it,” Summers was saying. His voice had the rounded vowels of a Slovakian native, and was a little raspy, the kind a smoker got over time. There were yellow nicotine stains on the thumb and first two fingers of his right hand. “Not so old I forgot where an appendix is. No, no,” he said when Amanda started to object, “you go have a good time. Only you two best behave, or people will talk.”
Ramsey was embarrassed but Amanda said, “More than they’re talking already?”
“Can I help it if you feed the rumor mill?” Then Summers laughed and that should have been that. But as Amanda flipped through Ramsey’s noteputer, Summers sidled up, limping a little as if favoring a bum knee. He glanced over her shoulder and then his keen black eyes slid to Ramsey’s face. “You have a question about the Schroeder file?”
“Ah . . . not really.” Ramsey wanted to get Amanda out of there, anywhere they could talk. “I just had a few questions. I thought since Amanda had the training . . .”
Summers puffed up. “I was doing autopsies for years before Dr. Slade arrived. No one ever questioned a single report.”
“That’s because the four homicides that happened before Dr. Slade arrived, you shipped those bodies down to New Bonn. That was the right thing to do.”
Summers’s bushy white eyebrows knit above the bridge of his nose. “Isaiah Schroeder wasn’t a homicide.”
Ramsey glanced around, aware that everyone in the station—even a janitor dragging a cart of mops and cleaning fluids that smelled of ammonia—was trying very hard to look as if they weren’t listening to the conversation which, of course, they were. Ramsey shook his head, spread his hands in what he hoped looked like conciliation. “Honestly, it’s really not worth bothering about.”
“Not worth it?” Two spots of color dotted Doc’s cheeks. “Then what was so gosh-darned important you needed to hike all the way down here to see Dr. Slade?”
“Doc.” Amanda put her hand on Summers’s arm. “I don’t think Detective Ramsey’s suggesting you did anything wrong.”
“Mmmm.” Summers reached for a patient file, shrugging his right shoulder as he did so, as if he had a touch of arthritis, and showed them his back.
Once in the hall, Ramsey said, “That was pleasant.”
“He’s right to be pissed,” Amanda said. “No matter how you gussy it up, you’re saying he’s wrong. So, want to do this in my office?”
“I could use something to eat.”
“Well, you don’t want what’s in the hospital cafeteria.”
“So let’s go somewhere.”
“Okay. What do you like to eat?”
“I have choices?”
* * *
When that detective came in, Gabriel almost flinched. Almost. He’d heard of Jack Ramsey, that business with Quentin McFaine. Seeing him now, up close . . . a tickle of apprehension made the hackles on his neck stand. Ramsey looked tough, those scars on his face, and a lumpish blue-green bruise on his left cheek.
And now the report on Isaiah Schroeder. What did that mean? Maybe he should go down to Slade’s office later on after the operation. Maybe he could figure out what was wrong, and . . .
He was so deep in thought that he flinched when an OR nurse tapped his right shoulder. The shoulder was sore from the tetanus shot he’d finally remembered.
“Sorry,” the nurse said. “They’re ready for you in Room Two.”
“Sure.” Gabriel shrugged his achy right shoulder to work out the kinks. “On my way.”
23
Amanda suggested a place by the lake south of town. They took separate cars, Amanda in the lead and Ramsey following in an unmarked patrol car he had on loan. The loaner was handy because he could pop his Raptor into the glove box. Right at his fingertips, if he needed it, and he’d stash the weapon in his hotel room at night.
He’d expected a rickety place with sagging planked steps and squealing hinges on the door. Instead, the restaurant was opulent with a design that smacked of refined taste and a lot of money. The buildings were distinctly modernist, with Tharkad cedar-lapped shingles on peaked roofs. Off the main lobby was an art deco bar, with contemporary stained glass. They ordered martinis—Tharkad vodka, three olives, straight up—and Ramsey knew from the first icy sip that this was going to be one fantastic place.
The main dining room had glass walls, and they were shown to a table directly across from the kitchen, also glass-enclosed, and where they watched chefs in tall white hats and white aprons bustle around stoves and ovens. “You’d never expect a place like this in a place like Farway,” Ramsey said.
“Mmmm.” Amanda sipped at her drink. “The owner was originally from New Bonn. He used to come up
here to hunt.” She pointed to a variety of hunting trophies arrayed on a half wall of wood: Morin odopudu heads, a Terran elk, and a very large Kyotan armor bear pelt. Then she hooked a thumb toward the kitchen. “He’s also the pastry chef, the one drizzling chocolate.”
The waiter took their orders, and then the owner came out, still in his apron. When Ramsey commented on the Kyotan armor bear, the owner regaled him with the story of how he’d bagged the animal: “I’d been out all day, and it was still pretty cold, this being when the bears came out of hibernation. Hungry buggers, they’ll come down the mountains a lot farther than usual. Anyway, I hadn’t seen one all day and . . .”
Ramsey let his attention wander. Hunting left him cold. But he nodded at all the right places and when the owner said he had to get back, Ramsey waited until he was out of earshot then leaned in and said, “Is this what everyone talks about up here? Hunting?”
Amanda toyed with her swizzle stick. “Other than work, that’s what people do up here for entertainment. That, or camping, fishing. I don’t hunt, but I like guns.”
“So what do you do? For fun, I mean.”
“You mean, when I’m not working, which is most of the time?” She gave a small smile. “Work some more. Do a little research on the side. And I have horses.”
“I thought you looked like a horsewoman.”
“How does a horsewoman look?”
“Leggy, and you’ve got muscles in your forearms. I figure the only people like that either work a lot with their hands, or handle big animals.” He paused. “Why’d you come to Farway?”
She told him about Towne. “I didn’t do politics well. But facts are facts. They didn’t like what I said about the Little Luthien killer, and they not so politely showed me the door. Maybe it was for the best.”
* * *
Ramsey said, “What’s the story on Summers? From the way you and Hank talked about him, I kept expecting this geezer on a heart-lung machine.”
“He might still end up there if he doesn’t quit smoking so much.” Amanda sighed. “Doc hasn’t been the same since Emma—that was his wife—died of cancer last year. Now he just works all the time. Actually, Doc reminds me of my dad in a way. Dad dropped dead one night on his way to the hospital. He was in his hover, and I think he knew he was going to die because he pulled over to the side of the road, called my mom, told her he loved her and to make sure I got all his old equipment and then he just . . . died.” She looked sad. “He could’ve called for help. But instead he used his last moments to say good-bye to his wife. I hope someone loves me that much someday.”
* * *
Amanda seemed to know a lot about wines. She ordered a bottle of Davion Syrah, a full-bodied, deep purple wine redolent with the aroma of spice. Ramsey took a sip, rolled wine around on his tongue, then swallowed. “What about the town?”
“Farway?” She swirled wine and studied how it flowed along the sides of her glass. “It’s not as crazy as the city. Here, people leave their doors unlocked. Nothing really bad ever happens here.” She paused then said, bemused, “I can’t believe I just said that. There’s a crisped, dead guy in my refrigerator.”
“Do you miss the city?”
“I did at first. The first six months were hard.”
“I’ll bet. This place, it’s like crossing into some kind of time warp. No ’Mechs, no hovers, the cops all carry guns, and the cars, there’s not a fuel cell in sight. It’s like the whole town’s a throwback.”
She sipped wine. “But it also grows on you. I mean, take a look around. I’ve got a fabulous old house, land for my horses. There’s open space, mountains, the lake, and you can see the stars at night. When was the last time you saw stars in the city?”
An image shimmered in his mind’s eye: of an orange glow obliterated by the lash of snow across his face. And he heard a child’s scream . . . “I can’t remember,” he lied. “But you must miss some things.”
“Oh, sure, I didn’t say I didn’t miss things. I miss all those great restaurants. I miss seeing the latest holos. Here, you have to wait a month for a download. I miss coffee shops where I can get something other than a straight black, milk, or sugar. And I miss the anonymity. I used to walk out of my teeny-tiny little apartment and get lost. Here, everyone knows everybody else, and they hang together in their cliques.”
“Is the religious thing part of that?”
“Yeah, you noticed that? The New Avalon Catholics versus the Old Romans—you can get consumed, you pay too much attention. I’m a good Jewish girl, so I don’t really care. I just try to watch my language.” Her full lips were stained faint purple from wine, and they curled in a grin. “That’s hard. We surgeons got toilet mouths, especially in the OR when things are going shitty.”
Ramsey laughed. “How do you cope?”
“I don’t let things get shitty. I’m a malpractice lawyer’s worst nightmare.”
“And what about the rest of it? I mean, are you”—he searched for the right word—“do you take sides?”
“You mean do I believe in God?” She did the eyebrow thing again. “About as much as I believe in the second coming of Devlin Stone.”
* * *
They had tangy salads sprinkled with sugar-glazed plownuts and rich, blue-veined Ganymede gorgonzola. Then the waiter brought their main courses: lake hippolepsis crusted in Stemson pecans for Amanda, and an Asbaroskis elk-steak with cabernet sauce for Ramsey.
“So what about you?” Amanda forked fish into her mouth. “You from Denebola?”
Ramsey sliced off a wedge of steak. The steak was done to perfection: a little charred with a juicy red interior. He chewed, swallowed, groaned with pleasure. The sauce was rich and complex, and did odd but not unpleasant things with the meat. “You got to taste this,” he said, slicing another bite. “Give me your plate, I’ll give you some. This is fantastic.” But instead of handing over her plate, she took his fork and put the meat in her mouth. He was mildly taken aback and then decided he liked the way this felt, like they’d known each other a long time and certainly well enough to trade bites of food without getting finicky.
She rolled her eyes as she chewed. “I told you,” she said, around steak. “Wait, wait, try this.” Then she passed his fork back with the fish. She waited while he sampled and made appreciative noises then said, “So, stop stalling. Tell me about yourself.”
“Not a lot to tell.” This was, considering his history, a bit of a stretch. He saw from her expression that she didn’t buy that either. So he told her about being a kid on Devil’s Rock: “Hell of a place. I mean, it’s really like hell. Hot most of the time and you can’t breathe the air, so you’re stuck in these domed cities.” He told her about the three continents and then about vast volcanic fields on Ash. “You can walk for klicks and not see anything except black basalt. And, you know, the rock’s hot because of the springs just underneath. You can hear the water hissing if you put your ear close to the rock and turn up the gain in your helmet. There’s this desert, too, maybe two, three times as big as Terra’s Sahara. The sun heats the rocks all day but then the temperature really drops off at night, and if you sit out there, you hear the rocks cooling down and making these big popping sound as they contract, like popcorn or gun shots. You get a whole of bunch of rocks going at once, like weapons’ fire.”
They ate, with him talking about his family, his father’s business going bust. “The only way we were going to get any kind of education was the military. My two older brothers, they went for the Principes Guards. One’s stationed on Alcor and the other’s on remote assignment, I forget where. We’re not that close.”
“Why is that?”
“I’m a brawler,” he said, easily. “They’re clean behind the ears and I like—”
“Like breaking the rules?”
“I was going to say being inventive, but, yeah, I break rules. Anyway, the militia was the only way I could get past high school. Got my degree in criminal justice.”
“Why n
ot be a lawyer?”
“Please, I’m eating.”
“That good?”
“The only difference between a lawyer and a crook is that the lawyer figures out how to screw you legally.”
“Well, shrinks say that cops, crooks and lawyers are pretty much cut from the same cloth. It’s just that cops and lawyers are more civilized.” Her eyes drifted to his hands—the scars—and then she gave him a frank look. “Or, maybe, not. There are some good lawyers and even some innocent people behind bars . . .”
He cut her off. “No. Absolutely not. I know the guys I put in jail were guilty as sin. The rapists, the pedophiles, guys who figure they have a right to hurt other people just so they can get off and . . .” He sat back, shook his head. Thought: Hoo-boy, don’t go there. Looked up and said, “Sorry. That’s just a real sore point.”
“I can see.” She looked away, as if debating something, then turned back. “What would you do with them, then? The pedophiles, the child killers . . . what do you think would make it right?”
“I can’t answer that,” he said.
Her eyes on him, searching. “Why not?”
“Because once the child’s gone, he’s gone,” he said. His throat knotted. “No way to bring him back. No way to make it right.”
* * *
They didn’t say much after that. They decided against dessert and coffee—despite the wounded protestations by the owner—gathered their coats and pushed outside. The air was cold but not as bad as that morning, and they were close enough to the lake to hear the light churning of water. Ramsey didn’t feel depressed so much as oppressed, like a giant had grabbed his chest with both hands and squeezed. They walked in silence to their respective cars, and then Amanda said, “I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault. I just . . . I’m just a little messed up.”
A pause. “You want to talk about it?”
“I don’t think it would help.”
“Okay,” she said. “But I don’t want the evening to end like this. Let’s go for a walk down by the lake. There’s a path just off the restaurant’s deck. Let’s just walk.”