Luckily he hadn't asked for a lawyer, yet. Jesus was chatting, doing the good cop, offering coffee and cigarettes. Carmaggio came into the room with a carefully brutal expression on his face, and tossed his jacket over the back of a chair. That let Laureano have a good look at the piece that'd shot him.
"Laureano, you little motherfucker, you are in deep, deep shit," he said, turning the chair around and sitting down with his arms braced on the back. "We've got you on trafficking, we've got you on possession of stolen goods—you really ought to've filed the serials on those guns—assault, attempted homicide, on two police officers yet and in front of multiple witnesses. Incidentally, your fat friend Cesar is singing like he was on MTV. He don't like you so much anymore. According to him, he's an angel and you're the turd of turds."
"Hey, Lieutenant," Jesus said. "You don't have to come down hard on Laureano that way. He's not a bad guy."
"Not a bad guy for a pimping, crack-selling little shit who tries to blow cops away," Carmaggio said, enjoying himself. It wasn't often you got the opportunity to be completely truthful, and in a good cause.
Laureano recoiled slightly in his wheelchair, then flinched as it sent a stab of pain through his wounded leg. He was good-looking in a raffish sort of way, but there was a haunted look in his eyes that Carmaggio suspected had little to do with his wound or being in a police station, neither of which were new experiences for him.
"I want my lawyer," he said. "You gonna charge me, you got to give me a lawyer."
Both the policemen smiled. Yup, Carmaggio thought. We would. Good thing this was the late nineties; a decade or so before, they'd have had to use the juvenile system on little Laureano. Occasionally, legal changes did make things easier on the cops. Not often, but occasionally.
"Hey," Jesus said. "Did we say we were going to charge you?" He turned to Carmaggio. "Lieutenant, we don't really want to charge this guy, do we?"
"Oh, I don't know," Henry said. "Cute young chicken like this, he'll be real popular in stir once they put him in with the general population. He'll be the belle of the ball. Wouldn't want to deprive him of the experience of being sought-after."
That brought a reaction; more of one than Henry had expected. The young Puerto Rican was grimacing, clutching the arms of his wheelchair, sweating until Henry could smell the rank whiff of it. Not normal. Hardcases like this were in and out of juvie and then stir all their lives. Laureano had probably done his first killing around the time he lost his cherry. Prison wasn't more than a minor threat.
Jesus brought a cup of water from the cooler. "Here, chico, take this. C'mon, you'll feel better."
"I'm no sissy," Laureano said. "Don't you call me no sissy."
"Sure," Henry said. "You're a real man, muy macho. That's why you and your friends let a woman kick your ass up by Riverside last month."
Carmaggio tossed a glossy of Gwendolyn Ingolfsson across the table, a take from the prospectus Primary Belway Securities was putting out. The picture spun and settled before the gangbanger's eyes. That'll probably get a reaction.
Henry jerked back in surprise as Laureano screamed and tried to leap out of the wheelchair and across the table. The attempt failed as the wounded leg buckled beneath him; he caught at the edge of the table and screamed again as his weight fell against it, this time with pain.
"What the hell's going on in here?"
Captain McLeish broke through the door, watching as Henry and his partner levered the gray-faced suspect back into his wheelchair. His eyes narrowed.
"Carmaggio, that rubber-hose crap doesn't hold up in court, or hadn't you noticed."
Henry rose and dusted off his hands. "Laureano here just got a little excited," he said soothingly. "Neither of us laid a finger on him."
"He bleeding?"
"Nope, just jarred the wound a bit when he tried to get out of the wheelchair. No problem."
Carmaggio let the false smile slide off his face as the door closed behind his superior.
"All right, enough dicking around," he said. Laureano was hunched in the chair, eyes squeezed shut. "Talk, you little shit."
As McLeish had pointed out, beating confessions out of suspects was an exercise in futility, besides being a bad thing in itself. Any halfway decent lawyer could rip your balls off in court if you did anything remotely resembling the old third degree. On the other hand, they weren't trying to get Laureano to confess to a crime himself . . . and even the most modern practice didn't say they had to make him feel good.
"That wasn't a woman," Laureano said in a controlled hiss. "You believe me, it wasn't no woman. It just looked like a woman, maybe it was a bruja, I don't know, some sort of robot thing. Jose, he . . . She grabbed his gun and killed him with it, man, she just turned it around in his hand and blew his brains out. And she killed all the others, and she . . ."
Laureano put his face in his hands and began to sob. "I couldn't stop it, man, I couldn't do anything, I couldn't stop it, she just kept doing it and every time afterwards I touch a woman I see her and—"
Carmaggio looked away, embarrassed. Nobody should be stripped like that, not even a noxious little vermin like Laureano. Jesus was patting him on the shoulder, lighting his cigarette; he tossed his head toward the door.
Time for the Bad Cop to take a powder, Carmaggio thought, tripping the record switch and quietly slipping out of the room. The last thing you wanted to do was distract a talker once the dam had broken. He strongly suspected that this was the first time Laureano had said a word about his little out-of-this-world encounter on the mean streets. And speaking of taking a powder . . . Certain things reminded you of your age, and one of them was the bladder. He grinned at his reflection as he dried his hands. A signed, witnessed statement from Little Laureano the Alien's Pet, and they'd have a murder rap to pin on Ms. Ingolfsson. They might not be able to make it stick, of course; they might not even be able to hold her long. Riker's wasn't designed for superhuman time-travelers.
But long enough would do. He remembered the solid heft of the plasma rifle that Lafarge had made. In, out, job done. Time enough to worry about the consequences afterward. Henry Carmaggio had always paced himself by the task at hand, anyway.
He was just outside the door to the interrogation room when the first scream began. Not a long one, just a sharp agonized grunt. Henry flipped the door open and slammed it behind himself.
"What the fuck—"
Jesus had been sitting on the edge of the table, leaning forward sympathetically. He put a hand on Laureano's shoulder when the prisoner doubled over with a squeal of pain.
The second scream was louder, and much longer. Laureano reared up out of his chair, clutching at his stomach. His eyes bulged, whites showing around the rims. Henry started forward, and met an arching spray of blood from the open mouth. Together the two policemen caught the slumping, thrashing figure and lowered it to the floor. The shriek coming out of the gaping mouth was continuous and as nerve-shredding as a nail across a blackboard. Blood spattered, in their faces, on the walls, drops arching as high as the ceiling in slaughterhouse profusion.
Henry grabbed for the young man's chin, trying to stabilize the mouth so he could see where the hemorrhage was coming from. It jerked in his blood-slippery hand as the whole body arched and flailed. A hand caught him alongside the head, stunning him. The chin slid out of his hand, and Laureano bent until only his heels and head were touching the ground. The detective bored back in, shaking off the ringing in his head, but before he could touch the prisoner the whole body went limp with a boneless finality and fecal smell that were all too familiar.
"Dead," he said. "Son of a bitch. What—"
The dead man's head lolled. Something moved on the tongue, something that walked on six dainty legs and lifted a metallic head into the light. The dead mouth yawned wide, and a stream of them poured out over lips and teeth in a final gout of blood. One skittered forward, and Henry threw himself back with a shout of loathing, landing on his buttocks halfway across
the room. His gun was in his hand, but there was nothing he could shoot at, nothing at all—and Jesus batted at one of the little monstrosities with an equally unthinking reflex.
"Cristo!" the younger man shouted.
Something glittering clung to his palm. He shouted again, pain in his tone, and slammed the hand down on the table. The shout turned into a scream when he lifted it again; the head of the thing that had killed Laureano was burrowing into his flesh. The legs waved, gripped, pushed.
Carmaggio felt his mind go cool and detached. He scrambled sideways towards the chair with his jacket, only taking time to come to his feet when another slick-black shape scuttled across the worn boards of the floor. His left hand dove into the inner pocket of the jacket, took out the button-sized black thimble and jammed it into his ear.
"Lafarge! Christ, we're under attack, get moving. Little things like bugs, they killed Laureano—"
"Coming."
Henry danced sideways like a bear on a hotplate as a metallic bug skittered toward his foot. He came down with all the weight of his two hundred pounds on his heel, and there was a crunch sound and a fat blue spark. He yelled himself as he tottered back; even through the thick leather he could feel the heat, and there was a circular scorchmark on the floor the size of a demitasse.
"Stop that, you're just driving it in like a nail," he shouted at Jesus.
He caught the younger man's hand and shoved the edge of his pistol-barrel against the thing chewing its way into his partner's flesh. Something snagged at the weapon. Tiny legs, clawing for a hold. He twisted hand and gun towards the wall and pulled the trigger.
Crack. The discharge was much louder in a closed room than outdoors. Chunks of plaster flew from the outside wall; there was brick behind that, thank God, and no ricochet either. Tiny bits of metal spattered the wall behind the bullet. Jesus snatched his injured hand away and hugged it to his stomach, cursing. He staggered and nearly fell. Carmaggio grabbed him under the armpit.
"Christ, watch it, there are more of them!"
"Coming fast. Hold on."
"Hold on my ass," Carmaggio barked.
The camcorder mounted on the table went up in a shower of sparks and smoke. Tiny shapes climbed out on the ruined casing, waving their feelers in triumph. More scuttled across the floor. The two detectives went back-to-back, kicking frantically.
***
Gwen opened her eyes. The transmission was a meaningless buzz to her transducer, but the origin . . .
Samothracian patterns, the instrument said.
"Damn," she said mildly, cutting her link with the creatures inside the building above.
It wouldn't do at all to have her transducer open like that when Citizen Lafarge showed up. A pity; it would have been satisfying to finish them all off, but she'd made a good start.
The Draka pushed off from the wall of the police station and strode away down the street, whistling quietly and enjoying the mild spring air. For once New York didn't stink quite so badly, which was a relief. I think I'll take a turn in Central Park. Not too far away, and a place to rest her eyes.
At the corner she looked over her shoulder and smiled. They were probably quite unhappy, back in there.
***
They've stopped.
For one long second the crawling things hesitated. Then they turned and retreated; through the spreading film of blood from Laureano's corpse, into the baseboards, down through cracks in the flooring. Carmaggio staggered as the vise released his chest; he felt an insane giggle forcing its way up his throat. He straightened up out of his crouch and tried to reholster his pistol. That took several tries. Jesus was still glaring and waving his, with his hand dripping onto the floor half-covered with the prisoners blood and fluids.
"I think they've stopped," Henry said.
He still jumped at a rustle, but it was only a fragment of tape going thack against the ruined recording machine as it spun. When the door burst open he jumped again, then stopped stock still with his hands in plain sight.
Captain McLeish was there, with half a dozen uniforms. They all had their automatics out, trained on him and Jesus.
"Freeze! Freeze right there!" McLeish bellowed. His gun jerked to follow Jesus's movements, and the younger detective laid his own weapon down with elaborate care.
McLeish looked down at Laureano's body. "Shit on fire, Carmaggio," he said softly. "I didn't think even you would pull something like this right in the precinct house."
***
"That videotape saved your ass, Carmaggio," Captain McLeish said.
"Yessir."
Henry watched Laureano die again, watched Jesus and his own image dance around the interrogation room while the body flopped like a gaffed fish. His mouth felt papery dry at the sight, at the memory that came flooding back like a great wave crashing over a seawall and sweeping away men and the works of men. The grainy image was too coarse to show the thing crawling out on the dead man's tongue. That was something to be thankful for.
"That and the autopsy. So you didn't shoot the little spic. Not unless one of your bullets has teeth and burrowed from his asshole out his throat, chewing its way along. But you did it somehow. I've known for years there's something weird about your and your faithful fucking Tonto too. If Internal Affairs doesn't pin this on you, I will—one way or another."
At any other time, that might have been a serious threat. Carmaggio stared sightlessly at the pictures on the Captain's walls. The words bellowed at him were no more real, less real than the politicians and their smiles.
"You're on suspension—your badge and gun stay here, motherfucker. And that goes for your partner, when they let him out of the hospital. Don't think you can go whining to the union. You had a suspect die on your hands. Don't try the press, either, or you'll regret it even more."
"No, sir," Henry said tonelessly.
Badges belonged to the old world, where metallic insects didn't burrow through men's flesh, eating them out from the inside. Right now that was the least of his worries. A gun he could get anytime he needed one. Last night he'd half-seriously considered putting one in his mouth, just for an instant.
"Get out of here, and don't come back until we call you. Get out of this building, get out of my life."
"Yessir."
He walked numbly out of the office, over to his own, went through the motions of getting the essentials out of his desk and responding to the bewildered sympathy of his friends.
Then his hands stopped. Jenny. Christ, it'd been bad enough before. And she was working with the thing who'd sent the . . . things.
"I've got to get her away from there."
Chapter Nineteen
"What's the matter with you, Henry? You'd think I was taking you to an execution, not a party."
"Yeah, well . . . I've been sort of nervous lately."
"I know," Jennifer said quietly, and put a hand on his arm.
He'd told her that Laureano died in a fit. The papers had that much; what was more, she'd believed him without a moment's hesitation. The Post was hinting darkly at conspiracies . . . .
If they only knew, he thought, as the taxi passed 61st and pulled up in front of the hotel. A doorman hustled out with an umbrella.
He bit back a silent whistle as they went into the lobby. Upper East Side with a vengeance, he thought, jarred a little out of his introspection and welcoming the distraction from the icy bile taste of fear. An Art Deco space, full of evening dress and furs as the guests arrived for the reception in the upper ballroom. Brass, cream-colored marble, and bowing flunkies everywhere.
"Come on, it won't be so bad," Jennifer teased gently.
No, it wouldn't, if it was only social stress anxiety, he thought. Right now he felt like one of the guys in those old stories, going into a monsters den with only a bronze sword, and smelling the rot of those who'd tried before. There was a monster waiting for him. He had backup—the black button deep in his right ear—but it was still as dangerous as anything he'd ever done
.
Everything okay? he asked subvocally, as they walked up the curving staircase.
Standing by, Lafarge whispered. In theory Ingolfsson shouldn't be able to eavesdrop; the Samothracian's equipment had been designed to evade detection back on her home world, where the Draka had every sort of equipment. That was some comfort.
He shook loose his shoulders as they walked into the ballroom; no point in shouting how tense he was. His eyes took in the crowd with a jumping, flickering intensity. Financial types; he'd gotten more familiar with them since he'd become involved with Jenny. Old-fashioned portly ones, often with trophy wives several decades junior. Younger ones, male and female, lean and hungry-looking. Hangers-on from the Wall Street equivalent of the paparazzi.
"Why, if it isn't Jenny and her new friend," a voice said.
Time seemed to freeze as he turned. The voice was like nothing he'd ever heard, like a musical instrument with an undertone of vibrating bronze. She was taller than him, long-limbed and supple. The face he remembered from the pictures, but alive, it seemed to glow somehow from within, more alive than anyone else. Leaf-green eyes narrowed in mocking amusement, full of an ancient, innocent evil. Meeting them was a palpable shock, a physical tingling that ran down to gut and scrotum. Overlaid on it was the memory of insects vomiting out of a dead man's mouth.
He took the offered hand automatically. She smiled as she squeezed. Just enough to hurt a little; it was like having your hand in a velvet-padded clamp of braided metal wires.
"I've been looking forward to meeting you," she said.
"Yeah, I bet you have, Ms. Ingolfsson," Henry said.
"Gwen," she said. "Any friend of Jennifer's . . . And there's every reason we should cooperate to our mutual benefit."
Jennifer was looking from one to the other. "Is there something I should know about?" she said, with a little sharpness in her tone. "Have you met?"
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