Jamie steered Mick to the bathroom, which was directly across from the front door. A shower, a toilet, a sink with a mirror. No room to swing even the smallest and most patient of cats. Clean, though, and Jamie said firmly, “You need a shower. Can you manage? Because honestly, I don’t think both of us are gonna fit.”
A wide-eyed stare, and then Mick nodded. “Good,” Jamie said. “I’m gonna use your phone. Okay?”
“You won’t . . . leave?” A creaky little whisper.
Jamie smiled at him. “Nah. Won’t go no place. You go clean up.”
Mick nodded; Jamie hoped this eerie tractability would wear off soon. Then Mick was in the bathroom, the door firmly closed, and Jamie went to call Lila and let her know he’d be home late.
Mick went straight from the shower to the mattress on the floor, long white nude body so skinny Jamie could have counted the knobs of his spine if he’d wanted to. Mick dragged the sheet up over himself, both eyes shut tight, and said again, “You won’t leave?”
“Staying right here,” Jamie said from the chair by the card table. “ ’Til you tell me you want me gone.”
“Okay,” Mick said and was immediately asleep.
Jamie sat in that uncomfortable chair, one elbow propped on the card table, and read, rather slowly, a book he’d found on Mick’s shelves called The League of Frightened Men. At five o’clock, he called in—very quietly, although it was clear that nothing short of a tactical nuke was going to rouse Mick—and got an update: the girl’s name had been Bethany Timms. She was twenty-two, a record-store clerk; her boss hadn’t liked her gothy friends. The clerk at the Tree of Life, who might have known something about the ring, had gone off shift before the Juliet team got there; Charlene Pruitt denied emphatically that she had ever seen the blue lace agate ring before in her life and was not much more helpful on the question of shoggoth larvae.
When it got dark, Jamie turned the lamp on. It was a couple hours after that when Mick rolled over, said, “Fuck me gently with a chainsaw,” and sat up, his hair in tangles down his back.
Jamie raised his eyebrows at him. “You better?”
“Yeah.” Mick ran his fingers vigorously through his hair, said, “Christ, what time is it?”
“Quarter after eight.”
“You must be wanting to get home. Girlfriend waiting, right?”
It wasn’t quite a sneer, but the walls were going back up.
“You gonna be okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” A hesitation, quite palpable, although Jamie didn’t think he was supposed to notice it, and Mick said carelessly, “It takes me like that sometimes, when I get something really strong. No big deal.”
“Okay,” Jamie said; he didn’t need esper to know Mick was lying, especially about the “no big deal” part, and he thought, as he got to his feet and replaced Mick’s book on the shelf, that that went a long way toward explaining why Mick was so allergic to esper training.
“See you tomorrow, then,” Jamie said to Mick, and Mick, rummaging for clean clothes, ostentatiously preoccupied, said, “Yeah.”
And that was that.
In the morning, Mick looked like cold leftover death, and Jamie knew without either of them having to say a word that he hadn’t slept. Jesperson noticed it, too, but did not comment beyond a dubious quirk of one eyebrow.
He was bringing them up to speed on what Gonzales and Peters had accomplished the afternoon before, when Mick said abruptly, “What about the Timms case?”
Jesperson gave Mick a dry look over the tops of his glasses. “Not our jurisdiction.”
“It was an occult murder. Doesn’t that make it ours?”
“She was killed by living human beings.”
“Practicing unlicensed necromancy.”
“We have no direct evidence—”
“Rescog is admissible.”
“Not as hearsay.”
“So give me the goddamned ring and a tape recorder,” Mick said between his teeth.
Jamie said, trying not to sound like he was intervening, “Have the police caught up with that little clerk yet?”
“No,” Jesperson said. “Natalie Vowell didn’t go home last night, and didn’t show up for work this morning.”
“I thought we weren’t supposed to listen to the police band, sir,” Mick said nastily.
“I don’t.”
Jamie said, “You could give us another day off from the shoggoths, sir. I did see Miss Vowell face to face, after all, which’ll be a help in finding her.”
“We don’t know the girl had anything to do with it,” Jesperson said.
“Why the hell else would the ring have ended up where it did?” Mick demanded.
“If we find Miss Vowell, we can ask her,” Jamie said to Jesperson, trying desperately to pretend both to Jesperson and himself that Mick wasn’t being unreasonable, trying to forestall another shouting match. But Jesperson’s attention seemed to be somewhere else, for after a moment he said thoughtfully, looking at Jamie rather than Mick, “All right. You can have the morning to track this errant clerk. But I go no farther than that.”
“Thank you, sir,” Jamie said before Mick could get his mouth open. “Come on, Mick,” And Mick was sensible enough to see he’d won as much ground as he was going to; he followed Jamie without demur, down to the garage to get the Skylark.
As he was backing out, Jamie said, “Where do we start?”
He had half expected to get snapped at for asking something so stupid, but Mick said, “Tree of Life. Lord knows I don’t want to do another rescog, but if we can find something of hers there . . .” He trailed off, then muttered unhappily, “Christ, I feel like a fucking bloodhound. Just give me something with her scent on it and watch me go.”
“If you think she was one of the people who murdered Bethany Timms, then we want to bring her in. Don’t matter how we do it.”
“No, I suppose not. Tree of Life, then, and let’s hope Charlene isn’t there.”
Mick’s luck was not in. Madame Anastasia was minding the counter, and as soon as they walked through the door, Jamie understood why Mick had been trying to avoid her. “Mitchell, darling!” caroled Madame Anastasia, a big white bosomy woman with her hair dyed henna-red. “How delightful to see you again! And who is your very large friend?”
“Didn’t know your name was Mitchell,” Jamie said out of the side of his mouth.
“And if you like your balls where they are, you’ll pretend you still don’t,” Mick muttered back, then said with bright, false cheer, “Charlene! Don’t tell me I forgot to let you know I’d gone to work for the BPI.”
The expensively made-up face of Madame Anastasia fell so fast it was a wonder her foundation didn’t crack. “The . . . the BPI? Mitchell . . .”
“We were here yesterday,” Jamie said politely, and did not let himself smile at her double-take. A lot of white people reacted that way, as if a man his size and color oughtn’t to be able to code-switch. “We didn’t get a chance to speak with you.”
“I told those two other agents everything I know,” she said, rather shrilly.
“Of course you did,” Mick agreed, hitching one buttock up onto the counter in a way that suggested he was settling in for the duration. “We’re not here to ask you more questions, Charlene. We just want to know if Natalie Vowell left any of her personal belongings lying around.”
She stared at him for a long moment; then her eyes narrowed in vindictive triumph, and she said, “I knew you could rescog.”
Mick didn’t miss a beat, just smiled back and said, “Actually, that’s my partner. Things, Charlene. Did she leave any?”
She looked from Mick to Jamie. “I should ask to see your ID. I know you, Mitchell. I know how far—”
Mick, with a long-suffering sigh, flapped his badge at her.
She was turning red. Fury, Jamie thought, and remembered Mick’s bitter crack of the day before: Charlene sure can pick ’em, can’t she? He wondered how long Mick had worked for Charlen
e Pruitt, and filed it away with the rest of the questions he was never under any circumstances going to ask.
“I’ll go see,” she said in a tight voice. Her heels beat a hard staccato rhythm into the back of the store.
Mick turned to Jamie, poised to say something, and Jamie said, “Man, you don’t need to tell me how much you hate her.”
It was almost funny, watching Mick trip over his own tongue. Finally he said, “Oh. Good.” Then a sudden frown pulled his eyebrows together, and he said accusingly, “You’re not nearly as stupid as you like to make out.”
“Well,” Jamie said, grinning, “I guess you caught me.”
Mick’s jaw sagged, and Jamie would have quite liked to find out what he would have said, but the trip-trap of Madame Anastasia’s returning heels brought them both sharply back to business.
Natalie Vowell had left her umbrella at the Tree of Life; after last week’s rain, it was hardly surprising. Jamie thanked Madame Anastasia with great politeness, took the umbrella in one hand and Mick’s elbow in the other, and marched them out of the store before Mick had time to object. Once in the parking lot, he let Mick pull away and tossed the umbrella at him. “You want to do your bloodhound thing, now’s a good time.”
“I don’t,” Mick began, trying for indignation, and then his hands clamped on the umbrella and he said, “Fuck.”
“It bad again?”
“Not as much. It’s just—God! The people who have touched this thing! Let’s hurry, okay?”
“You got it,” Jamie said, unlocking the Skylark. “Just tell me where to go.”
“She’s at the Greyhound station,” Mick said, slinging himself and the umbrella into the car. “Panhandling to get enough money for a ticket.”
“She getting close?”
“Not very.”
“All right then,” said Jamie, and put the Skylark into gear.
They had no difficulty in either finding or apprehending Natalie Vowell. She panicked when she saw Jamie looming through the plastic benches and crumpled travelers, and tried to run. Mick caught her easily, shoved her one-handed up against the nearest wall, his long nails threatening to tear the limp cotton of her blouse. “Okay, princess,” he said, in a low, controlled voice. “I think we all know why we’re here.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“Oh, please. You can’t lie to me, princess, so don’t even try. Tell me about the ring.”
She was starting to cry, not the pretty tears girls of her age sometimes used to get their own way, but big, gulping, snotty sobs. Jamie didn’t blame her, though he wished she’d be quieter about it. He smiled pleasantly at the approaching station official and showed his badge, which caused both that man and several others to back off in a hurry.
“Mick,” he said under his breath. “Not our jurisdiction.”
“I want to know first,” Mick said, leaning close enough to Natalie Vowell to kiss her. “I want to know, Natalie. And you’re going to tell me. All about Bethany Timms and that blue lace agate ring.”
There was a long moment, queerly intimate, silent except for Natalie Vowell’s sobbing breaths as she stared into Mick’s pale, fanatical eyes. Then, as suddenly as if someone had flipped a switch, she howled, “It was Bobby’s idea!” and the rest of her confession poured out of her. She’d helped murder Bethany Timms, taken the blue lace agate ring. But then she’d had second thoughts, yesterday morning; she’d wanted to get rid of the ring and its load of guilt, and hadn’t been able to think of any better way to do it than to add it to that basket of cheap rings in the Tree of Life.
Poor silly bitch, Jamie thought without any sympathy, and Mick said, “Let’s find some goddamn cops.”
Their afternoon was chewed up by the police and the paperwork and the great disgruntlement of the detective at having her suspect nabbed by ghoul hunters, unameliorated by her officers’ steady success at collecting the people Natalie Vowell had named as participants in the ritual, the murderers of Bethany Timms.
Mick kept his composure this time—clearly the umbrella really hadn’t been as bad as the ring—although that was a mixed blessing at best. Jamie finally had to invoke Jesperson to dispel the threat of being brought up on charges.
“The Old Man wouldn’t like knowing you’re taking his name in vain,” Mick said, sliding into the Skylark.
“If you tell him, I won’t ever give you a ride home before turning the car in again,” Jamie said mildly, and grinned at Mick’s startled glance.
The same spot in front of Mick’s building was free. Jamie pulled in. Mick made no move to get out, and after a moment, Jamie gave him a sidelong glance, eyebrows raised.
Mick was staring down at his hands. “I, um. I need to say thanks.”
“You’re welcome. What’d I do?”
“Um.” He was blushing now—a thing which Jamie had never expected to see, no matter how long they were partners—and he shook his head so his hair fell to shield his face. “You, um. Yesterday. You took care of me. Nobody’s ever . . . oh fuck I am not talking about this.”
“You don’t have to. I don’t need to know.”
One bright pale eye peered at him from behind the curtain of dyed-black hair.
“Mick,” Jamie said patiently. “I am not out to get you. I don’t care what shit you pull or how hard you ride me. I don’t care that you’re white, I don’t care that you’re gay, I don’t care that you’re a son of a bitch, and I don’t care that your fucking esper ratings can kick my ass. You’re my partner, and that means we’re on the same side. You read me?”
Mick pushed his hair back behind his ears, looking at Jamie strangely. “You really think it’s that easy?”
Jamie burst out laughing, a great bass roar that had Mick trying and failing not to join in. “Oh hell no. ’Course it ain’t that easy. It’s just the way it is.”
“Oh,” Mick said and grinned at him, nothing held back. “Okay then.”
“Get your skinny white ass out of the car and go get some sleep,” Jamie said, grinning in return. “We’re back to them shoggoth larvae tomorrow.”
Sarah Monette lives in a 106-year-old house in the Upper Midwest with a great many books, two cats, and one husband. Her first four novels were published by Ace Books. Her short stories have appeared in Strange Horizons, Weird Tales, and Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet, among other venues, and have been reprinted in several Year’s Best anthologies. (Jamie and Mick have, so far, appeared in two other short stories.) The Bone Key, a 2007 collection of interrelated short stories, was re-issued in 2011 in a new edition. A non-themed collection, Somewhere Beneath Those Waves, was published the same year. Sarah has written two novels (A Companion to Wolves and The Tempering of Men) and three short stories with Elizabeth Bear. Her next novel, The Goblin Emperor, will come out from Tor under the name Katherine Addison. Visit her online at www.sarahmonette.com.
He thought of some presence somewhere beneath me, undefined and huge and with eyes that saw everything, regardless of the dark or the distance.
THE EYES OF WATER
Allison Littlewood
The world above and the world below were divided by a few feet of earth, but out here, it seemed impossible the other could exist. Above, market stalls; brilliant sunshine; a car park surfaced in dust; an ever-present circle of Mexican girls, no more than five or six years old, holding out handfuls of embroidered handkerchiefs. No one wanted handkerchiefs, but they bought them anyway at the sight of the downturned mouths that said, “I’ll cry if you don’t.”
I passed stalls selling lace and dresses, brilliantly colored pottery and carvings. When I didn’t stop the women pointed the way to the cave, being helpful. They called out, “Maybe later.” I knew this was so they could catch me on the way back, claiming a prior arrangement, but I nodded anyway. It was my first trip to a cenoté—one of the many flooded caverns that fractured the Yucatan Peninsula—and I was already half immersed.
The narrow path led away from th
e stalls and towards a dark hole in the ground. As I approached I saw that steps had been cut into the stone; the steeper sections were bridged with wooden treads. There was a rope in place of a handrail and a sign bearing the caution,
“Wet stone are slepering.” I wondered if Rick had noticed it. He’d be down there already—I’d seen his battered pick-up in the car park—a sign that he belonged, if only in part, while I was merely a tourist.
The sign was right, it was slippery, and I surrendered the macho impulse and clutched at the rope. I couldn’t see anything for a few steps, then caught a glimpse of the palest blue below; went on, careful where I placed my feet, until I reached the bottom. I looked up and saw the cave. The water was spot-lit, creating a turquoise glow that darkened to indigo at the edges. Stalactites hung everywhere, save for a brilliant white spot where light speared through a hole in the ceiling. There were vines too, slender and dark, threading down to touch the water; then I realized they were the roots of trees growing above, outside in some other world.
The cenoté was beautiful. It was also empty: no Rick, no tourists. I wondered what it would be like to be here alone in the dark, and shuddered.
A splashing sound: there was someone down here after all. A shape spun out of the brilliant white place where the beam of sunlight hit the water. The shape turned into arms, elbows, a head. It shook itself and the spray sent shockwaves across the water.
“Get in here, Alex,” Rick called out. “It’s sweet. Wash the sweat off.”
I tugged off my shirt as I headed for the pool. The water was clear, and small black fish were swimming in it. I wanted to dip my head into the cold, to dive down and see what lay beneath. I wanted to swim into the circle of light and see what happened.
Rick laughed, his voice echoing. It was too loud, too brash—too foreign, maybe. I didn’t like it, and for a split second, I wished him gone; then saw his grin and found myself grinning back. We swam. He told me about his projects, what it was like to really explore, to dive the cenotés, passing from one cave into another. How they had discovered a whole new system. It was infectious, his enthusiasm, always had been. I envied him. His smile was the same as ever: clean, white, broad. His skin was smooth then, and his body was whole.
The Year's Best Dark Fantasy & Horror, 2013 Edition Page 49