by Dan Stout
“I’m somewhat off gift liquors at the moment,” I said.
“That’s right.” She frowned. “Your incident. And it turns out that poor girl was almost killed instead of you. Of course, I hear she’s been arrested. I’m sure it’ll be quite the scandal. Bad news for anyone involved with her.”
“It wouldn’t have happened if Lowell and Cordray hadn’t changed their stories. Almost like they were forced to do it.”
“The power of a conscience, Detective,” she said. “But once someone is punished for Haberdine’s death the negotiations can resume. All will be well.” She swung her glass, indicating the scope of the darkened city, the oil fields, the entire world beyond the house’s walls. “And we can all go on with our lives.”
“Really?” I said. “And the protests, the unrest? A single scapegoat and you’ll make it go away. Just like that.”
“Yes,” she said, and slid toward me. “Just like that.” She snapped her fingers. “Are you surprised to see that kind of power?” She leaned over the table, getting closer, until I could smell the liquor on her breath and see the flecks of gold in the brown of her eyes. “Real power doesn’t play by the rules. Not your rules, not any rules.” She waited, as if daring me to contradict her. “Real power is the rule.”
Another long pause and then, with a smirk, she melted back onto the couch. She smacked her lips as she sipped her whiskey. “Of course, if that Flanagan arrest had stuck, none of this would have come to light. I wonder if you bungled that arrest because you’re incompetent . . . or is it because you were distracted by the sincere, pretty Gellica?”
“Gellica.” I sneered. “She’s a nice tool for you, isn’t she? The way you had her pry information out of me. The way you had her deliver your messages—”
“Detective.” Paulus’s smirk broadened into a grin. “She’s an envoy. Delivering messages is in her job title.”
“But there’s more than that. I think I know the story behind the two of you.”
“Oh? And what’s that?” She stood and stretched, then ran a finger along the top of a nearby lampshade, checking for dust. Rubbing her fingers, she tsked and opened a nearby window. A cool breeze immediately entered the room.
“The reason you brought her back to serve on your staff,” I said. “Back to her hometown and the mother she resents. You couldn’t stand to let your daughter out from under your thumb, could you?”
She turned from the window with a laugh. “I hope that’s not an example of your best deductive logic.” Her back was to the television, and the tattooed glyphs on her arms stirred and jumped in the flickering light. “Gellica says she has a mother. I am a woman. Therefore, I’m her mother.” Her lips curled down in a disappointed pout. “Really, Detective. Am I the only person in this city with a uterus?”
“Right. It’s completely common for bosses to sneak into their employees’ homes and sit around in the dark. Though that’s more the actions of a jilted lover.”
“Now you’re even farther afield than before. Gellica is mine. But she’s neither daughter nor lover. She’s something else entirely. And you . . . ” She paused. “You don’t need to know what that is.” She stepped closer and her anger showed in the crackle of her voice. “You’re such an uppity little man, Carter. A low-class shit-kicker who tries to share the stage with his betters. Even Gellica is out of your league, and believe me, that’s saying something.”
I rubbed the back of my neck. “Could be. I’ve always run with a bad crowd. Which reminds me.” I decided to throw out one more feeler. “What’s Harlan’s little friend Heidelbrecht got on you? He’s awfully confident that you won’t move against his boss while he’s in town.”
“Heidel . . . ?” She stopped moving, though the breeze from the window billowed the curtains, and for a moment it looked like she had wings. “How do you know who he is?”
“I’m a detective. I detected it.”
“He’s in town.” She said it with no inflection. “Where is he?”
I looked at the whiskey, but held off. “Hard for me to say, being the low-class shit-kicker that I am. I wouldn’t want to play out of my league.”
Her tattoos lit up like neon signs during happy hour, and I knew I’d pushed too far. In the space of a breath the breeze swelled into a gale as it snaked around the room, scattering papers and knocking paintings from the walls. I started to turn, but I was struck by something invisible. It hit me below my left armpit, hard enough to actually throw me from my chair. My leg flew to the side and struck the coffee table and the remaining glass sailed in slow motion, precious amber liquid spilling out as it went. I regretted not taking a taste.
I landed on the carpet and the tumbler landed a few feet away. The thick shag kept it from breaking. I wasn’t sure my ribs were so lucky. I tried to stand, but the wind moved so fast it snatched the breath from my lungs even as it kept me pinned facedown to the carpet. Plush fibers tickled my nose as I managed to turn my head enough to see a little of the room. The ambassador’s shoes entered my vision as she walked past me. On the edge of my peripheral vision I could see her dress hanging perfectly smooth. Not a single pleat was ruffled by the wind.
Over the rushing din I could hear Paulus’s voice. “I don’t know what to say.” Her tones were velvety, acting the diplomat even as she crowed over me. “But I’m afraid that it seems like we’re at something of a loggerhead. Do you know what a loggerhead is, Detective?”
I mumbled something that was meant to insult her family tree, but the words didn’t make it past the carpet threads. Paulus’s heel dug into the base of my skull. There was no getting out from under her. My limbs were held fast, as though a giant hand locked them in place.
Her voice got softer, more gravelly, yet still cut through the whirl of the wind. “Well,” she said, “I suppose it doesn’t really matter at this point. Our relationship won’t be repaired by a vocabulary lesson, will it?”
Ice cubes clinked against glass as she drained her whiskey. When she spoke again the wheedling was gone. “Let’s wrap this up quickly, shall we? Tell me what you know about Heidelbrecht. Did he kill the Squib?” She pressed down harder with her foot. “Did he send you here?” Rage crept into her voice. It felt like my skull was about to crack open with the pressure. “Where is he?”
The sound of a lion’s roar echoed through the room. Paintings shook on the walls, or at least it seemed like they did to me. From everywhere at once there was a noise like the final rush of water down a bathtub drain. Immediately the pressure was off my back. Paulus’s shoe was still pressed into the back of my head, but I could move again. I twisted, snaking out my hand and grabbing her by the ankle. I turned my head and looked up, just in time to see the punch coming.
She hit me square in the forehead, which is not exactly textbook form, but it got the job done. My bell rung, I let go of her ankle and was rewarded by a kick to my chest, though blessedly without much behind it. She hit me again, then again. Her punches were untrained but vicious, rage-filled blows that wracked me with pain as they landed on my already swollen and bandaged face.
A second roar rumbled the floor and walls. Paulus cursed and stopped her assault. “This better be good,” she snarled. With a swift step she strode over me and was gone.
I was immensely grateful. Nicely roared, whoever you are.
Another door opened. I struggled to get up, but failed. A figure hustled toward me, but from my position on the carpet the face wasn’t clear in the television’s glare. I blinked. Taking a second beating in as many days made it hard to focus my eyes, but my rescuer was dressed in a black so deep and uniform that it seemed the very fabric of darkness had come to life. I was pulled to my feet, but my legs buckled. The deep bone pain and reopened wounds combined to swirl my senses and cloud my mind. I thought I was going down into the carpet a second time. Then a shoulder propped under my arm and held me steady, bearing my weight as I was hel
ped from the room. My head lolled to the side, and I inhaled a breath of expensive perfume undercut by something else, something feral and musky. It was a primal scent, like the big cats’ section of the zoo.
We left the house by the front door. I reached for the entry vent, but the warmth of the god beneath the Mount was far beyond my reach.
My savior helped me down a few houses, then tucked me into a recessed doorway. I caught a fleeting glimpse of a dark figure retreating back toward Gellica’s home. My rescuer seemed more one of the living shadows that Guyer had spoken of than a real person. Was it Gellica? Had she been there the whole time? And if so, had she trapped me, or was it her who helped set me free?
Head spinning, body aching, I pushed forward. Beaten and dazed, I oriented myself using the pull I felt for the Mount. I didn’t tell myself I was imagining it, just abandoned myself to its truth. I stumbled back toward the car, leaning on buildings and street signs for support as I went. The smart move would be to go home, then consult with the folks at the Bunker in the morning. But I’ve never shied away from pressing my luck.
Judging from Paulus’s reaction, I needed to see what our local mad scientist had to say for himself. And I needed to get there before Paulus got her hands on him.
33
I SAT OUTSIDE THE UNREMARKABLE building that housed Heidelbrecht’s lab and stared it down. It seemed the good doctor was relocating. The gate stood ajar, a cargo van parked halfway through the opening. The van’s rear hatch stood open, and the grounds around it were staged with metal filing cabinets and cardboard boxes. Trash and loose papers stuck on the inside of the fence, as if the packing were happening so fast that speed had trumped precision. All in all, it looked considerably worse than the last time I’d seen it.
Of course, I was in no condition to criticize. I’d glimpsed my reflection when I’d gotten in the car and it wasn’t pretty. Dark circles under swollen eyes, blood-caked bandages where Paulus’s blows had torn open barely closed wounds from my last visit to this lab. If I saw myself from a distance, I’d probably arrest me just on principle. I suppose I should have changed the dressings on my wounds. Instead, I angled the Hasam’s rearview mirror so I wouldn’t have to look at myself.
My pager buzzed. Code 25: Report in to Dispatch.
I figured Bryyh wanted to make my advisory role even less active, now that Talena was under arrest. I dropped the pager on the passenger seat. Better if I didn’t know.
On the seat beside the pager was a pad of paper missing its top sheet. Time was short, but I had run a quick errand before returning to Heidelbrecht’s lab. I’d dropped a letter in the mail, addressed to Ajax and containing nothing but his name and a short message. Thanks for recommending that Dinah McIntire track, it said. I’ll let you borrow the new Daizey Chainz album sometime. Back in my apartment that album was on my turntable, and the cardboard jacket sat on the shelf, holding a file with everything I’d learned from Flanagan, Paulus, and more. If something happened to me, at least the kid would have a shot at unraveling the mess and saving Talena. Not that it was likely. But when the deck’s so heavily stacked against you, sometimes your only choice is to go all in.
Sudden motion at the lab caught my attention. The front door swung open and a man emerged, with a face as bruised as my own. My old friend Knuckles was carrying boxes of files to the van in the driveway. I killed the engine on the Hasam and strolled up to the open gate. Sliding along the side of the van I glanced around cargo doors. Knuckles had gone back inside, closing the front door behind him.
I slipped my suit coat off and held it ready while I scooped a fist-size rock from the debris along the fence.
When Knuckles reemerged, I threw my coat in his face, blinding him just long enough for me to follow-through with the rock. He dropped quietly. I retrieved my jacket and his revolver. Things go so much easier when they don’t see you coming.
Popping the front door open, I peered down the hospital-clean corridors. I couldn’t see anyone, but I could certainly hear activity. The dogs in the lab were going berserk, and the barking echoed off the hard surfaces of the floors and walls, providing a repetitive, chanting refrain as I dragged Knuckles in by his ankles and dumped him through the first unlocked doorway I could find. I figured I’d whacked him hard enough that he wouldn’t be a problem for the short time I’d be in that nightmare factory.
I took a deep breath. The scent of cinnamon was in the air. I headed toward the lab with my gun drawn.
Passing through stainless steel entry doors, I found the lab in disarray. Broken beakers and test tubes were scattered over the floor, and every step I took crackled with the crunch of broken glass. But even that was barely audible over the barking that had gone on nonstop since I’d entered the building.
The dogs were frenzied. Or rather dog, singular. One brindle mutt had been freed of his plastic muzzle and torn his defenseless cage mates to shreds. An aerosol canister lay in the far end of the cage, its top gone. It looked like it’d been bashed into something before coming loose. The dog pressed himself against the chain-link of the kennel, long strings of drool lolling from his mouth, his entire body convulsing with the force of his barks. I looked in his eyes and only madness stared back.
Motion to my left caught my attention. Heidelbrecht was on the other side of the kennel, close to the entry gate. He held a briefcase in one hand and, ludicrously, a goldfish bowl in the other. The gap-mouthed fish peeked out at me from behind a tiny plastic castle. For a second, we simply stared. Then Heidelbrecht slammed the briefcase and fishbowl on a nearby table, and dove for the kennel gate. He pulled and it swung outward, providing him a minimal amount of protection against the mad dog. But it was enough.
The dog ignored Heidelbrecht and sprinted toward me, hoarse barks and slobber preceding its charge. I carried two guns but I didn’t fire. I can’t explain why, other than to say that it wasn’t the dog’s fault that he was there, and maybe I remembered the frightened, hopeful looks in their eyes the first time I’d seen them.
I grabbed a high-backed stool and held it in front of me, legs pointed at the dog like a lion tamer. The dog kept coming, trying to get past the confusing array of stool legs. I backed up slowly, keeping a lab table to my back, looking for a way to contain him.
A low voice spat out an obscenity, and I risked a sideways glance to the doors. Knuckles walked in, wobbling on his feet. He’d recovered faster than I expected. The dog snarled and abandoned me for this easier prey. It intercepted Knuckles with a leap, slamming into his chest and taking them both to the ground. The barking ceased, only to be replaced by the sound of tearing cloth and flesh, then Knuckles’s screams echoed off the hard surfaces of the lab walls and floor, one more victim in that building which had heard so much suffering.
I let the stool fall to the floor and looked for Heidelbrecht.
The table where the mad doctor had set the case and the fish was now bare, except for a ring of liquid where water had sloshed over the side of the fishbowl. Beyond was the door to a small office attached to the lab. I ran in, pushing the door open with my shoulder. There I found Heidelbrecht cramming the briefcase with file folders, the goldfish bowl perched on the table beside him.
He looked up and saw me, eyes wide and panicked over the artificially calm lower half of his face. Despite that, he never stopped packing. I took a slow step forward, closing the door behind me.
“So,” he said. “You’re the man who was here two days ago. Correct?”
“No.” I showed him the barrel of my .38. “I’m the man who’s here today. Put your hands where I can see them.”
Heidelbrecht complied, raising his hands in the air. He sat behind a box-shaped metal desk with no pictures or mementos. The whole office had been decorated to favor record-keeping over comfort. One of the few windows in the lab was behind him, letting in light but not allowing for much in the way of scenery.
“I don’t belie
ve it’s a good idea to stay here.” His eyes bore into me, intense and impassioned above a mouth as rigid as a Mollenkampi’s jaws. “It’s not entirely safe.”
“What’s the matter?” I said. “You think Harlan Cedrow might not show up and rescue you?”
“He and I have parted ways.”
“Divorce rates these days are shocking.”
The doctor’s head tilted and he stared at me, unblinking.
“I know you,” he said. “After poor Flanagan was arrested you were in the papers. Harlan asked me to pull any file involving you.” He let out a burst of laughter, and his voice stepped up a half octave. “It took some searching,” he said. “But we turned it up.”
Heidelbrecht leaned back slightly. I tensed, but he seemed to be enjoying his revelations.
“You had a profile in the Care Center files, but it was tied to another patient. Janet . . . no, no. Jennifer. Jennifer Michaels!”
I didn’t respond, but he seemed to like what he saw in my eyes. “Practically your whole life story in there,” he said. “Information is a very powerful thing.”
“Information is exactly why I’m here,” I said. “What are you doing in this place?”
“I think it would be unwise to discuss that with you.”
“Wouldn’t be wise to keep your mouth shut, either.”
“Now, now. Let’s not indulge in idle threats.” He lowered his hands slightly, in what I suppose he thought was an attempt to be calming. “I can hardly be killed while under arrest.”
“Who’s under arrest? We’re just two private citizens having a conversation. And if you were to turn up dead, it’d be with your bodyguard’s bullet in your head.” I pulled Knuckles’s weapon out of my jacket pocket.
The maniac scientist sat back, apparently unsure if I was serious or not. That made two of us.