by Dan Stout
38
THE DOGHOUSE WAS CLOSER TO the pump jacks and drill rigs. Outside the sound was deafening. Inside the insulated walls of the office it was muted to a dull thrum.
I walked into the entry area, a desk and reception spot that was traditionally deserted in most rigs. They all had areas like this—reception desks, filing cabinets, and fake plants, even though most rigs only saw a few visitors a year.
I walked around the desk, intending to head down the hallway, just as Harlan’s Mollenkampi bodyguard came around the corner. Ammon held a gym bag in one massive hand, shirttails sticking out of the unzipped end. He saw me and froze.
“Look, I just want to get outta here,” he said.
I had the drop on him, but we were too close for comfort; a gun is a distance weapon, and I like to be far enough away that my opponent can’t lay hands on me, but close enough that I can’t miss. I inched back, to give me more of an advantage, but stopped as I felt the metal corner of the filing cabinet press against my thigh.
Very slowly the big Mollenkampi raised his hands, gym bag dangling from one of them. “This is bat-shit crazy, and I don’t want any part of it.” He inclined his head further toward the hallway. “Harlan’s down there. I’ll lead you to him. All you got to do is let me walk.”
I was tempted. I really was.
“One question,” I said. “About Jermaine.”
“Who?”
My jaw clenched hard and my decision got easy.
“The kid whose lungs you filled with Squib smell,” I said. “The one who was driven mad and set loose on the Squib diplomat. The one someone shoved into a barrel of brine to get out of the hotel.”
The big guy was silent.
I said, “Because the Squib’s echo said that there was a cop in the room. Which to me meant Flanagan, but really any big, intimidating guy with a fake badge can look like a cop, when you get down to it. Flanagan had a soft spot for the kid, and might not have gone through with it. And you’re a better choice, anyway. Everyone knows that Mollenkampi aren’t affected by Squib smell. A Squib would be much more comfortable letting a Mollenkampi into the room than a human, and you’d have been able to keep your head and smuggle Jermaine out of the Eagle Crest without being seen.”
He breathed deep, in and out, not answering me.
“So all that makes me wonder . . . have you got a fake badge tucked away in that bag, Ammon?”
The gym bag hurtled through the air, spoiling my aim.
He closed the gap between us while my gun was pointed away. With long strides he was on me quickly and grabbed hold of my other arm. He struck my elbow with his other hand, trying to bend my arm backward, maybe break it. It almost worked. As it was, I fought to track the barrel of my revolver back to his center of mass.
I got off a single shot. He staggered, but stayed on his feet. I couldn’t tell if I’d grazed him or missed completely. He hit me again, and this time my revolver tumbled from my hand, bouncing against the file cabinet and onto the carpeted floor.
Pressed against the file cabinet, I lost my balance. Free arm windmilling for stability, my hand fell on a sheaf of folders. I clenched my fingers and hoisted the folders in the air. Papers flew between us. The big guy slowed for a moment. Even pros can’t suppress an instinctive flinch when something unexpected comes at them—at the very least they need a fraction of a second to identify what it is and decide whether to react.
And I used that moment to dive for my weapon. Before I got there a size thirteen wingtip caught me in the shoulder. Unlike his boss, Ammon didn’t dress in the vestment of the roughneck.
He came at me with fists balled and biting jaws spread wide. His suit coat fanned out behind him, like a hero in a comic book panel. He moved like one of those four-color heroes as well, a big guy used to letting his size intimidate people—no strategy, all show.
Same as when I met him at Harlan’s office, he gave no thought to protection for his neck. I swung upward with an open left hand, timing it with a slight step to the inside, aiming for the soft flesh of his throat. I intended to end this fight quickly.
It was a good plan. I don’t know if he saw it coming and reacted, or just happened to tuck his chin at the last minute. Doesn’t matter. The result was the same.
Hitting the oversized jawbone of the Mollenkampi was like punching a cannonball. My hand skittered over his tusks and between the toothy ridges beyond. My broken finger twisted again, the splint breaking open as I screamed and my knees buckled.
The only good thing was that Ammon was surprised enough that his fist didn’t connect. It whistled past me, a minor distraction compared to the agony that engulfed my hand.
The shattered splint caught on one of the thug’s tusks, holding the edge of my left hand in the crushing vise of the Mollenkampi’s biting jaws as they clamped shut. My pinkie and ring fingers snapped with a wet pop. Pain shot up my arm, numbing and biting in turns. I smelled blood in the air, and there was a second tearing pain as the Mollenkampi pulled backward and the bones of those fingers pulled apart.
His jaw mandible flicked out wildly, digging its claw into the wound, and stars danced across my vision. There was a sudden, vicious force as one of those wingtips connected with my knee, and I went down. The added weight was enough to tear the remaining flesh. When I hit the ground two of my fingers were still in the Mollenkampi’s biting jaw.
I pulled my wounded hand tight to my chest and waited for the follow-up blow. It didn’t come. I looked up to see Ammon bent over, head swinging from side to side, scrambling in his biting jaw with first his mandibles, then his hands, trying to dislodge my severed fingers while a chain of musical obscenities streamed out of his speaking mouth. I scrambled on my hands and knees, reaching for my lost revolver. Blood pumped across the carpet from the two stumps on my ruined left hand, and I fought waves of nausea as I crawled forward.
I dove the last few feet, stretching to grab the gun with my right hand. My fingertips brushed against it, almost closing when two strong hands grabbed the back of my jacket and lifted me into the air. The gun stayed on the carpet and I was flipped onto the reception desk. The wind huffed from my chest, and I was suddenly staring at the fluorescent overhead lighting while Ammon’s big hands fought for purchase around my throat. I tucked my chin immediately, buying a precious few seconds of time.
Ammon was to my left, trying to get a grip on me like a homicidal masseuse. I kicked and writhed, sliding on the loose papers scattered over the desk, but I couldn’t shake free. His grip was strong and he had leverage. Either he’d get underneath my chin and reach my windpipe, or he’d dislocate my jaw and get to me that way. I kicked again and waved my still-bleeding hand in the air as a desperate distraction. It didn’t work, but my other hand found something on the desk, underneath all the papers and folders. A letter opener.
I struck with no plan, no forethought about target placement. Just a desperate thrust as I blindly jammed the point of the opener into the tissue of his left bicep and twisted, doing my best to open up the wound. I felt the grind of the metal blade on bone, and I snarled in satisfaction, knowing that I was at least hurting him. Big Ammon howled, and his left hand fell away. I pulled the opener out, somehow keeping my grip on the now blood-slicked handle. I swung again, this time stabbing his right arm. This strike wasn’t as deep or wide as the first, but it did its job. He jerked back, letter opener still impaled in his muscle, and swiped at me with his injured left arm. There wasn’t nearly as much strength behind it now. I flopped off the desk, too stunned to get my feet under me. I hit the carpet, screaming as I landed on my injured hand.
Opening my eyes, I saw my gun no more than two feet away. I crawled forward. Twenty inches. Twelve. Six. Almost there.
Ammon appeared around the other side of the desk. I kept going. He took two long strides toward me. Bloodstained metal glinted in his hand. He’d retrieved the letter opener
. But with one more stretch forward, I reached my goal. The familiar feel of my service revolver nestled in the curve of my palm.
He dove at me with the bloody letter opener raised, but I’d brought a gun to his knife fight.
I left him in the reception room of the doghouse, a .38 caliber hole in his forehead.
* * *
All oil rigs are required to have emergency medical kits on hand, prominently displayed and easily accessible. It’s a hazardous profession, and crushed fingers aren’t an unusual occurrence on those giant metal skeletons. In all my life, I’d never been so grateful for a legal requirement as when I tore the white and red plastic box off the wall and dumped its contents in front of me. I kept telling myself that it wasn’t as much blood as it looked like as I coated what remained of my fingers with clotting powder and wrapped them with enough gauze to form a plug. I followed that with more bandage wrap, pulling it tight and trusting the powder and the pressure to stabilize the wound. It was an amateur operation, but at least I wasn’t going to bleed to death. It didn’t even really hurt until I was done, and the adrenaline started to fade. Then it hurt like all the imps in all the Hells were after me.
There was a small packet of painkillers in the kit. I cracked the bottle open and shook several into my mouth. I didn’t have the saliva to swallow them whole, so I crunched them between my insignificant human molars. The bitter taste made my jaw ache, but I trusted that the pain relief would kick in, and moved deeper into the doghouse.
* * *
I walked through the main office doors and found Harlan Cedrow, the scion of industry, the great-great-grandson of Rediron Drilling’s founders, sitting at a desk with his back to the door, pecking inexpertly at a typewriter. I paused before entering. The room rocked from side to side, and the doorjamb was a steady hand supporting me. A winter coat draped over the back of his chair, and there was no sign of anyone else in the room.
“I heard the gunshot,” said Harlan. “Was that a mere warning, or did one of the men get through the front door?”
“I’d say it was a pretty severe warning shot.” My voice cracked as I spoke. I kept my left hand elevated, my right arm cocked and my revolver tucked close to my chest as I aimed it.
He turned, the spring on his chair squeaking a meek protest. Behind him, the office’s picture window looked out over the ice plains, and it lit us both with the waning light of the day.
“Detective Carter.” He placed his hands on his desk, one of them conveniently close to the intercom. I didn’t have the energy to tell him it was useless.
He shifted his hand, pressing the intercom, and called out, “Ammon!”
I gave him the best smile I could summon under the circumstances.
“He and I already talked.” I showed him my heavily bandaged left hand. “Good thing I shoot right-handed, huh?”
The color drained from Harlan’s face. I gestured for him to get up with my head, leaving the barrel of my revolver pointed at his chest. He walked around his desk and paused by the picture window. Behind him the derricks and drills were still in motion, pumping impotently at dry reservoirs and bedrock.
“You’re going to lie down,” I said. “And put your hands over your head.”
He licked his lips. “I just need a little more time.”
I almost laughed.
“It’s done,” I said. “Don’t you know when it’s done?”
“Nothing’s done until I say it’s done!” His nostrils flared and his lips pulled into a tight, pale line. “They’re going to let this city die unless I save it.”
“They?”
“Them! Paulus and the mayor and the AFS and the Squibs. Every moneylender and bureaucrat who cares more about a dollar than about Titanshade, than the people who live here.” He went to one knee and raised his hands to the sides of his head. Fingers quivering, he pleaded his case.
“All those people,” he said. “Not one of them understands what I’m trying to do.”
“They think you’re planning to set the canisters loose in the city,” I said.
On his knees Harlan looked at me, eyes twitching. “But you knew better.”
“You don’t want to hurt the city,” I said. “You want to save it.”
He nodded. Slowly, tentatively. A deliberate up and down motion of his head.
“But,” I said, “you’re also willing to take some losses along the way, aren’t you? Haberdine. Stacie and Jermaine. Even your own men.” So many lives destroyed in his quest to preserve the status quo.
“Sacrifices,” he drawled. “For the greater good. We had to buy time. Enough to make the strike. The memory of those men will be cherished by future generations.”
I started to shake my head, but it hurt too bad to move. I managed a false grin and my best eight-fingered-man tough guy routine.
“No matter how it shakes out,” I said. “You’ll be rotting in prison. No one’s gonna cherish your memory.”
Harlan swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “That’s as may be. But I ask you this: If the AFS can be assured that there’s no end of oil to be pumped from below us, will I be in chains? Or will I be placed in charge of this vital national interest?”
“You’re wrong,” I said. But I couldn’t help but wonder: how much destruction would the government forgive if it saved an entire economy? Hadn’t worse things been swept under the rugs in politicians’ mansions before this?
I tried to keep my breathing slow and controlled, but I kept getting hotter. The room shifted unsteadily around me as I ran my damaged hand over my head. The bandage stopped at my wrist, and it was soaked in thick sweat as it came away from my forehead. I swallowed. It’d all be for nothing if I went into shock now.
I waved the gun at Harlan. “Turn around, and get on the floor,” I said.
He complied and I took a step toward him. Not thinking, I pushed away from the doorframe with my left hand, and the stumps of my fingers erupted with pain. Closing my eyes against the pain, I let out a crack-voiced scream as I fell back into the doorframe, left shoulder hitting it and supporting my weight.
My head swam and black dots squirmed on the periphery of my vision. Each breath came fast and shallow. I dropped my head down, crouching and steadying myself. If I passed out now, I’d never wake up.
I took a deep breath and closed my eyes before exhaling. I suddenly had the sense of time passing. I forced my eyes open and was surprised to find myself sitting on my ass. My mouth had a pasty, bitter film in it. I looked up, trying to find my prisoner.
Harlan was almost on top of me, crossing the room in long, gangly strides, snarling and full of messianic rage. I brought the revolver up and had to put weight into the act; it felt like I was moving through molasses. I fired, twice, not bothering to aim. The gunshots were accompanied by the sound of shattering glass, neither of which did my headache any favors. My vision clouded again.
I tensed, ready for Harlan’s assault, but what hit me instead was a biting blast of cold wind. Ice and snow bit my cheeks, the cruel nature of the landscape forcing itself into the room through the now-shattered picture window. Harlan was gone. Beyond the window I could still see his tracks on the fragile top surface of the ice.
I suppose he ran because he wasn’t thinking. I can’t claim that same excuse. I knew it was suicide, but I’d come too far, and too much depended on ending it.
I followed him out onto the ice because I’m a cop. I followed him onto the ice because he’d killed or been instrumental in the deaths of dozens of people, and in the bizarre experiments at the lab. I followed him because I didn’t trust the system that had fought me at every step of the investigation. I followed him because he’d almost killed Talena, and might still send her to prison. I followed him because every fiber of my being ached for justice, for judgment, for vengeance.
I crawled through the broken window of th
e doghouse and followed Harlan’s footsteps toward the derricks and pump jacks, illuminated by the cold and dying light of the setting sun.
39
MY PURSUIT WAS A STUMBLING, wounded run. The only sounds on the plains were the crunch-crunch of my boots on snow and the incessant whir of dead wind scraping over ice. I told myself that there were no voices in the wind, no lost hade whispering in my ear, luring me from my path. Instead I focused on the man ahead of me. Harlan Cedrow ran, and I gave chase. And the chase brought us inevitably closer to the skeletal shapes of the Rediron rigs.
We ran between the derricks and pumps that his family had built generations ago. We ran through snow that stole our vision and wrenched the breath from our lungs. The thick thermal gear was difficult to move in, for me and surely for him as well. With every step I gained on him, and with every step he knew there was less chance of escape.
I closed in on him not because I was faster, but because we both knew he had nowhere to go beyond the drills. To run blindly onto the ice plains was suicide. So we circled round the encampment, moving inexorably toward the derrick in its center, the oldest on site. Old as it was, it was taking part in Harlan’s mad hunt, too. Still moving, still searching after all these years, trying to pry its fingers deep into the ground beneath the ice, trying to force the very rocks to give up their secrets. I slowed my pace, knowing he’d turn in there. For a man who filled his office with pieces of oil-industry tradition, this symbol of family history would be an irresistible beacon.
This close to the towering machinery, the blossom of grease and petroleum smells was overwhelming. Ice and snow have no scent, and aromas are slow to emerge in the frigid cold. In the odorless waste of the ice plains, approaching the derricks was like walking into a bakery.
As I moved, I struggled to reload my revolver. I had two live rounds in the cylinder, and six more sitting useless in my pocket. A good way to get killed. One hand mangled and bleeding, the other crippled by painfully numbed fingers, I couldn’t even breech the cylinder. I was still struggling when Harlan came around the corner of the rig.