Alien Blues

by Lynn Hightower

  David stripped to his briefs and crawled into bed. He reached for the phone and turned it off. The last thing he remembered was a thud at the end of the bed and the smell of dog hair. Then he was asleep.

  TWENTY-TWO

  A thick wet tongue rasped across the back of David’s hand. He opened one eye. Dead Meat stood beside the bed and wagged her tail. She barked, bouncing upward, and licked his face.

  “Want to go out?”

  The dog whined.

  David scratched his cheek, grimacing at the heavy growth of black beard. The sun was setting. He had slept all day—no wonder he was hungry. But he felt better—almost no headache and amazingly refreshed. He checked his watch. Seven-thirty. Friday, not Thursday. He’d been asleep thirty-six hours.

  Dead Meat whimpered.

  David jumped out of bed. “You bet.”

  It took him an hour to feed the dog, clean up the business she’d done in the corner of the hall, and get something to eat. There were leftover enchiladas in the refrigerator, and he ate quickly. His head ached faintly, so he bypassed the beer and drank Coke. He showered, shaved, and called the hospital. Mel answered the phone in his room.

  “What?”

  “Mel? It’s David. How you feeling?”

  “How am I feeling? How are you feeling? People been calling me all day, trying to get to you. Where the hell you been?”

  “You don’t sound too good.”

  “I feel like shit.”

  “Rest, then.”

  “Be glad to, but I’ve had people calling and dropping in, looking for you.”

  “Who?”

  “A Sergeant Biller, for one. She sounds sexy.”

  “She thought you were pretty cute, too, lying like a hero on the stretcher.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “She took charge of the scene,” David said. “She got anything?”

  “Puzzle’s BMW was rigged with shytin 4.”

  “What’s shytin 4?”

  “Relieving you of your BMW.”

  “Huh?”

  “Kind of stuff the drug lords use.”

  “So it wasn’t an Elaki sanction?”

  “Hardly. Oh, hell. Listen, David, somebody wants to haul me off for tests.”

  “I’ll be in to see you tomorrow.”

  “I want out of here tomorrow.”

  “What’s your doctor say?”

  “Something like fat chance. Screw her. First thing in the morning, I’m out of here.”

  It was full dark by the time David made the outskirts of town. A large drop of rain smacked the windshield of the car. It took another twenty minutes to get to Fiori Avenue. The wind blew, rocking the car, but the rain did not come. David pulled over and studied the map Judith Rawley had drawn. The disks were hidden in a traffic control box on the third floor of the parking structure. David paid the auto box and drove to level C.

  He pulled to the far right of the south side. Thunder echoed and rain splashed down. David got out of the car, hunching his shoulders against the splatter of droplets that blew in through the open sides of the structure. Runnels of water snaked across the concrete. He took a flashlight from his car and glanced over his shoulder. Level C was empty except for a Jeep parked at the far end. He walked along the south wall, shining the light.

  Someone had been there ahead of him. The control box hung open—lock smashed, digitals hacked apart. And the only other person who knew about the box was Judith Rawley.

  David ran back to the car. He jerked the door open and grabbed the radio. His hand shook.

  “Lieutenant. It’s Silver.”

  “Yeah, Silver. Where the hell you been?”

  “I need a patrol car sent to the Lindale Building on Grant. It’s an old tobacco warehouse.” He got in the car, started the engine, and accelerated, going too quickly around the curve. He pushed the priority button. “No sirens … quiet approach. She lives on the third floor. Tell the officers to approach with extreme caution, we have a possible alpha bravo four. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  “Acknowledge, Silver. I’ll get dispatch.”

  David bypassed the computer control and smashed the accelerator to the floor. The engine strained and the car spurted forward.

  TWENTY-THREE

  David made grant Boulevard in thirteen minutes. The rain was still coming down hard. His stomach sank when he saw the patrol car pulled up in front of the warehouse. The car’s emergency lights made blue and red streaks on the shiny wet pavement.

  Idiots.

  He pulled his gun, gave the fingerprints time to register. The light on the barrel glowed green. The only time a cop got shot with his own weapon was when he did it himself. Which meant about ten officers shot themselves in the foot each year, and four or five stuck a barrel in their mouth.

  There were lights on in Judith Rawley’s apartment. With any luck, she’d be making lemonade for the uniforms.

  David got out of his car, leaving the door ajar. Rain pelted him and ran in rivulets down his face and neck. He glanced once over his shoulder and scuttled across the sidewalk, trying to keep watch in all directions. He wished Mel were there to cover his back.

  The bottom of the stairwell was tracked with muddy footprints. He heard a shot, and the sound of someone running. He backed into the corner of the landing, gun ready. Silence.

  He looked for the smoke detector, spotting the telltale grid on the side of the wall. It would be good to know how many people were up there, and the detector should have kept track. What was that access code? Seven J something …

  Someone shouted, a woman screamed, and gunfire echoed in the stairwell. David ran up the stairs. Two weapons, he decided. Maybe three. He heard a clatter and thump and stepped back.

  A man rolled down the stairs, head first. He had curly black hair, a grimacing, beard-shadowed face, and a blood-spattered uniform. His left foot caught between the posts of the rail and he stopped falling. A runnel of dark blood dripped down to the next step.

  David bent over him and saw the eyes glaze into a death stare. David went up quietly, stopping when he heard voices.

  “You listen to me, bitch.”

  The door to Judith Rawley’s apartment was ajar.

  “We got no time no more. Your Silver is dead, he got blown up, and those disks weren’t where you said.”

  David heard the sound of flesh hitting flesh, and a low animal wail. The skin on his back tightened and chilled.

  Slow or fast?

  “Nothing in the safe deposit box, and nothing on Fiori Avenue. So what? Vern move them again? Could be you hid them somewhere. Thought you might make a little money, babe? C’mon, sweetie.” The man’s voice was low, almost caressing. “I don’t want to cut up your face.”

  David kicked the door open.

  The couch had been slit—the foam cushions pulled out and slashed. The cabinets had been emptied, and the kitchen was strewn with broken dishes. The work station was a ruin of torn paper, splintered wood, pens, pencils, splattered paint. A uniformed cop, her blond braid dark with blood, lay tangled with another body.

  Judith Rawley was tied to a chair.

  A large man in slacks and a red sport shirt hunched over her. He straightened when he saw David, a slow smile spreading across his face.

  “Police!” David steadied his aim. Point-blank range. Why was the guy smiling?

  “Get away from her!” David kept moving, looking around. “Move it, now, away from her!”

  Judith’s eyes were dark and vacant, no flicker of recognition or relief. Her mouth was slack, and the jagged edge of a broken tooth trailed blood and saliva that dribbled down her chin.

  “I said get away from her!”

  David glanced around the apartment. Was it just the two men—the body on the floor, tangled with the cop, and the guy smiling at him? He resisted the incredible urge to look over his shoulder.

  The man’s hand was moving. David pulled the trigger.

  It took a second for David to comprehe
nd that the gun had not gone off, a hole had not opened in the man’s chest, the man had not fallen over dead. He clicked the trigger three more times while the man smiled.

  It was an engaging smile. The man was not bad-looking—blond-haired, blue-eyed. There were dark splatters on his shirt and pants—bloodstains. He had a straight razor in his right hand. He unfolded it slowly and stood behind Judith Rawley.

  In his mind, David knew exactly what to do, how fast he would have to move. He lunged forward, knowing that the body did not respond with the speed of thought, but hoping he would be fast enough anyway.

  Judith Rawley didn’t flinch when the blond man tilted her head back and put the razor to her throat.

  “No!”

  The man’s wrist snapped sideways and a red zigzag arced across the white flesh. Judith’s eyes widened and she made a choking gurgle.

  David rammed his fist and his gun at the killer’s belly. The man arced and turned like a dancer, out of range before David could connect. He crouched, balancing on the balls of his feet, the bloodstained razor ready in his right hand.

  David backed away, circling. The man made a tentative swipe. David jumped backward, feet crunching broken glass. He picked a chunk of foam cushion off the floor.

  The comforting notes of a siren filled the air.

  The man swiped again and David held the cushion up to deflect the blow. It was a feint. The man’s hand whipped down and across, ripping through David’s shirt and lightly grazing the skin. Blood beaded in a line across his belly.

  Memories echoed in his mind, and suddenly he was crouched in the Little Saigo tunnels, with no place to run.

  “Come on, Jewboy. You want some of this?”

  David shook the memories away and took a step sideways. The killer was impatient, he would move first. He would feint and lunge, and David would be ready. He looked behind him for some kind of weapon, and saw a lamp turned on its side. He snatched it up off the floor, wrenching the cord out of the floor plug.

  David swung the lamp and the man took a step backward, then rushed forward, slashing at David’s hand. David grabbed the man’s forearm and yanked, spinning him till his back was to David’s face. David kicked the inside of the man’s knee. The man grunted and sagged. David wrapped the lamp cord around his neck, crossed the ends, and yanked hard.

  The man choked and flopped, bringing the knife up and jabbing at David’s eyes. David jerked back, and the cord slipped out of his hands. The man fell to his knees.

  Feet pounded the staircase and a uniformed policewoman crouched in the doorway. She aimed and fired. The gun did not go off.

  The blond man ran for the doorway.

  “Watch the razor!” David shouted.

  The man flicked his wrist, fast and vicious.

  The cop screamed and covered her eyes. She stumbled backward, blood dribbling through her fingertips. There were footsteps and shouts from the stairwell.

  The blond man kept going and David ran after him.

  String was halfway up the stairs, pistol at the ready in his left fin, a knot of cops in protective padding right behind him.

  “No shoot,” String yelled. “No shoot, is Silver!”

  The blond man whipped back around, tennis shoes skidding on the polished wood floor.

  “Down!” String shouted.

  David hit the floor.

  Guns blazed in the stairwell—the deep rap of police assault rifles and the resonant boom of a heavy caliber pistol. String fell backward, tucking himself into a ball like a frightened porcupine. The blond man somersaulted down the steps behind him, flowers of blood blossoming on his back and neck.

  “Police officer!” David croaked. “I’m a cop!”

  “Hold fire!”

  A shot echoed.

  “I said hold fire.”

  The hallway smelled like a firing range. David took a deep shaky breath, the floorboards cool against his cheek. The officer behind him whimpered. David crawled toward her, and pulled her blood-soaked hands away from her eyes.

  She jerked and squirmed away.

  “It’s Silver,” he said. “I’m a cop. You saved my life, you know that? You saved my life.”

  He took a handkerchief from his pants pocket.

  A deep slit ran from the left side of the woman’s forehead, across her eyes, the bridge of her nose, and her right cheek. David wondered if he would vomit.

  “I know,” he said. “It hurts.”

  Blood soaked through the handkerchief and ran between his fingers. He grabbed a chunk of foam and pressed the edge to the wound.

  “No, be still. Be still.”

  Someone stood at his elbow.

  “Hold this,” he said. “Not over her nose. There, like that. Press hard.”

  He stood up and went to Judith Rawley. Her head, nearly severed, lolled backward over the chair. A bib of blood made a half moon under the torn windpipe. David was vaguely aware of the people who filled the room, making an ungodly clatter and mess in their wet shoes and vests. Judith Rawley would have to clean for days, and her work would go to hell. Someone tried to talk to him and he waved them away.

  He crouched in front of Judith Rawley, carefully easing her head forward, fitting it back to her neck. Her eyes were dull and uncaring.

  “Hold on,” he said. “Hold on. We’ll have an ambulance here any minute.”

  Her hair hung limply over her shoulder, soaking up the blood on her neck. Beautiful silky hair. David gently pushed it back behind her ears.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  David watched the rain splash into his cup and turn the coffee grey. He shivered, clenching his teeth so they wouldn’t chatter. Raindrops ran in streams down his face and into the collar of his shirt.

  There were too many lights. They hurt his eyes.

  Two men helped String toward an ambulance. The Elaki moved slowly, stiffly.

  “Listen,” one of them said. “We ought to get a stretcher.”

  “No, is not the necessity.”

  “He get hit?” David asked.

  “Naw.” The attendant was grinning. “Recoil of the gun knocked him down the stairs. Too much caliber for an Elaki.”

  David frowned. “Where’d you get the gun, String?”

  “The Mel has recommended it.”

  “Mel told you to use it?”

  The Elaki swayed. “The recommendation was to practice first, but there was not the time. Is good gun. Works the job.”

  “How’d you get here, String?”

  “I was—”

  “Just a coincidence, String? You show up at the restaurant, and Puzzle gets killed. You show up here, and Judith gets killed.”

  A shadow damped the lights and Halliday stood close to David.

  “He was at the precinct, David, when your call came through. Doing reports he said you asked for.”

  “I have the trouble getting computer to accept the voiceprints, and I—”

  “He rode with me,” Halliday said. He looked at the medic. “He hurt bad?”

  “A lot of soft tissue damage. Painful. He’ll be stiff and sore a few days.”

  “Take care of him.” Halliday took David’s arm. “Detective Silver and I appreciate your assistance, Mr. String.” He nodded and led David away, guiding him up under the eaves of the warehouse.

  “David, are you all right?”

  “Yeah.” David pulled his arm free. “Fine, Roger.”

  Two ambulance attendants maneuvered a stretcher toward an emergency van. Judith Rawley’s hand slipped out from under the sheet and flopped with the bounce of the wheels.

  “For Christ’s sake, Roger, they’re getting her wet. Can’t they even …”

  Halliday took David’s arm and walked him away from the warehouse.

  “Come on, I’ll drive you home.”

  “I don’t want to go home! I want to know why our guns didn’t work. Theirs did. Ours are the ones supposed to be field proof! And why—”

  Halliday stopped and looked at him. David had a
flash, suddenly, of hospitals, psychiatrists, departmental counseling. He remembered Millicent Darnell, crying softly while the EMTs hauled her away.

  “Come on, David. Go on and get in the car. We can clean up the details later.”

  David got in.

  “I’ll take you home to Rose.” Halliday slammed the car door. David felt like a child. Halliday got in on the other side, shaking drops of rainwater off his coat onto David’s knees.

  “Why don’t you punch in the directions to your house. You live pretty far out, don’t you?”

  “Not my house.” David put in the address of his mother’s apartment. “Kellam Street. About a twenty-minute drive.” He clenched his fists and stared at the floor.

  Kellam Street was quiet, rain-sweet, and dark. The streetlight in front of Lavinia’s building was out. Halliday watched David through the open window.

  “You sure this is where you want to be?”

  “Yeah.” David glanced over his shoulder. “Too far to go home tonight. I’ll crash here.”

  He headed up the sidewalk, knowing that Halliday watched him until he was inside the building.

  Her initials were still on a brass plate next to the door. LHS—Lavinia Hicks Silver. David punched in the access codes.

  He paused in the doorway. Rain shone on the windows, and a streetlight cast a glint of yellow into the room. He switched on a light, startled, as always, by the stark emptiness of his mother’s home. The floors were wood, the walls white. There were no pictures, no curtains. The living room held one chair, a footstool, and a round wood table with a book on it.

  David walked across the floor, footsteps echoing in the emptiness, and stood in the doorway of her bedroom. A large wardrobe stood against the wall. The bed was narrow, an antique iron bedstead, made up with a spotless white cotton bedspread. A white afghan was folded at the bottom.

  There was nothing else in the room—no knickknacks, no pictures of grandchildren, no shoes under the bed.

  David opened the wardrobe and inhaled the scent of his mother. It was not perfume he breathed, his mother could not bear such things. It was simply the smell of the sturdy wood dresser, the cotton sweaters, and the offbeat tang of despair.