Skin Game

by Max Allan Collins

  Oh, a few looked like they wanted to bolt now; but if they were truly united, the others would help persuade them.

  She made a mental note to smuggle in some cigars to keep Mole happy.

  Again she spoke, her voice ringing off the cement rafters. “They’re also claiming that one of us on the outside is killing ordinaries.”

  “So what?” an X3 toward the front blurted.

  Max shot him a look that silenced him. “Some of you have seen the news reports of a murderer who is skinning his victims.”

  Nods and murmuring were the only response.

  “That’s just the sort of crime the antitransgenic forces would love to lay on Terminal City’s doorstep.”

  “Are you asking,” an X5 near the front asked, “to turn in one of our own?”

  “If we have a maniac among us, yes—for our own safety. If we are a nation, a city, we need to live by the rule of law—and if we have a murderer in our midst, it is no betrayal of ourselves to see him brought to justice.”

  The reptilian Mole asked, “Our justice? Or theirs?”

  “I don’t have an answer to that yet. That’s something we will decide as a group—it’s day at a time, people. We are learning to walk, here . . . so be careful not to run.”

  Nods again, even from Mole.

  “For now, come to me if any of you know anything about this—particularly if there is one of us on the outside so troubled that these atrocities make a terrible kind of sense.”

  Again she wheeled around as she spoke to them.

  “Remember—the last thing we need right now is for the ordinaries to prove we are the fiends they say we are.” She gestured to her little council of advisors—Alec, Joshua, and Mole—and added, “If you can help, if you know anything, please come to us.”

  No one moved, no one spoke; but she had expected as much—that anyone here who came to her with information would do so only after long, private thought.

  “Thank you for your courage,” she said, “and your patience—we’re doing the best we can and we’ll make sure that this turns out the way we all want it to.”

  The crowd slowly dispersed, conversation echoing off the cement walls . . . but calm conversation; this was no mob, rather the concerned citizens of Terminal City. It made Max feel proud; still, she knew what she had accomplished in the meeting was all too tentative. The compound remained a powder keg.

  Max, Joshua, Alec, and the others headed back to the makeshift headquarters of the media center, and were just entering when Max’s cell phone rang.

  “Go for Max.”

  “They’re still listening,” the computer-altered voice warned.

  Clemente.

  “I thought you might call,” she said.

  “I thought we had a deal.”

  “We do.”

  “I’ve seen the news tape—you know which one I mean . . .”

  The detective was referring to Max and Alec leaping that fence to deal with the drunks and the media.

  “Yes, I know the tape you mean.”

  “And it shows our deal being broken.”

  “Technically, perhaps—but we were merely defending our borders. There was no choice. You should see that, too.”

  “And which side of that fence were you on?”

  “I told you we had no choice. You know damn well we were merely defending ourselves from arsonists.”

  “And terrorizing the press? Is that any way to win the PR war?”

  “. . . I hear you.”

  “I hope you do. But you’re not winning any points for trust, right now.”

  The phone went dead in her ear.

  Max settled in to watch tapes of news coverage of the transgenic siege.

  And while she did, Joshua tugged Alec by the sleeve and—when Alec only frowned, in confusion—the dog man latched onto his friend by the wrist and led him into the hallway.

  The iron grip of the gentle giant always surprised Alec, who gingerly reclaimed his hand and shook it a little.

  “You don’t know your own strength, big guy,” Alec said.

  Sheepishly, Joshua said, “Sorry. It’s important.”

  “What is?”

  Joshua began to sway back and forth, agitated. Alec could tell already that this wasn’t going anywhere good. . . .

  “I think I know something.”

  “I’m sure you do, buddy.”

  “I mean . . . something that would help Max.”

  “Well, that’s fine,” Alec said, still having no idea what they were talking about, but rather used to Joshua’s torturous routes to what he had on his mind. “You should help her if you can.”

  “Help Max if I can . . . but Joshua can’t.”

  Alec said, “Oh . . . kay. . . .” As usual, he and Joshua not only were not on the same page, they weren’t even in the same book. “You can help, but you can’t.”

  Grinning, an eager puppy now, Joshua said, “Yes. You’ve got it, Alec! I knew you would know what Joshua should do—what should I do?”

  “Whoa, boy.” Alec blew out air while he ran a hand through his hair; then he shook his head. “Explain it to me first. How exactly can you help Max?”

  “I . . . know a guy.”

  That was a start.

  “Okay,” Alec said. “And?”

  “And . . . the guy is passing.”

  Alec nodded. He understood—a transgenic passing as human. “Lot of those around. And this helps Max how?”

  “Guy might know who’s killing on the outside.”

  Alec perked up. “How would he know?”

  Joshua looked at the floor, then up at Alec. “They knew each other at Manticore.”

  “They?” Alec asked. My God, this was like pulling teeth—and Joshua had some big teeth. . . .

  “The guy,” Joshua said, “and Kelpy.”

  Alec frowned. “Kelpy? Is that a name?”

  “It’s a name: Kelpy—Chameleon Boy.”

  Alec felt like he needed a map to follow the conversation. “Chameleon Boy?”

  “Kelpy . . . he could be the one.”

  “The one?”

  “The one . . . taking skins. Killing.”

  Finally, Alec felt like he was in the same conversation as Joshua; and this was indeed important. “Kelpy’s on the outside?”

  “Yes—Max freed him, like she did me, and so many of us.”

  “Where on the outside?”

  “That Joshua doesn’t know. But . . .”

  Again, Alec could discern the drift. “You think this guy you know might know where Kelpy is?”

  Joshua nodded vigorously.

  “Great. Good job, Joshua. Now—let’s go tell Max.”

  Pawlike hands went up, as if in surrender, and Joshua’s eyes flared. “Can’t!”

  Alec, about to head back into the media center, froze. “Can’t?”

  “He’s passing for human. If I tell Max, and she tells that detective . . .”

  “You’re afraid this guy’s cover will be blown.”

  “Cover blown?”

  “People will know he’s transgenic. He won’t be able to pass, anymore.”

  “Yes, Alec! Yes—guy’s cover blown.”

  Alec shook his head. Leave it to Joshua to have a moral dilemma about this; anyway, Alec sure as hell wouldn’t. “You know Max, Joshua—she won’t blow your friend’s cover.”

  Joshua shook his head. “No way. Joshua promised guy.”

  “All right—then you and I’ll slip out, and just . . . talk to your friend.”

  “Can’t!”

  Figuring he understood Joshua’s hesitance, Alec said, “We’ll find a way out of here without being seen. Then we’ll talk to your friend, and we’ll find this Kelvin, and talk to him too.”

  “Kelpy.”

  “Kelpy, Kelvin, whatever.” Alec placed a hand on Joshua’s big bony shoulder. “We’ll find a way out, buddy—take care of business and be back before anyone notices.”

  The big mane shook from sid
e to side. “Can’t go! Max said so.”

  “She didn’t mean us,” he lied. “We’re part of the inner circle.”

  “Inner circle?”

  “Yeah—she meant all the others, you know, at the big meeting. She said if anyone had any info, to tell us—remember?”

  Joshua thought about that, nodded.

  “So when they bring info to us, we’re supposed to do something about it, right?”

  “Right—like tell Max.”

  “Yeah, but we can’t tell Max. You don’t want to blow your friend’s cover, remember? So we gotta handle this ourselves.”

  “Ourselves.”

  “Right. And if we can solve these murders, we’ll be heroes.”

  Joshua’s eyes brightened. “Heroes?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Alec said, getting into it now. “We’ll be heroes, Max’ll be happy, and we’ll all get the hell out of Terminal City.”

  “Max happy?”

  “She’ll be ecstatic if we can find out who this skinner is. All we have to do is figure a way out of Terminal City.”

  Joshua shrugged. “Tunnel,” he said.

  “We don’t have time to dig a tunnel, bro,” Alec said.

  Joshua stepped closer, grabbed Alec by the sleeve. “Already have a tunnel—Joshua’s in the inner inner circle! . . . Come on.”

  Half an hour later, the handsome X5 and his caninelike friend stood on the street beyond Logan’s building. Joshua wore a motorcycle helmet that covered most of his face, and they both had on loose, anonymous jackets. The cops were all looking toward Terminal City, so Alec and Joshua just quietly walked away into the cool overcast Seattle morning.

  “Where’s your friend live?” Alec asked.

  “Far.”

  Alec nodded. “Of course he does. We wouldn’t want this to be too easy, would we?”

  Joshua frowned in confusion. “Why not?”

  “Just jokin’.”

  “I see. Alec likes to lighten up even serious situations.”

  “Yeah. I’m a laugh riot. Well, come on, big guy—we’ll work on our little transportation problem.”

  Alec longed for his motorcycle, but figured that was a lost cause. The cops had probably impounded it as soon as Normal told them who he was; and though Normal seemed far more tolerant toward trangenics now, he would still be cooperating with the cops.

  So, they’d have to steal a car. Such contingencies were not a problem for Alec, who was a pragmatic, situational-ethics kind of guy. What with the siege at Terminal City, there were fewer cops on the Seattle streets, but—having watched the news with Max—Alec knew that those fewer cops were also shooting more and chasing less.

  They would have to be careful.

  Alec considered calling Logan Cale for a ride; but Logan hadn’t been in his new Medtronics pad when they’d exited, and Alec didn’t have Cale’s cell number with him. Anyway, Alec knew that Logan would’ve talked to Max about them all staying within the fence line, and Logan just might rat them out for being outside—the guy was totally pussy-whipped by Max, after all.

  Safer to steal a car, Alec decided.

  Three blocks later, Alec saw what he wanted: a gray Catbird parked against the curb, with no one around. Five minutes or so after that, he and Joshua were riding in style—a GM, the Catbird was one of those new ones with four-wheel drive, room for eight, and—if they were lucky—it would have a nice selection of movies. Gray seemed such a nice, nondescript color, plus Alec had switched plates with a sky green Olds.

  For the first time since they’d left Terminal City, Alec felt safe and in control.

  “Okay, bro—where’s your friend live?”

  Joshua said, “Queen Anne.”

  Alec counted the checkpoints between here and there. Getting through them would be tough anytime, and even harder doing it in daylight. “This guy, does he work?”

  “Guy has good job.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Janitor,” Joshua said with a envious smile.

  Alec made a mental note to explain to Joshua the difference between a job and a good job. “Does the guy work during the day?”

  “Sure,” Joshua said.

  “So, then—he won’t be at home now, he’ll be at work.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  Back to pulling teeth again. “Do you know where he works?”

  “Works at school.”

  “Joshua—do you know which school?”

  The big guy looked lost for a long minute, and in the meantime Alec drove around aimlessly, avoiding checkpoints and adhering to the speed limit.

  “Suzuki,” Joshua said at last.

  Nodding, Alec asked, “Ichiro Suzuki Elementary?”

  “Yes! Suzuki Elementary.”

  Alec allowed himself a smile. Named after the legendary Japanese immigrant baseball player, Ichiro Elementary was one of the few public schools that had stayed open, post-Pulse. The beauty of Joshua’s friend being there, instead of at home, was that now the transgenics in the stolen car would pass through only one checkpoint, not five.

  Pleased with how this was turning out, Alec sped off toward that checkpoint.

  The line waiting to pass through was mercifully short and they sat for only a couple of minutes before the checkpoint cop—an athletic young man with brown hair and a ready smile—waved them forward.

  “Good morning,” the cop said.

  Alec said, “Morning. Jam Pony messengers.” He held up his ID, hoping to hell the guy just glanced at it and didn’t check it through the computer, where it might be flagged.

  The cop’s smile disappeared. “Thought you guys rode bikes.”

  “We do, or anyway we probably will again. But after the hostage thing with those damn transgenics, boss made us team up and take cars. Safety in numbers kinda deal.”

  “Makes sense. You can’t be too careful with those freaks running around.”

  “Hell no,” Alec said firmly.

  Leaning down, the cop looked through the window at Joshua sitting in the passenger seat in his red motorcycle helmet. “What’s his story?”

  With a quick grin, Alec explained, “He’s worried about getting hit in the head.”

  “Yeah, head,” Joshua mumbled through the helmet.

  “Had a bad run-in with a mugger with a brick, last week.” Alec leaned out and his tone turned intimate. “God only knows what another head shot would do to him.”

  The cop nodded. “Guess you guys do hit some rough neighborhoods.”

  “Yeah—me, I wear a cup.”

  “Don’t blame ya,” the cop said with a chuckle. “Get movin’, fellas.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Alec as he pressed the gas pedal and got them slowly, steadily the hell out of there.

  The school, long, low, and brick, crouched in the middle of a huge, surprisingly well-tended green lawn. To Alec, sitting in their car parked across the street, the building looked like a museum piece, a postcard from a past he’d seen only in photos and on video.

  “So,” Alec asked, “you know where he is in there?”

  “Never been to school,” Joshua said ambiguously, as they both got out of the car.

  “No matter,” Alec said, “we’ll find him. How many places can there be to look? What’s his name, anyway?”

  “Hampton.” His motorcycle helmet still perched on his head, Joshua came around the car to the driver’s side. “Maybe Joshua should go alone.”

  Alec tried to figure out where the big guy was headed with this one. “Why would you think that?”

  “Alec might scare Hampton.”

  Alec managed not to laugh in Joshua’s face. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Hampton is passing, Alec. You show up, an X5 . . . that might scare him. Make him blow his cover.”

  “What about havin’ you make the scene, big guy?”

  Joshua’s eyes went wide. “Hampton knows me.”

  “Only you never dropped by school here before, did you?”

  “You think ha
ving Joshua show up would scare him? Maybe I should leave the helmet on.”

  “Definitely leave it on. But we’re both gonna go—all right?”

  Alec took Joshua by the arm—no more inane discussion—and they crossed the street, strode through the front door, and Alec immediately realized that this job could be a lot tougher than they thought. A corridor ran perpendicular to the door—it seemed to go on endlessly in either direction; looking both ways, he saw entrances to hallways that ran perpendicular to this main one. He guessed that this main hall probably had a twin at the other end of the building.

  This was going to take a while.

  Directly across the hall from them was a door marked OFFICE.

  “Should Alec go one way and Joshua another?” the dog man in the helmet asked.

  Alec knew a bad idea when he heard one, and turning Joshua loose on his own devices was definitely one. The real question was which was riskier, separating and maybe finding Hampton sooner, or staying together and risking exposure by being in the building longer.

  “We should stay together,” Alec said.

  “Which way, then?”

  The questions never got easier. Sighing, Alec said, “Wait right here—I’m going into the office. Maybe they’ll know where Hambone is.”

  “Hamp-ton.”

  “Whatever. I’ll be right back.”

  Joshua nodded and hugged the wall, trying to make his six-foot-six-inch frame look inconspicuous.

  Alec crossed the hall, opened the door and walked into a long narrow room halved by a counter. To his left, as he came in, empty chairs lined the wall and, to his right—just past the end of the counter—a closed door beckoned, the top half pebbled glass with the words VICE PRINCIPAL painted in black letters on it.

  To his far left, laid out in the same fashion, he saw that door’s twin with the word PRINCIPAL stenciled on it. Beyond the counter, as if guarding the wall of cubbyholes behind her, a huge woman at a small desk sat in a tablecloth of a floral dress, her gray hair piled high on her head, the ghost of some long-ago trend in hairstyles.

  “May I help you?” she asked in a high-pitched small voice that didn’t suit her body type in the least.