by G A Chase
“We all have our part to play.”
He leaned forward and spread his arms so she could get a look at his ratty coat, torn jeans, and beat-up army boots. The outfit must have been too long on his body, and with too few washings, because the color of grimy dark-green coated him from head to foot like a river rock caked in algae—and smelled about as bad. “And what would you say about my role in life’s production?”
She admired the fact that he hadn’t immediately hit her up for money. “That you perform your character with gusto every moment you’re on the stage.”
He rummaged around in the pile of food wrappers that were scattered next to him. “I’ve got half of a fried-fish po’boy if you’re hungry. Someone dropped it off on my pad while I was sleeping.”
She knew he was testing her. Instead of politely declining and walking off or tossing a few dollars to ease her discomfort, she sat on the stair below the stoop. “Have any mustard to go with it?”
He looked at her with wide eyes and a missing-tooth grin. “A fellow connoisseur. Mustard makes everything taste better.” He pulled out a handful of plastic packs from his jacket and tossed her one. From the faded cartoon chicken on the label and the separated yellow concoction inside, Sere suspected the joint had closed down long ago.
“I should tell you I don’t have any money.” She’d handed her last few dollars to Bart for that round of drinks.
The vagrant retrieved a greasy bundle of napkins from an almost equally greasy paper bag. He unwrapped the sandwich as if preparing a romantic picnic. “I figured. People with money don’t stop. The more a person has in their pocket, the less friendly they are.” He split the half roll and gave her the bigger section.
The sandwich smelled as if the fish was well past its prime. Good thing I’m not susceptible to food poisoning. “Maybe you’d better give me two of those mustard packs.”
He tossed her a handful before taking a big bite of his section. She squeezed all of the packs inside the bun before taking a small nibble. The thing tasted like a catfish that had been rotting for days on the bank of the swamp and then deep-fried in alligator piss. “I may not be as hungry as I thought.”
He set his piece of the sandwich on top of the paper bag and washed down the mouthful with a swig of Jack. “If I can’t offer you something to eat, what can I do for you?”
Time to lay down my cards. “I’ve been living on Frenchmen Street for the last few months. Every homeless person I pass gives me a knowing smile. At first I found it discomforting, like maybe your people knew something about my past that you shouldn’t. One night, I caught Myles and Kendell leaving the club. From every shadowy doorway, the homeless scanned the street as if keeping an eye out for their protection. Based on your hospitality, I suspect you know who I am. I think it might be time you explained why that is.”
The guy sat a little straighter and smiled knowingly, giving Sere the impression of a spy who’d just had his cover blown. “The river angel has watched after the homeless for nearly two decades. She would be pretty upset if we let anything bad happen to you.”
I knew it, she thought. “Kendell has you spying on me?”
Though the woman had contacts throughout the city—and not all of them business-related—Sere hadn’t realized she’d so thoroughly organized the city’s homeless. Kendell’s secret army. So that was how she and the crew had managed to escape detection after the bank explosion that closed hell off from Guinee.
“From time to time, she asks favors from my community of miscreants. The land across the river that she secured for the homeless is a debt we’ll never be able to repay. We may be destitute, but thanks to her, there’s always an extended family that will welcome any of us into its arms.” He looked at Sere with something approaching awe. “You’re important to her, and that means we will help where we can. Just don’t expect us to look the other way if you step into danger.”
Kendell, the magic mother hen. “Fair enough. Right now, what I need most is a way for Montgomery Fisher to get messages to me. I also need any information you can give me about strange occurrences that even you can’t explain.”
He picked up his sandwich like he was slipping back into character. “I’ll pass the word.”
Sere snuck into the loft above the Scratchy Dog for a quick shower to clean off the smell and feel of rotting fish. Some prejudices died hard even to someone who’d grown up in hell. She couldn’t help it if she’d been born to privilege.
At least the homeless aren’t trying to shoot me like certain people on the Northshore. But the harvesters from my interdimensional nightmares come from the streets, not the mansions. The professor might want to check on his projections of the homeless class into their doppelgänger doubles.
Once clean, she stood in the middle of the walk-in storage closet full of band costumes. Her riding leathers worked well for being on the hunt, but she needed something less obvious if she expected to haul her snakes and guns around in the Quarter. That homeless fellow might have been onto something. A woman in steampunk could carry whatever weapons she wanted without being noticed.
The strapless purple-and-black-paisley leather bustier, with latches that went from cleavage to crotch, fit tightly enough that fighting wouldn’t be a problem. The flowing layered Victorian dress that went with it, however, was a nonstarter. Jeez, Kendell, how did you perform in this horror show of fabric?
Instead, Sere chose the semirespectable sheer black-striped leggings that fit easily into her alligator-skin boots. Each item of clothing took considerable tugging to get over even her modest curves. She checked the ensemble out in the full-sized mirror at the back of the closet. On its own, the outfit made her look overly available. Seeing the shotgun holstered at her leg and knife handle prominently projecting from her boot, however, anyone would think twice about bothering her. Once I add in the snakes around my neck, this will do nicely.
The front door beckoned, but she wasn’t going to let her earlier misstep defeat her. It’s late afternoon, so no scrambling along the front roof. Too many people below who might spot me.
She headed to the seldom-used back dormer window. The rusty iron fire escape looked so rotted that a person would be better off facing the flames than trusting her weight to the thin steps three stories up. Perfect. She grabbed the top of the window frame and swung around onto the metal support rail. Hand over hand, she slid down the side of the ladder until she was able to jump the remaining ten feet to the ground.
The narrow alley was littered with used condoms, red plastic cups, and vomit. She headed straight to the back and vaulted up to the wheels of metal spikes meant to dissuade intruders. Sere grabbed the sharpened rods on two of the wheels and used her momentum to rotate the old security system away from the alley and back toward the street behind the club. She did a handspring down to the brick sidewalk like a gymnast sticking her landing. Time to get back to work. Hopefully, someone’s got some information for me by now.
She pushed open the front door of Fisher’s offices, feeling more at home than she’d expected after only a day’s supposed employment. “Is he in?”
Linda sat huddled over her computer like someone who had nothing to do but was trying to look busy. “I’m sorry, dear. He left early.”
What’s that about? “Does he do that often?”
The secretary looked relieved that Sere had somehow stumbled on the right thing to ask. “Hardly ever. He said there were a handful of prospective new accounts he wanted to meet with personally.”
Fuck! Tell me you didn’t go after the reals on your own. “Did he happen to leave me a note?”
“I’m afraid not, dear. Unless he left it on your desk.” Linda’s raised eyebrows indicated that she wasn’t happy about being left out of the interoffice communication loop.
Sere looked over the secretary’s shoulder at the bright, shiny new door handle and lock. “I see building maintenance was here. Do you have my new key?”
“I was instructed not to en
ter your office.” The snark in her voice made each word stand out as if it were its own sentence.
“It was for your own good.”
“Of course, dear.” The woman had an amazing ability to pull the sweet-old-lady cover back over her irritation like a shawl. “I’m just letting you know that I don’t have a key, so wouldn’t know if Mr. Fisher left you a note or not.”
Sere felt the presence of her combat knife in her boot like a scratch she dared not itch. With a couple of quick thrusts, she could defeat the lock. But that might involve building maintenance making a return visit.
What do I need in there? I’ve got my cache above the Scratchy Dog if I need more ammunition. Adding to Linda’s fear by jimmying the lock isn’t worth it, but I could sure use my snakes.
Sere picked up a small pile of business cards from the display on Linda’s desk. “It’s no big deal. Mr. Fisher and I discussed some new business early this morning. I’m sure he’s just following up. Just the same, I’ll run these around to the prospects we talked about and have them give the office a call if they see him. I’ll see you in the morning.”
The tightness in the woman’s old shoulders noticeably eased. “I’ll hang around until closing in case anyone calls or there’s something else you need.”
Once clear of the office’s front windows, Sere edged into the used bookshop next door. She smiled sweetly at the old man behind the counter as he looked up from his crossword puzzle. “Would you mind if I used your bathroom?”
He grumbled something and nodded toward the back of the store before settling in behind his paper. At one time, the shop had probably been the mirror image of the CPA’s offices. The bookstore retained the original open floor plan with a single office and bathroom in the back. She pushed open the door to the bathroom, letting the squeaky hinges work as a distraction while she snuck into the office on the other side of the hallway. As she’d hoped, the window above the desk looked exactly like the one in her office. She climbed on the chair, unlatched the ancient brass catch, lifted the double-hung window, and slipped into the interior ventilation shaft that separated the two businesses. I doubt anyone has been in this atrium in decades.
She jammed the tip of her knife under the window to her office and cut the paint that sealed it shut. It took a little prying to get the ancient hardware to behave. Once the window had separated from the frame by a couple of inches, she hissed into the opening. Both snakes slithered out of her bags and up the wall to the window like they’d just been sprung from prison.
With the snakes draped around her shoulders like a living necklace, Sere scurried out of the bookshop and headed down the street to where she’d stashed her Triton. The possibilities of what Fisher was up to swirled around her head like a cloud of gnats. She wished she could easily swat away each one.
If he’s gone after the reals, he could be trying to warn them. Professor Yates laid out the dangers of such an action when Monty was hunting Fisher. Nothing good would come from the bait knowing it was being pursued. On the other side of the spiritual coin, Monty might be directing Fisher’s actions. In which case I’m really screwed. That demon could be holding onto the reals until his brethren show up to claim them. An act like that could regain him some standing in the doppelgänger community.
Sere shook her head, trying not to focus on the worst-case scenario. I need to find those four people, and without Fisher’s help, all I have left is the professor.
A couple of blocks from the offices was the dark alley lined with the crumbling backs of businesses. The area was inhabited exclusively by the homeless and drug addicted. The indigents nodded respectfully as Sere passed their collections of meager possessions. Her motorcycle sat untouched in the middle of the block like a priceless museum artifact being heavily guarded.
As she threw her leg over the seat, she looked down at the nearest of Kendell’s spies. “Keep an eye out for Mr. Fisher. He may be in trouble.”
“Do you want us to notify the river angel?” The man’s drunken slur didn’t inspire confidence.
“Not yet. If I don’t return by start of work tomorrow, then let her know.” Sere started her motorcycle without waiting for a reply. The destitute contingent wasn’t hers to command, but hopefully, they wouldn’t call in the cavalry until Sere had an opportunity to find out which side Montgomery Fisher was playing for.
21
Chapter 9
The old shipping offices down on the decaying wharf were just as Sere had left them—right down to the old man hunched over his computer—with the addition of fast-food bags and half-eaten meals scattered around the floor. The professor’s dedication was admirable but terrifying.
“Well, at least you must have gotten out of that chair at some point.”
Professor Yates looked up with bloodshot eyes. His three-day-old beard and disheveled gray hair indicated he hadn’t showered since she’d left him. “Polly’s been bringing me food.”
“Any conclusions on my latest targets?” Sere asked.
He squeezed his eyes closed and shook his head as if trying to remember what she was talking about. “Oh, yeah.” He turned his Barcalounger to the table behind him and pulled out a sheet of paper from under the pile that filled the printer’s tray. “All seven names and addresses.”
Sere quickly scanned the date stamp at the top of the page. “You printed this thirty-six hours ago. Why didn’t you get this to me and go home for some rest?”
He turned back to his computer as if he’d left it unattended for too long. “Those seven idiots aren’t the problem. It’s like a software virus…” He trailed off.
“It might help if I knew what you were talking about.”
Polly came out of the back bathroom, looking only slightly more rested than the professor. “You’ll have to forgive him. He gets into one of these code investigations, and he loses track of everything.”
Thank God—someone who doesn’t talk in riddles. Sere held up the sheet of paper. “What has he found other than these identities?”
Polly directed Sere outside, where they could talk without disturbing the mad scientist. “Hell’s dimension is much worse than we remember. Something is affecting it beyond our projections.”
Duh. “I could have told you that. My dreams are filled with harvesters, monstrous creatures based on real animals, and doppelgängers suffering all manner of tortures. I don’t remember it being that bad as a child. I just figured without my father as the devil in charge, the realm had resorted to its natural state.”
Polly put her hands on the metal railing and stared out at the Mississippi River. “We believe it’s a cascade failure, possibly due to a power fluctuation from the paranormal nuclear meltdown your father created.”
Blah, blah, blah. Sere had no patience for technical babble. “Or maybe it’s an evil genius in hell manipulating the dimension so he can help the doppelgängers escape and attack the living.”
Polly turned toward Sere. “The professor isn’t willing to entertain that option at the moment. He thinks he can take care of the problem from here.”
“Meanwhile, I have to hunt down more of these manipulated demons and try to save the world from an all-out invasion.”
Polly took Sere’s hands. “I’ve known you most of your life. There are no hands I’d rather put the fate of the world in than yours. You’ve got your mission, and we have ours.”
Sere walked away from the shipping offices, seething, with the single piece of paper crumpled in her hand. The professor is an arrogant prick. I fucking know my mission. And I don’t need you acting like some corporate boss giving a pep talk to her assistant.
Despite her frustration, Sere knew that Polly hadn’t meant to be dismissive of her conviction that someone in hell was tweaking the program. Polly had simply been trying to protect the old scientist by backing his theories.
The day is going to come when Professor Yates can’t maintain that equipment. What kind of hell will be turned loose then? Even if Polly can take o
ver, someday that virtual projection is going to get out of hand, if it hasn’t already.
Sere got back on her motorcycle and kicked the engine over, hoping the physical act would shut off her insecurities. Nothing I can do about hell’s structure. Time to find out what happened to Fisher. She consulted the page one last time before folding it up and slipping it under the cleavage of her bustier.
She kept her eyes peeled for the black Jeep Cherokee as she rode down the boisterous streets of the Bywater. At least these people don’t turn in early, but I’m going to have to keep a move on if I expect anyone to open their door to me after dinner.
The shotgun double painted in bright shades of red and purple didn’t look like the type of dwelling that would house someone in need of a CPA. It was more reminiscent of the kind of place where members of Kendell’s old band—Polly Urethane and the Strippers—would have lived. Sere pounded on the door, not convinced that the loose wiring of the doorbell wouldn’t spark a fire.
The trumpet softly playing a blues number Sere didn’t recognize stopped, and the door opened. A black man in his early thirties stood in the doorway, still holding his instrument as if it were a part of his hand. “Can I help you?”
Sere had the same feeling of guilt she’d experienced on first meeting Fisher. You’ve got a demon coming for you, and you don’t even know it. “I’m just following up on my boss’s visit with you earlier today… Montgomery Fisher, CPA? He wanted to make sure you had this.” She offered the man one of Fisher’s cards.
The musician looked at it in confusion. “I’m sorry, I’ve never heard of this guy. No one’s stopped by. I would have known as I’ve been practicing all day. Got a gig in an hour at the Blue Nile.” He reached for the side table and handed her a card of his own.