Alien Nation #8 - Cross of Blood

by K. W. Jeter

  Watch and wait; that was what the leader of the Purists had decided they should do. For now. Noah wondered what Darlene Bryant’s plans were; so far, she hadn’t told anyone. But she’d have to, soon enough. Five more months, and the horrible crossbreed bastard would be born . . .

  The gates clanged shut behind him, and he started across the parking lot of the women’s prison. Whatever the plans were, he’d be ready. She’d promised him. There was no way he wasn’t going to be part of this.

  The spark of anger at the core of his being pulsed with a familiar, even comforting heat. That stupid cop, the one who’d tried to come on all buddy-buddy with him—what a laugh, to know that jerk was the father of the unborn little mongrel. That was too good; it was perfect. Killing two birds with one stone, as the old saying went . . .

  Noah smiled to himself in satisfaction as he dug the car keys out of his pocket. They were all going to find out.

  Five more months? I can’t wait, he thought as he slid behind the steering wheel.

  “So—any new leads?”

  It took a moment for the words to register, to break through the layer upon layer of thoughts encumbering his head. Sikes looked up and saw his partner standing by the desk.

  “Nada.” He reached out and tapped his fingertip against the computer screen. “I’ve been combing through these databases again, the ones the Feds sent us, and there ain’t diddly in ’em.” Sikes could hear the disgust in his own voice. He and George had been working every angle now for months, and they weren’t any closer to making a collar than they had been the day after Dr. Quinn’s clinic had been bombed. “Anybody with that kind of explosives expertise and Purist connections was either out of the country or has an alibi you couldn’t break without a papal dispensation.”

  George shrugged. “You know . . . there always is the possibility that the Purists weren’t involved. That somebody else might have done it.”

  “Yeah, right.” He could barely believe that his partner had just said something so bone-ass stupid. “And everybody in the HDL might have decided to go out for the Betty Crocker Homemaker of the Year Award, too—that’s just about as possible.” He gestured angrily toward the screenful of names. “C’mon, George, we know it must’ve been one of these clowns.”

  “Oh?” George had sat down at his own desk and begun sorting through the various folders stacked upon it. He didn’t look up. “And just how do we know that so exactly?”

  You’re really getting on my tits, thought Sikes, temper simmering. The room was so silent he could hear the fan at the back of the computer and the dull tick of the vein at the corner of his forehead. He missed the bustle and clutter of the squad room, with all the other detectives and uniform cops coming and going and smarting off to each other. That was how tight the security lid that had come clamping down because of Cathy’s pregnancy was—the LAPD brass, along with the Bureau of Newcomer Affairs, had shoved him and George into this back room by themselves, even pulling their computer terminals off the station net. He supposed it was all necessary—Quinn’s clinic going up like the Fourth of July proved that—but still, the morgue-like feeling in here oppressed Sikes. Plus all this time one-on-one with his partner—it was going to be a race to see which would happen first, Cathy popping the kid or him diving across the desks and strangling George with his own necktie.

  “How do we know? Get real.” Sikes shoved back his chair. “Who the hell else could it be? Who else would want to blow up a medical clinic for Newcomers?”

  Another shrug from George. “Perhaps there were other individuals who didn’t like Dr. Quinn. Perhaps he had enemies that we don’t know about.”

  “Okay, then how’s this—I know in my frickin’ guts that it was those goddamned Purists. Satisfied?”

  “Really, Matt.” George raised an eyebrow. “If that’s the kind of answer you gave on your Detective Two orals, I’m not surprised you haven’t gotten your promotion yet.”

  That was still a sore point between them; Sikes managed to ignore the dig. “All right. If you’re so smart, then you tell me who blew up the clinic, if it wasn’t the Purists.”

  “Oh, there’s no doubt in my mind that it was the Purists. Almost certainly someone associated with the HDL was involved. Those Federal databases prove it.” George gave a slight smile. “Think about it, Matt. How many names are there on those lists? Total, that is.”

  He glanced at the tally figures at the bottom of the computer screen. “Right around three hundred. That’s just the most likely ones. If I widen the search categories another step, it’d probably go up to five hundred, maybe even six.”

  “Say three hundred, then.” George leaned across his desk. “What would be the statistical probability of that many individuals having ironclad alibis, even if none of them had anything to do with the clinic bombing? Any time before, that we’ve had to check out a group as numerous as that, there’s always been a dozen or so that we had to investigate before we could eliminate them as suspects. Now, we’re dealing with the fact that every single one on our lists is already out of consideration.”

  Sikes nodded, getting the point. “Yeah, you’re right . . .”

  His partner continued. “What could possibly account for this apparent anomaly? The only thing would be that they were all warned ahead of time that the clinic bombing was going to happen, and that they should put all their mules in a safe place.”

  That last one puzzled him for a second. “You mean ‘cover their asses,’ George. But you’re right; that must be what went down.” It was the only explanation that made sense.

  “Unfortunately,” said George, “if that is in fact the case, then it means the situation is much worse for us. The indications would be that the Purist groups have not only tightened up their internal organization considerably, but they’ve also reached a new level of cooperation with each other. To enforce an order such as this, the HDL would have had to achieve a state of dominance over the other Purists, right down to the tiniest splinter groups. We’ve never seen that before. In the past, there had always been a few loosened cannons who went their own way, regardless of what the HDL tried to put out as an official line.”

  “Good call.” Sikes glanced again at the long scroll of names on his computer screen. “That would explain why they were all lying so low—I mean, we hadn’t heard a peep out of most of these jokers, for months before the bombing. They weren’t disbanding or giving up, like we’d hoped; they were getting their act together.”

  “They do seem to have managed,” said George drily.

  “And we haven’t gotten a leak one from any of our own contacts inside the HDL.” That had been another source of puzzlement for him; a big part of police work had always consisted of following up on tips from informants, and tracking the Purists’ activities had been no exception. This time around, in the weeks and then months since Quinn’s clinic had gone up, there had been nothing. “So we gotta assume they’ve managed to identify all our people and cut ’em out of the loop.”

  “Exactly.” The tone of George’s voice was somber. “That’s happened before. What’s worrisome now is that the HDL appears to be handling their security differently. Their previous reactions to finding an informant in their midst were nearly always violent—we lost a couple of good sources that way. But at least we’d know that they had been found out and we could develop other contacts. But this time, none of our people have even been touched. That points to the HDL leadership having become much more sophisticated in how they handle these matters. They’ve reached a new stage in the learning curve—we’re not going to get much help in the future from their mistakes.”

  Sikes felt a little tick of excitement inside himself, a detective’s rush of adrenaline, from the picture suddenly becoming clearer. The bitter mockery, the feeling that he had been banging his head against the computer terminal with no results, lifted from his soul. Granted, he should have seen all this for himself, without George having to go through a point-by-point explana
tion. His only excuse was how tired he’d gotten these last several weeks, feeling as if he were right at the brink of physical and mental exhaustion. There was all the business of worrying about Cathy and taking care of her, none of which was made any easier by the necessity of her being tucked away in a secured location, as safe as possible from the reach of the murderers who had blown away Dr. Quinn. That had to be rough on her as well, being just about entirely cut off from the outside world—about the only one of her friends who knew where Cathy was, and could come and see her, was Susan Francisco, and that was only because her husband headed up the team whose job it was to keep Cathy and the baby inside her alive.

  He rubbed his forehead, as though he could reach inside and get the blood moving inside his brain again. Here was his partner, busting his ass the same way he was, and he’d jumped down George’s throat for no reason at all. Fatigue and frustration did that, made anybody cranky and mean.

  “Uh, George . . .” With a sigh, he looked across the desks. “I’m like sorry I been getting on your case so much these days. You know how it is.”

  “Certainly.” George gave a brief nod. “There’s no need to apologize, Matt. We’re all overworked.” He leaned forward, his gaze growing sharper. “Have you been getting adequate sleep?”

  “Yeah, I guess.” He shrugged. “I mean, you know me; I’ve always kept kinda erratic hours. Plus lately . . . jeez. You remember how it was when Susan was pregnant with your kids—wait a minute. That’s right, you wouldn’t know about that.” He had to keep reminding himself that Cathy’s pregnancy was a first in Tenctonese physiology, with her bringing the kid to term rather than handing it off to the father. After having gone through all that with George and his youngest, little Vessna, he was now even happier that he was a human rather than a Newcomer male. It had been enough to get used to the notion of Cathy being pregnant; there was no way he could imagine himself in the same condition. “Whatever. Anyway, don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

  “Are you certain there’s nothing else?” George’s scrutiny became almost clinical. “Frankly, you haven’t been looking all that well lately.”

  He wondered what George suspected. Because there was more, but nothing he wanted to talk about. Not to his partner . . . not even to Cathy. Other things that kept him from getting a night’s sleep. Or if sleep did come, something that jerked him up from the depths in a cold sweat. Those dreams . . . that figure with its outstretched arms, face all in shadow as the light streamed from behind . . . whispering his name . . .

  “No.” Sikes shook his head. It had taken an effort of will to keep hidden the shiver that had crept up his spine, just remembering last night’s vision. “There isn’t anything else.” The same damn thing, again and again, but with one difference: each time he had the dream, the figure came closer than before. Soon he’d be able—in his dreaming—to touch it. And see its face revealed.

  “Well, if you say so.” George went back to shuffling through the files on his desk.

  “You know, now that you mention it . . .”

  George looked up.

  “These last couple of months,” said Sikes, “you haven’t been looking all that great yourself.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” George had visibly stiffened, even beyond his usual tightly buttoned demeanor. “I feel perfectly healthy. Fit as a violin.”

  “You mean fiddle.”

  George frowned in puzzlement. “I thought they were the same thing.”

  “They are, but . . . never mind. I’m not joking around.” Sikes scrutinized his partner across the desk. “I’ve been meaning to say something about this for a while now. Are you sure you’ve been getting enough sleep?”

  “I’m very well rested, thank you.” The irritation in George’s voice was apparent. “Your concern is noted and appreciated. However, in my case at least, there’s nothing to worry about.”

  But there was; he could see it in George’s eyes. Or he would have been able to, if George had looked straight back at him. The way he usually did—for him to turn away, as if he were hiding something, convinced Sikes that something was wrong.

  Maybe . . . if he’s not getting any sleep, either . . .

  George was busy tapping away at his keyboard, his gaze intently following whatever was on the computer screen before him. He really did look tired, Sikes decided. And more than that. Almost . . . haunted.

  He looked away, toward the computer on his own desk. The screen had blanked itself, leaving a dark mirror to hold his reflection, the empty glass like a boxful of night. The same night had started to seep through the blinds over the room’s high windows; he glanced over his shoulder and saw the cold blue glow of the station’s parking lot lights come on.

  Sikes wondered what his partner’s dreams were like, what George saw when he went home and closed his eyes . . .

  He turned the bike around at a gas station, out in the middle of nowhere. Under the sputtering fluorescents, Buck filled the tank while a human in greasy overalls and a Caterpillar cap watched.

  “That oughta do it.” He hung the nozzle back on the pump and screwed the motorcycle’s gas cap down. “Get me home, at least.” Buck extracted a ten from his wallet—leaving only a fiver and a couple of singles until payday—and held it out to the attendant.

  “Ya goin’ back to the city?” The guy wiped his hands on a black-stained shop rag before taking the money. “That where ya goin’?”

  Buck laughed. “Where the hell else?” Not that it was any of this tert’s business.

  The attendant slowly turned and looked away, toward the distant mountains edged by the night’s first stars. When he brought his gaze back around, Buck could see that he had loony eyes, like someone who had spent too much time staring across the empty desert.

  “Ya know . . .” The attendant’s words drawled out slow. “Ya could just keep goin’. Just as long as you wanted to. There ain’t shit stoppin’ ya.”

  Buck kickstarted the bike, revved the engine to a roar and then brought it back down. “Yeah, well, maybe I will some day. But not right now.”

  The attendant looked disappointed, as though he were the prophet of a new religion who hadn’t found any takers. “Why not?”

  “I don’t know.” He zipped his jacket against the cold wind that had begun to pick up, then turned the bike away from the gas pump. “Maybe I still got things to do.”

  That was a stupid answer, thought Buck as he leaned over the motorcycle’s tank, the white line of the highway shimmering in the headlight beam. Why did he tell the guy that? There wasn’t anything—or anyone—that kept him in L.A. Not anymore. So why?

  No answer. He rolled on the throttle, letting the speed of the machine and the enveloping night silence the thoughts inside his head.

  C H A P T E R 8

  HE WAS GLAD when his partner went home for the night. George’s head had gotten so crammed—with thoughts and fears and memory scraps, the bits and pieces left from his bad dreams—that another person’s presence was almost unbearable. To even begin to sort things out, he needed this room at the station all to himself, with the buzz and murmur of the regular cop work safely removed to the other side of the closed door.

  You could have been easier on him, thought George as he gazed unseeing at the computer screen on his desk. He knew he must have come across as stiff and pompous—like an uptight, button-down Newcomer police drone—when he had been talking to Matt. He supposed he came across that way because, deep down in his hearts, that’s what he was. And then lecturing his partner about how to do his job, what could be logically induced from the mountain of airtight Purist alibis . . . and worse, that crack about Matt’s still not passing the Detective Two orals. That had been completely uncalled for. Matt was a saint to put up with him at all.

  Dropping his elbows onto an open file folder, he rubbed his aching eyes with his palms. Past the room’s door and down the station’s hallway, some drunk was yelling in the booking sergeant’s holding tank; the
muffled words sounded angry and demented. That person was lucky. His problems could be sorted out, for the most part, with a good night’s sleep. George wished the same could be said for himself. It had been a long time since sleep, when he could get it, had had any beneficial effect.

  “Everybody’s got their problems,” he spoke aloud to the empty room. It sounded more like the kind of vaguely ungrammatical thing Matt would say, some mournful piece of Earthly ethnic wisdom. George slumped back in the chair, blinking and refocussing his eyes. He supposed it was true. He should listen to Matt, instead of the other way around.

  The temptation to go home, to try and get some sleep, was almost overwhelming; cumulative fatigue weighed on his shoulders and rolled down his spine like the coils of a lead jacket. He could hope that the dreams of the light-silhouetted figure, the shadow that spoke his name, wouldn’t make its usual visitation. There had been a couple of times in the last few months when he had been able to achieve some degree of unconsciousness, waking up in the morning without being haunted by what he had seen, by his own name whispered as the light slid through the figure’s outstretched hands . . .

  George shook his head, half in denial and half to jog himself back awake. It wasn’t worth the risk. Besides, he still had work to do.

  He looked down at the photos tucked into the pocket on one side of the folder. Now here was somebody with problems . . . or looked at another way, someone whose problems were over.

  The photos had been taken at the autopsy performed by the coroner’s office on the late Dr. Quinn. They weren’t pretty.