by Wen Spencer
"Who uses a machete to cut through red tape," Atticus sang.
"Are you saying I don't have a chance?"
"I'm not saying that."
"If she knows you two are . . . you know . . . it's not like I have to compete with you."
Atticus sighed. He hadn't counted on Kyle wanting to join them at breakfast. "She knows. What did you find out about her?"
"She's twenty-six, like moi,and an Aries, extremely compatible with a Virgo like me. Her tax records claim that she's single and owns a luxury one-bedroom studiocondo in Pittsburgh." Kyle crooned the word "studio." "You know what that means—no live-in boyfriend. Her hobbies are science fiction and mystery novels, motorcycles, and cooking."
Cooking?The stocked refrigerator in Zheng's hotel room took on new meaning. "My God, she's a nerd's dream come true."
Undeterred, Kyle went on. "She's got a Suzuki Katana and a Ford Mustang, a black belt in judo, and is the Pittsburgh field office's top scorer in pistol."
Atticus shooed Kyle back into his room so Ru could go on sleeping. They'd been out late, working through the addresses Agent Zheng had provided. The places were so scattered that they drove nearly two hundred miles just to hit the first two.
On Kyle's laptop various windows were open to lingerie models.
"And the lingerie relates how?"
"These are all things she ordered last month from Victoria's Secret."
He was going to have to have a long talk with Kyle about what the words "find out everything" really entailed. "I don't know, Kyle. Women wear things like that when they have someone to show it off to."
"You think so?"
"Yeah."
Kyle dropped into a sulk.
"What about the Ontongard?"
He looked unhappier. "Either Indigo sanitized her reports completely or there just isn't anything. She joined the FBI in 1999, and I've been searching through five years of reports, but so far, officially, the only 'aliens' she's dealt with are Russian Mafia and Chinese Tongs. I'm sorry, Atty; I'll do some more digging."
Atticus went to gaze out Kyle's window, looking down on Boston Harbor. Fog masked all but the wharf at the foot of the hotel and its collection of sailboats and cabin cruisers. It felt like the fog extended through his soul; Atticus knew he wasn't human, but who was telling him the truth? Could he believe Agent Zheng merely because she was on the side of truth, justice, and the American way? Was "alien" any saner than "werewolf," "angel," or "demon"? Who knew the truth and who was deceiving themselves?
In the long run, did it really matter? After what he and Ru found yesterday, he knew that the cult needed to be stopped.
Deciding that Ice's instruction to Ascii might indicate a general direction to look, they investigated the northernmost addresses on the list. The New Hampshire farm had indeed been sold and the new owners were an investment banker from Boston, his pregnant wife, and their two children. After what they learned at the next site, Atticus nearly drove back to the farm and told the banker to pack up his family and flee any chance of interacting with the cult.
Zheng's list had innocuously noted: burn site.The police report had been dryly worded. What they found was little more than secluded acreage on the edge of extensive wetlands. There had been cinder blocks stacked around the bonfire, making crude fire tunnels, but they'd been numbered and hauled away to FBI crime labs. The ash had been gathered for bone fragments, the ground scraped for evidence, and all that was left was scorched earth and the scent of long-dead fires.
He searched anyhow, crouching in the cold wind, fingering the marshy edges of the clearing. In the break between two slightly singed bushes, he found where a woman had crawled through, missing a left arm and a right foot, burning hot enough to scorch the ground she scrabbled over. In a low hollow, fifty feet from the incinerator, she broke into a collection of mice—but that hadn't saved her. The cultists had smashed the mice with sledgehammers, doused them with gasoline, and burned them. The police missed or ignored the pitifully small, charred bodies. Atticus steeled himself to pick one up, breaking open the heat-mummified remains to find intact DNA.
The cult killed the mice while they were still caught between two species. This cell was a mouse. That cell was . . . well, one couldn't call it human.
"Is that what I think it is?" Ru had whispered from behind Atticus.
"Yes." He dug a hole in the damp, loose soil and buried the mice. There was nothing else he could do; he couldn't take them to the police and say, "These were a woman—someone just like me."
It was a chance encounter with the incinerator's neighbor that exposed the rest of the horror.
"They did it at night—to hide the smoke," she'd said only after they'd shown her ID. She had the doors of her car locked, and the window cracked only a finger width. "The wind usually blows west to east—so it goes out over the wetlands, but one night last fall I could smell it—I live the next lot down the lane—so I called the fire department. They needed to bring in a psychologist for the whole department—it was like something out of a Nazi death camp."
Ru tsked. Atticus hung back, letting Ru finesse her. People liked Ru and opened up to him. "It must be terrifying to have something like that so close to home."
"We've bought a dog and a gun and had alarms installed on all windows and doors."
"Very intelligent of you," Ru murmured.
"I wouldn't have stayed except we would have taken a terrible hit trying to sell our house—it was all through the news, and no one wanted to live next to that."
Ru made more encouraging noises.
"I can't believe those monsters were so close to my house—that I might have passed them in the car and looked them in the face."
"Have they caught any of the ones responsible?"
"No, no." She scanned the empty road, either becoming aware they were alone on the country lane, or looking for monsters in the form of men lurking in the bushes, or maybe both. Ironically, she'd probably mistake Ascii as an ally against the monstrous. What would she make of Atticus? "The police keep asking us, insisting we must have seen something. There were cars every now and then—and trucks of firewood—but I thought those were deliveries for someone farther down the road. The McBeals or the Henrys."
Ru showed her the artist sketches of the cult members, but she didn't recognize anyone.
"Is this drug related then?" She seemed incredulous, as if unmotivated murder was simpler to understand than drugs being sold in her neighborhood.
"That's what we're trying to find out."
In the end, she could enlighten them only about the aftermath, not about the murders themselves. She repeated her tale of calling the fire department, and expanded on the story, telling about the police canvassing the area to see if residents were missing, and how the local paper still carried stories each time a victim was identified. "They think there were thirty to forty bodies cremated there. Once the news came out, I called everyone I knew, just to check on them—even one thieving cousin I won't let in my house; he might be a bastard but I wouldn't wish that on him."
Was this where they had been taking Ukiah? Had the victims been other family members Atticus now would never meet? Or had they been humans who fell prey to the cult insanity?
Since they were operating on the assumption that their cover was blown, they gave her their business cards and asked her to call them if she remembered anything, or—in the way of a mild warning—noticed any new activity at the site.
The smell of coffee pulled Atticus out of the memory. Kyle had opened up a bag of instant coffee and poured it out into the filter of the hotel room's coffeemaker. The rich, dark aroma blossomed to fill the small room as few things could; it was a good thing that he liked the smell of coffee, if not the taste. Atticus shifted his attention to his room—Ru was up and in the shower.
"The police have apparently identified some of the victims of the cult," Atticus told Kyle. "Do you have the records on that?"
"Of course." Kyle transferred t
he water from the carafe to the coffeemaker, and started the coffee brewing. "But I haven't really done anything with them."
"Unless Zheng's come up with new leads, we're running out of options."
After the burn site, he and Ru worked their way south, hitting a house gutted by fire, an empty town house, and finally an empty storefront in Kendall Square that once housed the cult's recruitment center for Harvard and MIT students. The cult had only leased the last and the landlord more than willingly let them search the dusty interior. They found neither Zheng's supposed alien doomsday devices nor any leads to the cult's current location.
"There's a possibility, though, knowing the cult is behind the murders," Atticus said. "That we might be able to find a common factor among the victims which might pinpoint something not on Zheng's list."
Ru padded in from the adjoining room. He was naked except for the towel cinched around his slender waist, and a bejeweling of water. "You know, I was thinking in the shower," he said while scrubbing his fingers through his thick black hair, spiking it on end. He smelled of everything right and wonderful in Atticus's life. "It was listening to the boat horns this morning—we're on the coast."
"Doh," Kyle muttered at the keyboard.
"Salem is a harbor. What if Ice was going to meet them there with a boat, load Ukiah onto it, and abandon the car?"
They glanced at each other, weighing the idea.
"Yeah," Atticus said.
Kyle opened a search window and a moment later had a map and satellite photo for Salem displayed. "Bingo. This triangle here is the parking lot for the train station." He slid his finger over to a featureless gray area. "And this is open water."
"Deep enough for a boat?"
"Maybe; there are little pierlike things," Kyle murmured, tapping man-made structures jutting into the water. He zoomed in as much as the software allowed and panned northward from the train station. After a moment of fiddling, he swore, minimized that window, and started to call up others, quickly running through Salem Harbor Channel and then Danver River Channel and finally Collins Cove. "It would help if I knew anything about boating."
He hadn't minimized the lingerie ads, and they peeked around the edges of the other windows as he filtered through the massive information on the Internet, looking for the grain of data.
"What's with the panties and bras?" Ru whispered to Atticus.
"Our little boy is in love," Atticus whispered back.
"With who?"
"Agent Zheng."
Showing that Ru had heard Atticus singing earlier, he sang, "I want to love you madly; I want to love you now."
Atticus laughed. "You know, when I was growing up, I thought there was some weird affliction that made humans burst into song whenever they were in love."
" Kaiwaii!" Ru cried, which was Japanese for "cute." "Is this why you're so into karaoke?"
Was it?
Kyle sighed, apparently deciding that he had reached the balance point of time invested to payoff. "It's possible, but unlikely. Look at this chart. It shows the channels in and out of this river area. None of them point into this cove—although there are several rocks indicated. This document here talks about mooring field A located at the convergence of this channel and Collins Cove—which is the body of water beside the train station. It says there are roughly a hundred and eighty moorings—but that's up here at the mouth of the cove, and the train station is down here, but we're only talking . . . feet."
"Assuming there is a boat," Atticus said, "where did they get it, and where is it now? It's not on the list of purchases that Zheng had."
"And where were they going to take Ukiah?" Ru said.
"Legend has it that vampires can't cross running water," Kyle said.
Atticus looked at him with horrified dismay. "No, don't add vampires to this."
"I thought we might as well cover all bases."
"Don't even go there."
"But the cult might lump demons and vampires together," Ru said.
Kyle's laptop played a sound clip from a Japanese anime film; "Ringu, ringu, wakey, wakey."
"Ack." Kyle started to save information and close windows. "I still need to shower and shave before we meet with Indigo!"
***
At a quarter to eight, Atticus called time for heading downstairs to meet with Zheng. Kyle, for once, had his five-o'clock shadow in check and borrowed some of Ru's cologne.
"Are you sure this isn't going to . . . you know . . . weird you out?" Kyle asked as he dabbed it on. "I mean, me smelling like Ru?"
"It combines differently with your body chemistry." Atticus shrugged into his shoulder holster and then his leather jacket to hide his pistol. "You don't smell the same."
"Really?" Kyle sniffed himself. "Not in a bad way? I smell good, right?"
"Better smell good, considering what I pay for that." Like Atticus, Ru had on his leather jacket with his shoulder holster underneath. He filled his pockets with his wallet, DEA ID, keys, change, PDA, and the team's backup cell phone.
"Cell phone!" Atticus snapped his fingers. "I forgot!" Which earned him a look from his partners. No, perfect recall wasn't the same as perfect memory. "Let me borrow your phone, Kyle." Atticus glanced at the hotel room's phone to memorize the number. "After breakfast, get hold of Darcy and have her FedEx us two new phones."
"Geesh, she's going to love that." Kyle handed over his phone. "Don't play any of the games, okay? Don't mess with the settings—it took me forever to download the various rings—and don't break it."
Atticus took it. "Can I at least set it to silent ring?"
Kyle took it, changed the ring, and handed it back.
They'd been prepping the rooms so all of them could leave at once. Ru had the bag with the money. Kyle had his laptop. Atticus had a heavier bag with all their most expensive equipment. They locked up the connecting doors, scanned the hall through the spyhole, and, seeing the way was clear, undid the dead bolts and security chain, and left.
It was nearly a perfect break.
When the elevator door opened, however, Sumpter stepped out, folder in hand. He nearly brushed past them before realizing who they were. He jerked to a surprised stop. "Where are you going?"
So much for arriving at the meeting site before their adversary.
"We've got a meeting with the FBI." Atticus let the elevator doors close. They'd found that Sumpter would follow them at great lengths to merely to finish a conversation. They would have to brush him off before getting on the elevator, or they'd have him at the meeting.
"Since when?" Sumpter asked.
"The background check on us was FBI stumbling over our sting," Atticus said.
"Johnston told me." Sumpter ignored the fact that Kyle was standing beside him. "But it's still not clear to me where they popped up. You didn't mention any Chinese men earlier."
Kyle chose the wrong moment to speak up. "Indigo's a woman. A real babe."
"Hmm?" Sumpter said with interest. "Where are you meeting?"
Atticus tried to be truthful with Sumpter, to save lying for important dodges. "Downstairs."
"Okay." Sumpter punched the down button. "Shall wesee what the FBI has to say?"
Riding with Sumpter was like riding with a stranger, only worse. Sumpter stood watching the numbers count down as Atticus and his team silently communicated.
I called her first.Kyle's face plainly said.
What do we do?Ru asked subtly with a nervous glance to Sumpter and a slight twitch of his upraised palms.
Fake a call,Atticus told them, thumb and pinkie extended to form a receiver, with a slight shake as if it vibrated with a silent ring.
Kyle started to sulk, as he was the one who normally set up such a ploy.
Ru took pity on him. He used the Japanese hand signal of pointing to his nose to indicate himself, a habit he got off his mother and grandparents. I'll do it.
Atticus nodded. Ru was more devious than Kyle, by far.
How soon?Ru asked by raising
his left wrist and giving Atticus a querying look.
Atticus flashed all ten fingers and then repeated the phone sign. A time delay would keep suspicion off of Ru.
They hit the lobby and got off the elevator.
Ru made a show of searching his pockets. "Shoot," he said aloud for Sumpter's sake. "I think I left my phone and PDA upstairs."
"Lax, Takahashi." Sumpter sighed.
Ru handed Atticus the money. "I'm going to run back upstairs for it. I'll be back down in a couple of minutes."
Atticus urged Kyle toward the restaurant with a look. "Go see if Zheng is here yet." Atticus handed the money to Sumpter. "Could you put this in the hotel safe?" And then, to give him a little nudge, "Sir. We won't need it until Saturday."
A sharp glance from Sumpter indicated that the "sir" might have been over the top, but he took the bag without a word.
Having delayed Sumpter, Atticus felt he should make sure that Kyle had given the heads-up to Agent Zheng that Sumpter was outside the loop. Normally Kyle could be trusted to keep his eyes on the ball, but this time his eyes would be likely elsewhere.
A prickling awareness made Atticus check his stride. He focused and found he perceived a presence beyond the wall of the hotel, pretending to be relaxed, watching and waiting.
Pack.
" Good morning, Boy." Another's thoughts brushed against Atticus's mind with the impression of grizzled fur and a curious working nose. Atticus straggled to put a face to the psyche. " I'm Murray." And a face was supplied, picked from a perfect memory, created by a glance into a mirror: an unruly head of salt-and-pepper curls, a neatly trimmed beard, and dark eyes framed a nose formed by Jewish ancestry. " They call me Mouthpiece. Onetime lawyer, public defender, now Pack member. Going from one necessary evil to another."
A Jewish space alien?
" What are we?" Atticus wondered if he could trust Murray's answer any more than that of the Iron Horses or Agent Zheng. " Werewolves, space aliens, demon, or angel?"
" Angel is new." While the idea seemed to amuse Murray, there was no indication it was correct.
" Any of them true?"
" What we did to you on the beach, we did because you can't lie mind to mind. You can't create a believable memory any more than you can have a fully textured dream."