The tunnel leading to the right, away from the Tenderloin and the Core, was sealed just a hundred feet or so beyond the platform—a brick and concrete wall filled the tunnel, blocking the tracks. Not even a rat could have found a way through it.
Carlucci led the way in the other direction, stepping off the platform and walking along the side of the tracks. Tanner and the others followed, single file, flashlights casting wide, shaky beams through the dark.
They spent the next hour slowly following the tracks. It was a relatively straightforward path, necessitating little discussion and no decisions of significance. During that hour they came across several passages branching away from the main tunnel and the tracks, and they investigated each one; but in every case, as expected, they found the branching passages sealed, usually quite close to the main tunnel.
Graffiti covered the walls in some stretches of the tunnel, and they even came across several large and beautiful paintings done on the stone walls, preserved by clear fixatives: an abstract done in yellows and black, framed in white; a machine with a man-shaped head and dozens of mechanical arms, hovering above a deserted city square; a portrait of a dark-haired woman.
Tanner trudged on, just behind Carlucci, still quite numb. The air in the tunnel was not as cool and fresh as it should have been, as most underground tunnels were in the city. Too many passages blocked off, too much natural venting and circulation eliminated. Stagnant and tepid, like death.
The tracks ended.
The ceiling rose, and the tunnel widened into a closed chamber. Two large carts that apparently ran on the tracks were mounted against one wall. A large door was the only other way out.
They spent a couple of minutes checking the room, but did not find anything. No one spoke, and they moved with hardly a sound. Carlucci stepped up to the door, tried the handle. Unlocked. At his signal, all lights were extinguished. The darkness was complete; Tanner could not see a thing.
A slight cracking sound as Carlucci opened the door. A faint slash of light appeared, slowly widened, cut across the room. A wide passage lay beyond the door, dimly lit from an unidentifiable source. The passage appeared to be empty.
Carlucci swung the door completely open and Tanner joined him in the doorway, gazing down the passage. There was nothing to be seen except blank walls. The passage extended nearly fifty feet, then ended at another door. There were no sounds except a faint, humming vibration that seemed to roll smoothly through the air around them.
Carlucci and Tanner started down the passage, and the others followed at ten-foot intervals. When they reached the door, Tanner and Carlucci drew the trank guns. Carlucci gripped the door handle, slowly pushed it down. This door, too, was unlocked. He turned, checked to make sure everyone was ready; the others all had their trank guns out. He pressed down on the door handle, there was a quiet click, then he pushed open the door.
The door opened into a huge room fifty feet across with a thirty-foot-high ceiling. Standing in the center of the room, illuminated by blue, shimmering light from a dozen spirals of phosphor strings hung about the room, was the Chain Killer. Destroying Angel.
He appeared much as Tanner had expected—both legs and one arm cyborged, no clothes, part human, part machine, with large, beautiful wings of glistening silver spread high above and behind him. Fifteen or twenty cables ran from his artificial limbs and across the floor, where they were plugged into electronic consoles that lay against the walls. The floor around him was littered with drug vials and injectors. The man’s eyes were rolled back into his skull, and his body and wings quivered as he stood in the middle of the room.
The hum was loud in here. Tanner and Carlucci entered the room, Tanner moving right, Carlucci moving left, and the others came in behind them.
“Mother... fuck.” It was Harker.
The man’s eyes rolled back down so he was looking at Harker, who still stood in the doorway. Fuentes had joined Tanner on the right and they continued moving farther in along the wall, Carlucci doing the same on the other side of the room. Everyone had their trank guns aimed at the man.
Wings flexed, swinging forward then back. Tanner imagined the movements as preparation for takeoff, though he knew the man couldn’t fly. The wings flexed again, but otherwise the man did not move.
“Albert Cromwell,” Carlucci said.
The man’s head turned, slowly, stiffly, until he was facing Carlucci.
“We’ve found you,” Carlucci said. “Why don’t you just make things easier for everyone, get down on the floor, arms and legs spread.”
The man—machine, Destroying Angel—still did not move except to slowly shake his head.
“We don’t want to kill you,” Carlucci said. “So get down on the floor. And disconnect the wings.”
The man opened his mouth, and a harsh, stuttering sound emerged. But no words. The wings flexed one more time, then the man staggered toward Carlucci, trailing cables, his motions stilted and slow. Why? Tanner wondered. He was outnumbered four to one, he had to know he didn’t stand a chance, cyborg or not.
“Watch the crossfire,” Carlucci shouted. “But shoot. Take this fucker down.”
Suddenly the man began to move toward Carlucci with great speed. Tanner aimed and fired, heard the muffled bursts of the other guns, then heard the clanking sounds of pellets striking metal. He wondered if any of the shots were hits. He saw Carlucci fire twice and run to his left. The man turned and tried to follow, hampered by the wings and the cables. Tanner and the others fired again, Tanner aiming more carefully for flesh—the arm, upper chest, neck, face.
This time he was sure there were hits, the man jerked twice, though he kept after Carlucci. Carlucci dashed across the center of the room, avoiding the cables, leading the man toward Tanner and Fuentes. More shots from the trank guns, more hits.
The man staggered, dropped to his knees, got to his feet, then fell again, wings folding up around him, crumpling in a heap. He tried once more to get up, the wings spasmed, then he finally collapsed. He did not move.
Carlucci approached him first, then Fuentes, and Harker. Tanner kept back, watching from a few feet away, watching the three cops standing silently over Albert Cromwell. No one seemed to know what to say, what to do. Finally, Carlucci knelt beside the man, checked his pulse and breathing.
“All right,” he said. “We’ve got him. Now let’s get him out of here alive.”
O O O O
Tanner and Carlucci watched the paramedics load Albert Cromwell into the ambulance. It was difficult to think of him as Destroying Angel now. Night had fallen, and half the lights around them were flashing. There probably hadn’t been this many cop cars inside the Tenderloin in years.
The senior paramedic walked over to them. “Can’t guarantee anything,” she said, “but all his vitals are strong. We’ll be running toxics on the way over, and we’re already countering the tranks. He looks a lot worse than he actually is. He should be fine.”
“Thanks,” Carlucci said.
She nodded, walked back to the ambulance, and got in the back with Cromwell. Doors were pulled shut, sirens and lights came on, and the ambulance pulled away, police escort in front and back as it headed out of the Tenderloin. There were still several other police cars nearby, one of which would be taking Carlucci to the hospital so he could stay on top of things.
They had found a quick, simple way out of the Chain Killer’s place. The room was in the Core, but right at the edge. They had managed to get out and into the Tenderloin proper—the four of them carrying Cromwell between them—where Carlucci called in extra forces and the paramedics. The paramedics had arrived in less than five minutes.
“You want to go to the hospital with me?” Carlucci asked.
Tanner shook his head. “I can’t think of one good reason I should,” he said.
“Neither can I.” Carlucci breathed in deeply, then slowly let it out. “It’s over, I guess.”
“I guess.”
Neither spoke for a mi
nute. Tanner watched the police cars loading up, pulling away.
“You’d better go,” he said.
Carlucci nodded. “You going home?”
“Yes,” Tanner said. “I could use a good night’s sleep.”
“Me too.” Carlucci shrugged. “But I’m going to have to finish things up at the hospital. Who knows what time I’ll get home. I’ll be happy if it’s still dark.” He grunted, shrugged again. “I’ll talk to you.”
“Sure. Go on.”
They shook hands, then Carlucci walked over to the last waiting car and got in. The siren kicked on, and the car pulled away.
Tanner stood and watched it move down the street, lights flashing, until it turned a corner three blocks up. People on the streets hardly paid it any attention. Within a couple of minutes all the sirens were barely audible, nearly drowned out by the normal sounds of the Tenderloin at night. Everything back to normal, Tanner thought.
Time to go home. He had been ready to do just that for a long time. He glanced back at the Core, then turned away and started walking down the street.
FORTY
THAT NIGHT TANNER slept long and deep, and did not awaken until almost noon. Over twelve hours. If he dreamed, he did not remember anything.
He lay in bed awhile without moving, listening to the sounds of the city coming in through the open window. There was a slight breeze, and although the air was hot it was not stifling. He did not know what day it was. Whatever day, he was in no hurry to start it.
Tanner finally got up, and wandered aimlessly about the apartment for a few minutes before finally going into the bathroom. He relieved himself, then stood and looked at his reflection in the mirror above the sink. About two weeks’ growth of beard. He decided he did not like it.
He spent fifteen minutes carefully shaving off the beard, bringing his face back to normal. Afterward, he took a long shower, using all the hot water, then standing under a stream of cold for several minutes until he finally felt like moving again.
He dressed and ate a single piece of toast. He was not hungry, but he thought he should put something in his stomach. Then he left the apartment for coffee and the newspaper.
On Columbus Street he stopped in front of a newsrack, struck by the morning headline:
CHAIN KILLER CAUGHT, KILLED
Killed? The paramedic had said he was going to be fine. What the hell was going on?
He bought a newspaper, but did not immediately read it. He went into a café, ordered coffee, then sat at a table with the coffee and the newspaper.
Tanner avoided the article on the Chain Killer. He drank his coffee and went through the rest of the paper, section by section. Only when he had read everything he would normally have read, and was halfway through a second cup of coffee, did he read the headline story.
According to the article, a man named Albert Cromwell, whom the police had finally identified as the Chain Killer, had been captured and arrested deep inside the Core after a long investigation and search. Although the police had used tranquilizer weapons in an attempt to capture the Chain Killer alive, the Chain Killer’s metabolism had reacted adversely to the huge doses that had been used to subdue him, and he had died en route to the hospital. There were no pictures of Albert Cromwell, and no mention that he had been a cyborg.
Tanner left the café and searched out a phone booth. He tried calling Homicide, but was told that Carlucci was on vacation. No one would give him Carlucci’s home number, and he finally had to get it from Lucy Chen.
Tina, Carlucci’s daughter, answered the phone. At first she said Carlucci wasn’t around, but when Tanner identified himself she said that her father had been waiting for his call. A few moments later Carlucci came on the line.
“I expected to hear from you a lot sooner,” he said.
“I just saw the newspaper,” Tanner replied.
“You sleep in?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact. What the hell is going on?”
“Let’s meet somewhere,” Carlucci said.
So, Tanner thought, nothing over the phone. “All right.”
“Any preference?”
Tanner did not answer right away, but it didn’t take him long to decide where he wanted to talk to Carlucci. “Yes,” he said. “You know the Carousel Club?”
“South of Market somewhere, isn’t it?”
“Yes, near the slough.”
“I’ll find it. Half an hour?”
“Make it an hour,” Tanner said.
“Fine. See you then.”
“Right.” Tanner hung up the phone.
O O O O
Tanner arrived at the Carousel Club a half hour early and went up to the second floor. All three balcony tables were occupied, so he had to take one just inside, near the wide doors. He ordered a bottle of lime-flavored glacier water—just for the hell of it—and kept an eye on the balcony. A few minutes after the waitress brought the glacier water, the two women at one of the balcony tables left, and Tanner moved out to it.
There must have been a slight breeze blowing away from the club because he could not smell the stench of the slough. The breeze, if it indeed existed, did not help much with the heat, however. Though there were no clouds visible, the humidity was high and Tanner was already sticky with sweat.
He drank the glacier water and gazed across the slough at the junkyard. This was where it had all started, he thought. At least for him. He pictured Sookie sitting cross-legged on a wrecked car, waving strange hand signals at him. It was still difficult to believe she was dead, and Tanner could not shake the feeling that he was at least partially responsible for her death.
When the glacier water was gone, he switched to regular mineral water. The glacier water had not tasted any better, but it had cost three times as much.
As he sat and sipped at the water, the other two tables emptied, and soon he was alone on the balcony, gazing across the slough, watching the light reflect off the water. He was still looking at the junkyard and thinking about Sookie when Carlucci arrived. He sat across from Tanner, ordered a beer, and looked down at the slough.
“This where you were?” Carlucci asked. “When we pulled the bodies out?”
Tanner nodded. “That day was the first time I saw Sookie,” he said. “She was sitting on top of a car in the junkyard. By the time you showed up she was hidden—in one of the cars, I guess. She told me she watched you pull the bodies out of the water.” He paused, a sharp ache driving through his chest. “Three weeks later she ends up being pulled out of the water herself.” He turned to look at Carlucci. “So tell me what the hell is going on?”
“Let me explain something first,” Carlucci said. “I’ve been officially ordered not to say anything about this to anyone, period. Anyone asks me about it, newshawkers, official investigators, whoever, I say nothing. I don’t lie, I don’t confirm or deny anything, it’s just ‘no comment’ and refer all questions to my superiors. Which means Boicelli. I say anything, I lose my job, my pension, and any shot at working in this city again. Okay? I told them I would talk to you, tell you the same thing, but without any explanations. Just tell you that it’s in your best interest not to say a thing. Nothing else.” He sat back in the chair, shrugged. “So what I’m going to tell you now, well, I’m going to be way out of line. Thing is, you risked your life in all this, damn near lost it, and I figure I owe you. You deserve to know. But I want you to understand the situation.”
“I understand,” Tanner said. “And I appreciate the risk you’re taking. So tell me how the hell he died.”
Carlucci shook his head. “He didn’t. The bastard’s still alive.” He continued to shake his head. “The military’s got him back.”
“What’s with the newspapers then?”
“Official story. The company line. Given to us by the feds. I don’t know how those bastards got onto it so fast, but they were at the hospital, waiting, when the ambulance arrived. Cromwell never actually got into the building. The military guys kept him in
the ambulance, kept things hung up until they got their own transport on the scene. Lots of shouting and arguing, believe me. We tried to hold on to him, get him inside the hospital, but they wouldn’t budge. They had their own doctor go in and work on him. They didn’t want him dead, either.” Carlucci shook his head, drank from his beer. “Pretty much a standoff, until McCuller, Vaughn, and Boicelli arrived. They told us to hand him over. I don’t know about the other two, but I know Boicelli wasn’t too happy about it. No choice, he said. Said word had come down ‘from so high up it’d give you nosebleeds.’ So they took him away. Everybody who knew anything was given orders: none of us knows a damn thing. I got a mandatory, fully paid two-week vacation, effective immediately. And that’s supposed to be the end of it. Case closed.”
“Why?” Tanner asked, though he had a few ideas already floating around in his head.
“Their official word,” Carlucci said, “is that they want him in custody so they can examine and study him, figure out what went wrong so it won’t happen again.” Carlucci snorted. “I’d guess there’s some truth to that, they probably do want to figure out what the hell this guy’s all about, why he went over the edge.”
“But what they’re really worried about,” Tanner said, “is bad publicity. They don’t want any of this public.”
Carlucci nodded. “You got it. They can’t afford to have him go to trial. Everything would come to light, any half-assed attorney would make sure of that. And if this went public, kiss off the program, whatever the hell it is they’ve got going. So he’s dead. He’s not, and they’ve got him locked away somewhere, but officially he’s dead. Albert Cromwell, deceased.”
“So everything we did was for nothing,” Tanner said. He slowly shook his head, returning his gaze to the slough and the junkyard on the other side of the water. “It’s all so goddamn futile.”
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