Chimera

by David Wellington

  “We just passed Peachtree Street,” Chapel said. “Except we passed Peachtree Street ten minutes ago.”

  The driver laughed. “Buddy, you never been to Atlanta before, have you? Half the streets here are called that. It’s the state tree. You never heard of Georgia peaches?”

  “Oh,” Chapel said.

  He sank back into his seat.

  Damn it, he was getting paranoid. Which only made sense given his circumstances, but still—he was losing it. He’d been going too long too fast, never getting a chance to rest. He needed sleep. If he didn’t get it, he would probably start shooting at shadows.

  He told himself he just needed to find Jeremy Funt. Once he had the man located and under protection, he could rest.

  Just a little while longer.

  Within thirty seconds his head fell back against the seat and he was asleep.

  ATLANTA, GEORGIA: APRIL 13, T+19:01

  “Hey. Hey, buddy! We’re here!”

  Chapel’s eyes snapped open. They felt gritty and raw. All of him felt gritty and raw. Where was he? What was . . .

  Right. It all came flooding back. He stirred himself, sat up. Adjusted his jacket. He touched Julia’s shoulder, and she slapped his hand away.

  “Take your time,” the driver told him.

  Chapel nodded and rubbed at his face with his hands. His silicone left hand dragged in his stubble, but the irritation helped wake him up a little. He rubbed Julia’s shoulder with his good hand. “It’s time to wake up,” he told her.

  She shifted in her seat, making little sounds of annoyance. Then she leaned forward and laid her head on his chest, one of her arms snaking around his waist. “Let me sleep in today,” she said. “The little Chihuahuas can wait.”

  She was so warm against his body in the chilly air-conditioned cab. Chapel felt his body stirring. He put his good hand on her hair and stroked it gently.

  Whoa, he told himself. Not appropriate.

  He thought of when she’d been examining him in her clinic, and she’d kissed him. That had just been a reward for saving her, though. Except—she had said that it was also maybe because she’d wanted to kiss him.

  Her hair was soft and slightly curly. It felt good in his fingers. This was totally wrong, he thought. He had a mission to complete; there was no time for this. But he wanted so desperately to just lean in and kiss her awake.

  “Oh, no,” she said, and sat bolt upright. “Oh my God.”

  “It’s not what—”

  “Oh my God,” she said again. “Oh God. Chapel. I—I am so sorry.”

  “You are?” he asked.

  “I thought you were somebody else. My ex-boyfriend. Wow,” she said. “That was not appropriate, huh? I’m really sorry.”

  Chapel reached for the handle of his door. “It’s fine. Really,” he said. He opened his door and stepped out onto the sidewalk. Harsh sodium lamps burned down from above, pushing away shadows that refused to be completely contained. The buildings on either side of him were mostly one- and two-story houses with peaked roofs. Each had a patch of green lawn out front, and most had a tree or two. It looked nothing whatsoever like New York City.

  “Do we need to pay the driver?” Julia asked, coming up beside him.

  “No—no—it’s all taken care of,” he said, a little too quickly.

  She gave him a weak smile. He turned toward the car, intending to ask the driver to wait while they went inside, but the cabbie was already pulling away. He waved furiously to call the man back, but it was no use.

  Oh, well. He could always call for another car. Even without Angel’s help he supposed he could manage that.

  “So what’s the plan, here?” Julia asked.

  “The man who lives here, Jeremy Funt, is like your father—at least in that the chimeras want to kill them both.” She winced and he immediately felt like an ass. She knew her father’s life—just as her own—was in danger, and she didn’t need to be reminded of the fact. “I’m going to get him, and you, out of here. And then I’m going to sit here all night waiting for a chimera to show up. If I can, I’ll take it into custody.”

  “How do you know the chimera will come here?” she asked, rubbing at her eyes.

  “I don’t, really. But I’m operating under the assumption the chimera has the same list I do, which is how I got this address. Huh. No lights on in the house.”

  Julia shrugged. “It’s late. Maybe he’s asleep, like a sane person.”

  “Maybe,” Chapel agreed. If it was him, if he knew a psychopath was coming to kill him, Chapel would keep a light on. It would at least make it easier to see the maniac when he arrived. “Come on.” He went up a narrow gravel driveway to the front door of the house and knocked loudly. He glanced around at the surrounding houses. Plenty of them still showed lights. He could see the blue glow of a television set through one window across the street and hear people laughing somewhere nearby. A dog was barking a few streets away. It wasn’t that late.

  When there was no answer to his knock he looked around until he found a doorbell and tried that. Still no response.

  “Maybe he was really sane, and he went somewhere else. Since he knew the chimera was coming. You did let everyone know they were in danger, right?” Julia asked.

  “It was the first thing I did.”

  Something here just wasn’t right. He knocked again, knowing there would be no reply. “Okay. I need to get inside, whether he’s here or not, so I can lay my ambush for the chimera. Stand back and watch the street. If you see anyone looking at us and wondering what we’re doing, let me know. If you see a police car, let me know.”

  “I’m guessing, in this neighborhood that’s a pretty rare sight,” Julia told him.

  “Keep an eye out anyway.” Chapel flexed his shoulder. It had been a long time since he had knocked a door down with brute force. He had little choice, though. He grabbed the doorknob, intending to lift the door in its hinges and then ram it with his shoulder.

  Except the knob turned freely in his hand.

  The door swung open. It wasn’t locked.

  Something here was definitely not right.

  ATLANTA, GEORGIA: APRIL 13, T+19:12

  Chapel drew his weapon and stepped inside the dark house. He motioned for Julia to follow him, then pulled the door shut behind him. “Look for a light switch,” he told Julia. Then he turned to face the darkness and called out, “Mr. Funt? I’m a federal agent. I’m here to protect you.”

  He didn’t expect a response, and he didn’t get one.

  Behind him he heard a click, and then the lights came on.

  The house was tastefully, if plainly, furnished. The front door opened on a living room with a large television set, a comfortable-looking sofa, and a beaten-up coffee table that might have been an antique, once. Bookshelves lined the far wall, but they were half empty.

  Two archways led off the main room, one to what looked like a kitchen—he could see a refrigerator and a stove through the arch—and one to what presumably was a bedroom. A curtain of beads hung down from that arch. Chapel pointed his weapon toward each arch and called out Funt’s name again.

  It was possible this was a colossal waste of time. Maybe no chimera had come to Atlanta at all. Maybe all three of them were in Chicago already and were beating Eleanor Pechowski to death while he stood here, wondering what to do next.

  That kind of thinking didn’t help at all. “Stay close to me,” he told Julia, but she was already walking over to the coffee table.

  “Does this guy look like a slob to you?” she asked.

  Chapel wondered what she was getting at, but he glanced around the room. There were coasters on the coffee table, and no empty cans or glasses lying around. “Not at all,” he said. “The opposite, in fact.”

  Julia ran one index finger along the top of the coffee table. She held it u
p where he could see it—it was covered in dust. “He hasn’t been here in a while.”

  Chapel frowned. That had to mean something important, but—what? Even if Funt had vacated the house as soon as he got the call from Angel, that was still less than twenty-four hours ago. Dust didn’t accumulate that quickly.

  “You have a list of addresses for the people the chimeras want to kill,” Julia said. When he started to protest, she held up both hands. “I’m not asking any questions, don’t worry. You can keep your secrets. I just wanted to point out that maybe your list isn’t up to date. Funt might have moved out of here a while ago.”

  “Maybe,” Chapel agreed. “I’m going to check the kitchen. Stay here.”

  Julia looked annoyed at being ordered around, but there wasn’t much he could do about that. He didn’t have time to ask her permission every time he needed her to do something. Civilians were fine in principle, he thought, until you needed them to follow orders.

  He went into the kitchen and found another light switch. The kitchen was as Spartan as the living room, with a small table pushed up against one wall and only one chair. There was thick dust on the table, but when he checked the stove and the countertops they were clean. No dust on them at all. Funt might have moved out weeks ago—but he had come back at least once.

  “I’m going to check the bedroom,” Julia called.

  “No! Wait for me,” he shouted back, but he knew she wouldn’t listen. He turned to leave the kitchen when he caught another look at the table—and the dust on top of it.

  Someone had written a message in it, presumably using his finger. Chapel bent low to get a look at it in better light.

  IF YOU WANT TO FIND ME

  I’VE GONE UNDER

  THE UNDERGROUND

  “Oh shit!” Julia called.

  Chapel ignored the message in the dust and raced back into the living room. He saw Julia standing in the beaded curtain, holding it back with one hand.

  “I think we’re too late,” she said. “I think he’s dead.”

  ATLANTA, GEORGIA: APRIL 13, T+19:46

  Chapel raced over to her side. He put an arm out to stop her from going any farther, then peered into the darkened bedroom. Like the rest of the house it was only semifurnished. There was a single bed up against the far wall, and a dresser standing next to the window.

  The sheets of the bed had been pulled up over a human-sized form. It looked very much like someone had died in their sleep and had the sheets drawn over his face.

  Chapel noticed a strange, acrid smell in the air. At first he thought it had to be the stench of decay, that the body had been left there long enough for it to start rotting. But he knew the smell of death, and this wasn’t it. This smelled more like benzene or maybe diesel fuel.

  “Just like my mom,” Julia breathed. She sounded like she was close to going into shock—or maybe like she would start screaming.

  Chapel stepped toward the bed, intending to throw the sheet back and see if it was really Funt lying there. Something about the position of the body seemed wrong. The body had been lain out carefully, its legs together and its arms at its sides. The way bodies looked when they were lain in their coffins.

  The chimera he’d fought in New York wouldn’t have bothered to do something like that. He’d made no attempt to pose Helen Bryant—he’d just killed her and then left her in a heap.

  That smell. It was very strong over by the bed. Chapel reached down and touched the sheet near the body’s head. He grasped the edge of the sheet and started to pull it down.

  Behind him he heard a click as Julia switched on the bedroom light.

  Two things occurred to him in that moment. One was that the form under the sheet was too lumpy. Up close it didn’t look so much like a human being anymore.

  The other thing was that he distinctly heard some kind of fizzing sound. It had started the same moment Julia switched on the lights.

  He yanked the sheet back and saw what was really there.

  Red plastic canisters, the kind used to store gasoline. Or diesel fuel. There were eight of them in the bed, grouped together to resemble a human body. They had yellow plastic screw lids. Chapel unscrewed one and the smell nearly overpowered him. It wasn’t just diesel fuel in there—the diesel had been mixed with fertilizer.

  He was looking at a homemade bomb.

  That fizzing sound . . .

  It had to be the noise of a burning fuse, which was lit when Julia flipped the light switch.

  “Get out! Front door! Now!” Chapel shouted, turning around and pushing Julia ahead of him, through the beaded curtain. He caught her wrong and she nearly went sprawling, nearly fell right onto the coffee table. Chapel grabbed her around the waist with his artificial arm and bull rushed the front door, slamming up against it because he’d forgotten it opened inward.

  Behind him he heard a fwoosh as the fuse burned down and set the first canister alight.

  The bedroom window exploded outward in a gout of flame and smoke, glass and wood bursting outward in a cone that shredded the hedges and set fire to a tree ten feet away. A billowing wave of smoke came rushing out the front door, and with it a shock wave that smashed Chapel’s face to the side as pieces of burning and broken furniture stormed past him. He slammed his eyes shut to protect them even as the heat hit him, making him feel like he was being roasted alive.

  In a moment it was over except for the smoke and the car alarms and the ringing in his ears. He looked down and saw he was lying on top of Julia, his artificial arm wrapped around her head, presumably to protect her from the blast.

  “Are you okay?” he asked her.

  She nodded. Her eyes were very wide. Clearly no one had ever tried to blow her up before.

  Chapel wished he could say the same.

  He looked up and saw every light on the street was on now, every house awake and alert. People had come out onto their porches to see what was going on. Some of them were standing in the street, watching Funt’s house as it went up in flames.

  He looked down and saw he was still lying on Julia. He released her head from his cradling arm, and she pulled herself out from beneath him. Carefully he got to his feet, then helped her up as well.

  “I get the feeling Jeremy Funt was expecting us,” Julia said.

  Chapel shook his head. He felt a little dizzy from the blast, still. If you want to find me I’ve gone under the underground. . .

  Who the hell was this guy, and what game was he playing?

  LANGLEY, VIRGINIA: APRIL 13, T+21:02

  Policemen in fireproof suits climbed over the remains of the charred house like ants on a discarded candy bar. Fire engines were parked three deep in front, their engines idling noisily while water leaked from their hose connectors. Up and down the street the locals were leaning off their porches, trying to get a better look.

  Tom Banks watched it all on a fifty-inch screen. The image was grainy, especially blown up that big. It was coming through the lens of a cameraphone and the resolution just couldn’t keep up. Every time Laughing Boy moved, the view distorted and broke down into pixels as big as Banks’s thumb.

  “Fertilizer bomb,” Laughing Boy confirmed. He’d been on the scene just minutes after the explosion and he’d been liaising with the local cops the whole time. “You know what that looks like. Heh. Domestic terrorism.”

  “I thought you took your medication,” Banks said, annoyed as always by his underling’s constant giggling.

  “Oh, I did,” the operative confirmed. “Just thought that was funny.”

  Banks poured himself a scotch and soda. It looked like he would be up all night. “I don’t suppose we got lucky and they pulled any bodies out of there? Say, a one-armed gimp and a redhead with a nice ass?”

  “They made it out. Cops are looking for ’em right now,” Laughing Boy replied. “Jeremy Funt, too. They want
to know why he would blow up his own house.”

  “Figures. Hollingshead will make that heat go away,” Banks said. He sighed deeply.

  “You want me to help the cops out? Or maybe make this problem go away by myself?” Laughing Boy asked.

  “Not yet,” Banks told him. “There’ll be time for that after Chapel leads us to Funt. The chimera might do it for us, too. Chapel’s gotten lucky so far, but luck runs out.”

  “And if it doesn’t—”

  Banks frowned. “When I give the word, you can kill Chapel. Not before.”

  “Yes, sir,” Laughing Boy said.

  ATLANTA, GEORGIA: APRIL 13, T+24:43

  Orange light touched Chapel’s eyes. He opened them and looked around, uncertain for a moment where he was. He was lying in a bed, covered by a thick blanket. He was wearing nothing but his pants.

  Motel room, he thought. That was right. He and Julia had checked in last night. He had said he would lie down for a little while, expecting his racing thoughts to keep him awake. Then . . .

  His mouth tasted awful. Slowly he sat up and looked around. He heard water running, and decided that Julia must be taking a shower in the bathroom. Her clothes were draped over the back of a chair. His were folded neatly on top of a dresser.

  He must have been so tired he just passed out. He couldn’t remember undressing. He reached up with both hands to rub at his face. His right hand touched his cheek. He felt his left hand moving, but it never made contact. He tried to lift it to his face again, and it felt like it went right through him. He had the unnerving sensation that it was passing right through his flesh.

  With a start he looked down and saw that his arm was gone.

  Chapel was no stranger to the phantom limb effect. Before he’d been fitted with his prosthesis, he’d constantly felt like his arm was still there and he just couldn’t see it. He’d been able, in his mind, to move his left hand, to make a fist. For the first few months after the amputation, he’d experienced severe pain in that hand. That was normal, they told him. The body’s image of itself wasn’t based on present reality but on muscle memory, and his brain was just having trouble remembering that part of his body was missing. He often woke up in the morning thinking his arm was still there. Each day brought a fresh shock when he recalled what he had become.