And there was Captain Updike, a messianic figure who appeared with the first of the dead and who orchestrated the first Great Revival. This living former military chaplain took it upon himself to resurrect the dead. His group financed and orchestrated a reclamation program that saw the exhumation and rehabilitation of the buried dead. Updike's organization was fast becoming enormous, though its objectives remained patently nonpolitical. His followers simply wanted to release their brothers and sisters from the prisons their graves had become. I had read that there were chapters in South America and overseas.
Live like Life was one of the skin shops' slogans. The rules of this New Age were simple, if you could stay in one piece it seemed you could have immortality. A couple of Egyptian kings were still around involved in precedent setting property battles. Supposedly they had wandered away from museums. Walt Disney's inheritors were exhausting the appeals process to keep old Walt on ice citing 'living death is not a cure for what killed him.' And word circulated that the elder Disney had only had the foresight to freeze his head anyway.
Come stay at the coast, where the salt sea air will give you years of afterlife.
My phone rang. It always does when I'm thinking.
"Hello," I followed this with a yawn. I had been pushing Tommy's body too hard. Soon, soon.
"Hello," came a clipped reply. I recognized it as the lawyer, Billings', voice from the snooty edge to it. "How are you today, Mr. Wildclown?"
"Fine," I said. "I don't have a wooden leg."
There followed a grating, bubbling sound that was either laughter, or a hamster drowning in oil. I laughed along too. There was no point in crying.
"Oh yes," I added. "I burned down that building-the Morocco-yes, the one you were murdered in."
He stopped laughing.
"I didn't actually do it by myself, but I was there when it happened."
"Then all the evidence…"
"Is gone." He was silent. I let him hang a second. "But, I think Van Reydner knows enough to find your killer. I'm about two phone calls away from finding her." I lied. He wasn't paying me enough for truth.
"You think she knows who did it?"
"I think she had a hand in the 'didding' of it."
"Never." His voice nearly broke. "She and I were…"
"Not an item you can't buy for a dime a dozen." I decided to push him. "Listen, you walked out that night looking for someone in the living room. She could have left the door open for a friend. Also-" I could hear his stuttering indignation. "She has contacts with the only people who could profit from your death in this day and age."
"But who?" he blurted.
"Since people don't stay lying down dead, killing isn't the best way to keep their mouths shut. So I doubt you could have known something that someone wanted to keep quiet. If you did, you'd have been put in a blender; your head would have been missing, or something. There was another motive, I'm almost sure." I hesitated. "Where are you going for your preservation treatments?"
"Simpson's Skin Tanning and Preservation for the Deceased. They come highly recommended and timing is crucial to the process. I purchased one of their policies before I died. But I don't…"
"I'll know soon," I cut in. "Of course, I'm still going to have to look for something concrete. That's why I need Van Reydner. Did she to tell you about the Simpson's Afterlife Policy?"
"Come to think of it. But she just mentioned it in passing…" His voice held the first hard notes of realization.
"Don't worry about that right now, all I've told you is a couple of pieces of a theory. I need evidence. Did you have any contact with Van Reydner outside of your therapies?"
"No," the lawyer said, voice lowering. "She and I had an arrangement. Since I was married…well you understand." He fell silent. I did understand. I didn't like it, but I understood. "We agreed never to talk about our personal lives."
"Okay," I said. "Are you familiar with the term 'conjecture?'"
"Of course."
"Well, that's all I'm talking about. Believe me, I'd like to tell you something really romantic like; she died protecting your fallen body. You never know, I might still find something like that."
"When will you know?" His voice quavered.
"Tomorrow, maybe the next day, but not today, I've already done too much work today. It's Sunday for Christ's sake!" I was standing up now and beginning to pace. The phone's short cord had it sliding around on the desk after me.
"Of course," the lawyer added hastily, "you'll call as soon as you know?"
"Yes." I hung up, grunted, and slipped my gun into the desk. I leered at the photo of Van Reydner once more before I put it in the filing cabinet, then walked out past Elmo to the couch in the waiting room. I lay down. My head felt heavy against the greasy black leather. Tommy's mind was nearly asleep. I could feel the pleasant REM state so close to me. The soothing nervous energy surged like spring water. I released my hold on him, floated toward the ceiling and began hallucinating immediately.
Chapter 12
I snapped out of my trance at the first harsh rap on the door. Latent images of people and places whirled before my perception, flickered and were gone. If I'd had a tongue, their names would have been on the tip of it. The second knock brought movement from the inner office. Below me, I saw Tommy stretched out on the couch. His breathing was deep from fatigue and whiskey. He personified the sonorous roar. Fat Elmo shuffled out of the inner office with newspaper in hand and opened the door.
Two leather-jacketed Authority Inspectors stood there. Elmo stepped back, his mouth slack. He rattled the newspaper at them, like he'd find words in the sound, and then froze when an Enforcer's bulky form appeared behind them. Twin eye-slits glowed with infrared light from a steel visor sculpted into the shape of a human face. Authority psychologists had designed the trademark Enforcer Kevlar and steel helmet. Their studies showed people lost respect for authority figures when they identified too much with them. Similarly, the public responded negatively to a faceless authority-riot helmets and tear gas masks tended to provoke more mobs than they calmed.
In an attempt to tie these disparate issues together, the facemasks were designed into the helmet. Later, for fashion's sake a fedora was added in a final effort to completely humanize and dehumanize Enforcement Officers. The glaring steel face poised a foot above the Inspector's hats was a composite of features that included two presidents and one cowboy movie star. The final result was a terrifying apparition of a hard, emotionless man covered with armor carrying enough weaponry to tear down a building. The Enforcer in the hall was motionless, the wide, armored shoulders spanning the doorway. His rubber and steel trench coat touched the floor. The long-faced inspector in front of him gave Elmo the once over.
"We're looking for Wildclown, Jellybean, where is he?" he muttered between paper-thin lips. His eyes were severe slits in shadow beneath his hat. Jellybean was just one of the cute little nicknames for the dead. Necrophobia had been given new life with the Change bringing unusual twists to the time honored tradition of prejudice. All other definitions sloughed away with the coming of death. You were a Jellybean, a Bone Bag or a Zomb; it had no relevance whether you were white, black or East Indian. The fact that you were dead was all that mattered. I had a hard time understanding those feelings. We were all just one bullet away from the club.
"He's sleepin'. Been sleepin' for a while," Elmo stammered, then pointed to the flyspecked window. "It's night time."
"I don't need some zomb to tell me that. Besides, it only just turned nighttime. It's seven. We want to talk to your master." He peered over Elmo's shoulder, eyes squinting through the darkness at Tommy. "That him?" The Inspectors casually shouldered Elmo out of the way.
Their shadows slid across the floor like snakes. The other inspector, a short and squat gorilla, chewed at a brass toothpick he clasped between his teeth. His eyes bulged like a fish's behind glasses. He licked his thick lips nervously. Apparently he was of a mean little disposition because he
kicked the couch near Tommy's head.
The clown mumbled an obscenity, cupped his genitals and curled into a tighter fetal shape. I had been trying for the last few seconds to arouse Tommy enough to let me into his head. For some reason he was safe from me when in the REM state. I had tried before.
The Enforcer's bulk muted the light from the hallway. He remained unmoving-a fortress of pain in his reinforced steel and rubber trench coat and body armor. An auto-shotgun jumped around in his hands. I knew those weapons held enormous circular magazines of thirty solid rounds that could chop a Sequoia in half.
The squat Inspector flicked on the lamp by Tommy's head. The clown's makeup was smeared and oddly arranged over sleep lines. A good amount of it had wiped off on the arm of the couch, and that had migrated into his hair. Grinning, the Inspector looked over at his partner. "Get a load of this ugly mug. Christ, I thought they were pulling our leg down at HQ. We got a fucking meteor jockey here."
The tall intruder leaned over and started talking. "Get up you sick son-of-a-bitch. We want to ask you a few questions about a fire. Let's be nice about this. We can run forever with sugar, or we can give you a taste of Meat!" He gestured to the Enforcer with a quick thumb.
Tommy answered with a few snorting sounds before finishing his rebuttal with wet sucking noises. I made another fruitless attempt at possession.
The tall inspector hissed, then stepped back flicking a look at the Enforcer who responded like a trained elephant. He tramped forward and raised a hobnailed boot over Tommy's midsection. A quick nod from his short superior and the boot whipped down and up in a single pile driving action. Tommy was suddenly on the floor trying to throw his guts up on the rug. His chest heaved like it was wrapped in iron bands. Muscle stood in cords along his neck.
"Shit," he spat, mouth full of vomit. "Shit."
Elmo had been standing by the door. He now started inching his way toward the inner office. As Tommy wretched, I attempted possession again; but ran into a wall of nausea and anger. He was mad, not close to one of his blind rages, but he was angry. I could hardly blame him. I continued to try to take over.
The Enforcer made a noose of his gloved hand and jerked Tommy to his feet with it. The clown was held out as the tall man approached.
"I'm Inspector Hale, Authority CrimDiv Squad. Inspector Cane and I would like to question you concerning a fire at the Morocco Building-Downings District-Saturday night. Witnesses put you at the scene."
"Tell this, tell this ape to back off!" Tommy gasped, struggling in the Enforcer's iron grip. The Enforcer grunted, surprised by Tommy's strength.
"Sergeant Dimitria, allow Mr. Wildclown to relax, please," Hale breathed nonchalantly. Dimitria threw Tommy onto the couch with a flex of a thick arm.
I watched the clown's hand grasping along his belt. He didn't have his gun because I'd put it away for him. Elmo continued to inch his way along the wall unnoticed. I hoped he wasn't going to do anything stupid. It was a well-regarded rumor that Authority had special rules for dealing with the dead.
I again attempted possession and failed. If pushed far enough anger gripped Tommy's entire being-soul, bones and all. He became anger at such times. I had to gain control fast. He was going to get himself killed and I'd be stuck doing swamp gas impressions. I had to calm him down.
Inspector Cane's face had a glutted roundness to it that inspired revulsion. He licked his lips with a thick gray tongue, dragging the thing over tombstone teeth. Cane had a nervous tick beside that-grinning spastically as he talked. It gave me the feeling he had a hunger he could not satisfy. Most power freaks do.
"What were you doing there?" he hissed, licked his lips and grinned.
Tommy sat for a moment with his hands clasped over his battered stomach. "I was working a case you fucking swine." He spat the words like new forged nails. "Fascist!"
"Tough guy…" Cane shook his head. "Ever had your legs beaten to pulp? It sounds impossible, but it isn't. It's really something to watch."
Tommy laughed like a drunken hyena. "You'd be doing me a favor." His face contorted with rage. "You Authority shits got your nerve-you'll never regain control of this ruptured world with this Rue Morgue stuff…only complete redemption will save it. The Lord works in mysterious ways, but he doesn't blackjack people. You bastards will learn…"
It was Cane's turn to laugh. "Shit, you are insane. Your record says so, and here you are." He looked to his partner then back to Tommy. "What case were you working on?"
"A baby crying…" Tommy absently licked his fingernails. "Like you don't know."
Both inspectors guffawed. "Jesus," panted Cane. "Down on your luck are you, Wildclown?" I noticed a forced tone to his humor. "Working for one of those newspapers?"
"I've been offered a grand to prove the phantom baby exists!" He leaned back, then with strange new confidence, pulled a cigarette out and lit it. He burped painfully.
"Who hired you for that one?" Hale snarled.
"Why all the artifice?" the clown sneered. "I know what Authority's doing. I know what you've been doing all along. You must have enough on tape to hang me or you wouldn't be here. And you know I can't divulge the name of my client even if I wanted to."
Cane started silently pacing the length of the room.
I spent those few moments in shock. Tommy's lie had caught me by surprise. Baby? I tried to piece it in. Where had he picked that up?
"Let's say you were doing what you say you were doing. Why the fire?" Hale leaned over him.
"I didn't light it. It was just a coincidence that I was there. Probably a couple fucking self-righteous Sons of the Firebuggers from the Sungod Savior Order. It could have been Grannies for Armageddon, for all I know. If any of your witnesses told you, I didn't exactly walk out of the building. I've come to believe that I'm insane, but I wouldn't torch a building without a way out. I'm into masturbation, not suicide. You god-damned authority types, all muscle…no brain!" Tommy fumed, crossing his arms and muttering. "Like you don't know."
Cane's face drew near, puzzled. His jaws worked like he was physically shaping the words between his teeth. "All right, Wildclown. Your record speaks for itself. You're an asshole but you've given Authority a hand before. Frankly, I don't care if a building burns in the Downings-just another Zombie hotel if you ask me…" He jerked his eyes around. "Hey, where's the raw meat?"
He had finally missed Elmo. The dead man peeked through the office door. "Here sir!" His teeth chattered.
"Leave my wife out of it!" Tommy commanded as he crossed and uncrossed his legs. "You're talking to me."
"Take my advice," Cane said as he signaled the others to leave. The Enforcer's bulk swallowed the light in the hall, and then he was gone. "There's a lot of shit going down in that district and if you have an ounce of brains you'll keep out of it. If I were you, I'd take a long vacation." He got close. "Keep joking about babies, Clusterfuck, and I can guarantee you'll get more than a warning next time. There is an Authority investigation under way. Stay out of it! Or next time your license is up for renewal you might find yourself changing careers." He just about turned away, when a strange twist of his features turned his eyes back on Tommy. "If you're stupid enough to ignore my warning, you'll be smart to let me know about any developments. If I don't know where you are, you might get caught in a crossfire." He grinned, licked his lips. "Yeah, you can bet on it!"
Tommy said nothing. He didn't look at Cane, just stared at the floor between his feet.
Cane followed Hale out.
Tommy started fondling his groin. He muttered something about fascists, then curled up on the couch. "You see that Elmo? You see that? It's all part of it. That's what happens in the world that man built. They got their nerve. I can see it, but no one else can." He looked over his shoulder at the door. "Like they don't know."
Elmo said, "Sure Boss," then crossed the room to lock up. As he returned to his seat in the office I saw the dull weight of the. 44 in his jacket pocket.
I began to think.
There was something strange about Tommy. Apparently, during the last possession he had been more aware than I thought he could be. Was he referring to the baby Billings had heard? Had it set him off? Or was it random madness. When he went into a manic phase, he spewed information faster than he could understand. Phantom baby! Everyone knew there were no such things as babies. Below me, Tommy sighed. I had the distinct feeling that our relationship had changed.
Chapter 13
I entered the clown's body while he was still groggy with sleep. It was the easiest time to do so because his mind was full of naked pictures from an active dream life. Yesterday's injuries made the body unpleasant to put on at first, like a tight suit, but a few stretches and yawns loosened it up enough to wear. The sleep had done it a world of good. There was even a bit of bounce in its step as I wandered down the hall to the washroom to perform my morning ablutions and again as I returned to the office. I made Soya-eggs, plankton-sausage and a pot of coffee on the hot plate I kept in the filing cabinet and ate it at a small table and chairs I kept in the outer office for that purpose. It was spectacular. Breakfast can be like a wet kiss from God to the disembodied. There was simply nothing like having a tongue to taste food with. Even if the exigencies of the Change had made the meat parts of the meal synthetic.
The Change had been far reaching in its effects when it started all those fifty years ago. The same force that animated dead flesh gave life to luncheon meats as well. Ham, sausage, chicken and steak when undercooked went through the motions of being alive. The muscle tissue contracted and expanded, often despite the various methods of preparation. Meat could be eaten if properly cooked. It was possible to avoid the embarrassment of the Thanksgiving turkey flapping its wings. The problem was, the amount of cooking involved usually spoiled the texture and flavor and made it hard to justify the expense.
When Graveyards Yawn ta-1 Page 6