His smile was for Josh now. Josh added, “I'm glad I didn't expect wings or a harp. You're the same bastard you've always been.”
James’ laughter started as a hiss, but ended as a full-blown belly laugh. “Damn it, Josh!” he said, wiping his eyes. “I'll have to visit cemeteries with you more often!”
“He's getting away!” Merrie warned. Drewsome was fading slightly, but he was also in motion. Now that Merrie had given him this much substance, he intended to use it—to get away from her before she could undo it.
“Naw, he's not,” James said, still grinning. He concentrated, and Drewsome appeared to shrink slightly; his near-transparent perimeter coalescing into thick, gobby blobs.
“Looks like mucous,” Josh said distastefully. Drew Garris had always hated mucous. It was almost a phobia with him. It was also the reason Josh, Dusty and James used to flick bogies at him, when he wasn't looking.
The ghoulsome Drewsome shivered slightly. “The files,” Merrie prompted.
“Way to sound tough, Mer,” Josh told her.
James grinned, then concentrated some more. Definitely mucous-like now. Drewsome had shrunk still more, and there were glistening globs running down his translucent front.
“Somebody sneeze?” Josh joked.
“The lab,” Drewsome said haltingly.
“You wouldn't have hidden back-ups where they could find them so easily,” James scoffed. “Get real.” He did a doubletake. “Ooh, that's right—you can't.”
“They're at your house, aren't they?” Merrie asked. “Somewhere neat and tidy and fastidious—”
“No, little Merrie,” Drewsome whispered, and Merrie leaned back, her eyes frightened in the pallid glow from his figure. It made James mad and he compressed him further, but this time, it didn't have much effect. All Garris needed was Merrie, and he knew it.
"Don't take it from him, Mer!" James told her.
“He can't boss you around any more. Remember who's in charge!"
The last words did it. Merrie stood up and faced him; unwilling to draw back, even when he attempted to shove his face in hers. If it sickened her that she was breathing some of his vapour, she didn't show it. “The files," she repeated.
He was angry, but he'd never been able to accept a failure. “If I tell you, will you release me?” he asked coaxingly.
“Of course,” she said quickly.
Josh yelled "Don't!" and James said "Don't be a fool!"
Apparently, their reactions were enough to convince him that Merrie was, indeed, as malleable as ever. “In my garden,” he said, his voice gravelly. “The gazebo.” He smiled at her expectantly—that pseudo-smile he'd always given when things had gone his way. Anything would be better than the hellish afterlife he'd been sequestered to—even the frustration of the insubstantial had to beat an eternity of punishing hellfire and regret. "Release me," he commanded, in an imperious tone they all recognised.
He must have seen something in her eyes. "Release me!" he roared in rage. He towered over her, seething and threatening.
Jamie and Josh drew close to her—flanking her on either side.
"You promised!" Drewsome howled, his voice a bellowing echo that seemed to go on forever.
Merrie glared at him. The next second, he'd exploded, as though in a giant sneeze. Bits of mucous everywhere. The glistening blobs were spattered across the gravestones. In seconds, they'd dried up and disappeared.
Merrie booted the grave marker, where she'd been sitting a few moments earlier. “Dr. Drewsome?” she said loudly. Merrie smiled. “I lied.”
As they walked back across the marker-stubbled ground, only Merrie could hear the cheers and applause that echoed at her back.
Chapter Thirteen
Erik looked out the window at the fluffy cloud layer, then back at Valterzar. “First class would have much better.”
“More ostentatious, anyway.” Zar said drily. “Why don't you head up there? Maybe you can perform some ‘miraculous cure’ and they'll boost you out of economy.”
Erik grinned. “Never has it been said that Erik Dainler didn't have pity for paupers—”
“Are you Erik Dainler?" the man behind them asked.
“Oh, God,” Valterzar groaned, scooting down in the seat.
“Can I have your autograph?” the stranger grinned.
“How about a ‘healthy’ handshake?” Erik asked him, with a wink.
Valterzar got up and headed for the bathroom. “Excuse me,” he hissed to Erik as he left, “but I have to be sick.”
When Zar came back, Erik was pretending to be asleep. “That's the problem with flying economy,” he complained, out one side of his mouth.
“Tell me about Mallory's schedule,” Valterzar commanded.
“It was all on the email. Plane into Munich, then twenty minutes on the S-Bahn—” Erik looked at Zar inquiringly.
“Train.”
“—into Dachau. A car will pick him up there, for the meeting.” Erik frowned. “That doesn't sound very reasonable. My clients always give me a chance to rest up after a flight.”
“Dusty won't know the difference. This is the first time he's gone out on a client presentation.” Zar added angrily, “Smythe knows fatigue will make him more susceptible.”
“I did a little research at a cybercafe while I was waiting for you.”
“Shocked you had time—what with your public and all. Must say I'm impressed.” It didn't sound like it.
“More like ‘surprised'.” Erik grinned. “'Dachau is a Bavarian town with a population of approximately thirty-eight thousand,'” he quoted. “Apparently, it made the jump from cattle market to art colony about a hundred and fifty years ago.”
“Quite a jump. Sounds like inspiration was ‘in the air'.” Valterzar said drily.
“This, from a man who keeps pigs in his house,” Erik tutted.
“I'm sure paintings like ‘Heifer Angst’ and ‘Bossy Does Bavaria’ were really big in those days. Let me see that—” Zar took the printout and scanned it. He quoted, “'For many years, Dachau was an artists’ colony, with a reputation throughout Germany for its charm and scenic beauty.'”
“Renowned for such great works as the ‘Moona Lisa’ and ‘The Dairy of Nan Franks'.” Erik grinned. “Read on. It says it was Himmler who saw the ‘potential’ in an abandoned munitions factory, and turned it into a concentration camp—the sick bastard.”
“'Thirty-one thousand deaths in twelve years'.” It was in such contrast to the other printout, which talked about Dachau as a “lovely village” with a “picturesque castle". “Some people are so blind,” Valterzar muttered.
“Part of the problem with being more ‘insightful',” Erik told him. “It's sometimes hard to believe the rest of the world can't see what's going on.”
“I wouldn't know.”
Erik tutted again. “'Some people are so blind',” he quoted.
Valterzar's eyes glinted. “Definitely not a good place for Dusty.”
“On his first trip to Europe, too,” Erik lamented. “Anything older than yesterday is bad news for The Dustin, anyway, but this place has an overdose of history.” He leaned back, donned his dark glasses, and yawned discreetly. “He's smart, though,” he said confidently, preparing to close his eyes for the duration of the flight. “He'll watch his step.”
“Which is why we're following him halfway around the world,” Valterzar retorted drily. “If he stays away from the camp, the museum, parts of the railroad station, the city hall, and any streets where death marches moved, who knows? He might even have a good time.”
* * * *
“I say we hit his house tonight,” Merrie told them determinedly, as she took the lead across the monument-studded lawn.
“And get arrested for breaking and entering, as soon as we turn on a light.”
“There won't be any lights,” Josh argued, tripping over a gravestone to sprawl on the grass. “Dammit!”
James gave him a hand up. “Of course there wil
l. We have flashlights, remember.”
He flicked it on and Josh complained, “Get it out of my eyes.”
Jamie grinned. “Funny you, tripping over that monument. I would've thought you'd have seen it coming—one way or the other."
“Don't do it, Jamie!” Josh gave him a shove. “I'm warning you!”
James snickered.
Merrie shook her head at him, but her smile was a flash of white in the dark. “That's rotten, James. You know Josh has trouble breaking his focus.”
“Fuck you, Wickham.” Josh laid an arm across Merrie's shoulders. “Speaking of focus, Mer—you should've saved yourself for me.” He sighed dramatically. “You're wasted on Valterzar. Think of it: you could have had me..."
She grinned. “And be dumped for the first Drepanosaurus that came along?”
“Well, there's that...” Josh admitted. “Our ideas of a ‘party’ do sort of clash.”
“Don't be hard on him, Merrie,” James said. “He's done his best to picture you with scales and fangs.” He shrugged. “Who knows? If he got ‘lucky', he might even buy you some crocodile shoes—or a snakeskin belt.”
“We can't do it tonight!” Merrie said suddenly, her expression one of “I-don't-know-what-I-was-thinking-of".
“Get ‘lucky'?” James sounded confused. He hated it when Merrie did this. The next thing, she'd be getting impatient because he didn't know what she was talking about.
“No!” Merrie told him exasperatedly. “Drewsome.”
“Why the hell not?” James asked.
“Because we should be looking for Ren.” Josh stopped next to the car, his expression serious. “How often are we going to be free agents like this? If we're out of sight too long, Smythe's going to think we've done a runner.”
“Do you think that's what Ren's done?” James asked.
“She won't have gone too far,” Merrie assured him. “Josh is right, though. We got the information for Ren—now let's find her. Do you think you could pick anything up off an object, Josh?”
“Maybe. Not how I usually operate, but I'll see what I can do. We'll have to go back to her house.”
James considered it. “That may be a problem. If they've figured out Ren's not in there, they'll have someone watching.” He looked at Josh. “I may have to get a little ‘light-fingered',” he said, with a sly grin. “If you two keep an eye on the snoops, I'll manhandle some of Ren's stuff.”
Josh was remembering the inferno that had gutted Ren's house. “Don't be surprised,” Josh told him soberly, “if all you have left to grab is ash.”
* * * *
Dustin could have stayed on the plane forever. No trauma in-flight; no need to go anywhere or answer to anyone. In those hours he really came to believe things had changed. He'd taken the airport shuttle all the way across town, without so much as a flicker.
In fact, the only “flickers” he was seeing now had nothing to do with his retro. They were annoying dots of light and dark—and they belonged to the pounding in his head.
A migraine. Nothing I can't handle.
He'd been airsick, but even that he could ignore, as long as he stayed in the present. That's what he was focussing on: retaining control. Staying in the here and now. Normalcy. A life. Somehow, in Mexico, he'd been able to direct where and when. Now he just needed to figure out how he'd done it. Do it once, do it again.
Then, there'd only be flashbacks if he wanted them.
Did he want them? No.
Safe.
The truth was, he'd been terrified of visiting Europe. There was so much ancient history here, that he didn't see how he could avoid dropping into it, for a visit. The way he saw it, if he were to concentrate on the powerful look of a monument, or the beauty of a statue, he might end up some place a lot different from where he'd started.
Even one lapse would have defeated him—robbed him of any confidence—made it impossible to face his client with any degree of self-assurance.
So far, so good. On the way to the train station, he was actually able to look around—to enjoy the sights. It was something he'd never really been able to do. By the time he was on the train, headed for Dachau, he'd already planned half a dozen 3D projects based on some of the incredible architecture—everything from Gothic churches to amazingly ornate buildings.
This is why travel is good for you. Expands the mind...
As the clickety-clack of the wheels formed a rhythm beneath him, he let himself relax, much as he had on the plane. What he didn't realise was that his retrocognition responded almost as much to intensity of emotion, as it did to longterm habitation by the participants. And he was only beginning to enter an area with an overwhelming surfeit of emotion. Emotion that was so strong—so intense—that it would have killed Merrie.
Dusty sat there, relaxed, soothed by the background rumbling vibration—and totally unprepared to resist.
* * * *
Ren's house had been like any of a dozen others on the street: a modest, inconspicuous dwelling with none of Kithren Magnus’ uniqueness to distinguish it.
Josh wasn't given to poetry, but there was a certain ambiguity here he was trying to sort out. Ren, who was constantly prey to other people's thoughts and impressions, had avoided leaving any impressions of her own on her dwelling. She'd wanted so much to blend that she'd subjugated her individuality to all the homes surrounding her.
Of so little value to her that she burnt it down. Josh was certain of it now, but he didn't know why. It was as though all that sequestered living had denigrated any value Ren might have placed on her home and her few possessions. If she'd truly allowed her ego rein, then her house would have worn the marks of her ownership, and its disposition—its destruction—would have mattered to her.
Now, her home stood out, as the most distinctive on the block. On several blocks. A ruin of smoke and char with bones of masonry jutting through the rubble. What had been inconspicuous for so many years now drew everyone's eyes. The heretofore hidden watchers—Ren's vanguard—were suddenly overt; exposed to all the curious stares. The guards, who hoped to catch a glimpse of Ren or the rest of them, had no place to hide, because they couldn't afford the distance.
At least it confirmed Merrie's assumption—that Ren was alive. Symtech wouldn't waste this much people-power on a corpse.
Tomorrow, they'll be seeking clues. Looking for a way to track her.
They'll probably come to me. Give me a second chance to get it right.
“I'm in trouble,” Josh said.
“Pregnant?” Jamie asked. “It doesn't even show.” He stared at him pointedly for a moment, then grinned. “Well, maybe a little...”
“Once they know Ren's not here—and I'm pretty sure they've figured it out already—they'll want to know why I lied.” His flippant remarks earlier in the evening, about “even finely-tuned specimens can make a mistake", suddenly didn't seem as funny.
“Yep.”
“And where she is.”
“Yep.”
“Shouldn't that worry me?” Josh asked.
“Nope,” James replied. This time when he looked at Josh, his eyes were serious. “No one's gonna touch you or Merrie or Ren, Josh. Not if I have anything to say about it.”
* * * *
It was only a twenty-minute train ride from Munich to Dachau. Dusty relaxed into the seat back, and closed his eyes against the light. It took some of the edge off his headache.
Better shape to meet the client, he thought. Despite his fatigue, and the ache between his ears, he was actually getting excited. Doug and Gene had always been the ones to present to clients. He'd never been able to take the risk. It was the first time he'd get to see the client's reaction first-hand. He had a stirring of gooseflesh across his skin at the thought of the reaction.
It happened so suddenly, with such horrifying intensity, that he couldn't breathe. Maybe, if his eyes had been opened, he would have seen it coming. Been forewarned of disaster. But he'd been half-dozing—when the air around him sudd
enly changed.
He opened his eyes, but it didn't help, and for a moment was terrified that he was blind. His head was screaming, and he didn't know if he was yelling it out loud.
Only he couldn't yell, because there wasn't any air. His arms, his chest, his ribs were wedged, so he could only pant in shallow breaths. Panting because it was so close, so hot, so compacted. His breath was everyone's and he inhaled every noxious human gas, every exhaled human breath. Fetid breaths, new sweat on old filth, bad teeth, faeces, decay. The sickening gag stink of vomit and running sores, pus-draining abscesses and unwashed feet.
No words—only moans. Somewhere, in those elbow-slinging, jostling confines, a child was wailing; its cries weak and frail.
Surprised that it has the breath...
The wails became fainter and fainter, and finally ceased. Dustin heard it with a vicelike tightening in his chest.
They were still on the rails, but he was only half on his feet. Someone was climbing up him now—stomping on him—using his body to lift a head just that much closer to the ceiling—to air.
Then, it wasn't only one, but many. He was so hot, and his headache so abominable, that he didn't care. Beyond thought.
But he wasn't alone. All around him lay cold slabs of humanity, and he was squished against an hours’ dead corpse.
Slabs of meat—that felt cold against his overheated flesh. As the others—like him—had died, they'd become a carpet.
No, not a carpet—a step, he realised, as some long-nailed toes clawed their way up his back.
One more step to survival.
* * * *
“Well?” Merrie asked him. It was probably the fourth time in as many minutes, but at least the other two times, it had been directed at James. They were crouched in some shrubbery, a full house away from Ren's ruin. The distance had made it difficult for Jamie to coax something up out of the wreckage, and get it to them unseen. He'd finally settled for a wind-disturbance kind of effect, where a charred bit of something or other would be blown onto the singed grass or blackened concrete, then roll haphazardly in erratic bumps and jiggles, toward their hiding place.
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