Catskinner's Book (The Book Of Lost Doors)

by Misha Burnett

  We know that they lie. What did Alice say? They claim to be whatever people will listen to; angels, demons, aliens, dead relatives, spirit guides. . . .

  They don't want most of the human race to know they exist. They used people, but they lied to them. Whatever they were, they kept it secret.

  Which meant they lied to Keith Morgan, too. That was something to keep in mind.

  Russwin's phone woke me, which made me realize that I had fallen asleep.

  He was awake in an instant, opening his eyes and rolling over and answering the phone all in one motion while I was still struggling with figuring out where I was.

  I had the feeling that I had thought of something important, something that I should remember, but I lost it. Russwin was slipping into his shoes while he talked.

  “Yes, I know Tom White. He's my partner.”

  A long sigh.

  “What's his condition?”

  “I understand. I'm on my way.”

  “Wait—you do understand that he's a federal agent involved in an ongoing investigation, right? Is there any way you can get some security on his room?”

  “Perfect. Thank you so much. Also, be advised that his only living relative is his mother, and she's in a nursing home in San Diego. If anyone claims to be a relative, stall them, okay?”

  He looked around the room, looked at me. “I dunno, maybe a half hour? As quick as I can.”

  “Thank you again.”

  He hung up the phone, slid his gun into his holster.

  I'd found one of my shoes by then.

  “Was that about White?” I asked, just to show I'd been paying attention.

  “He is Christian Northeast. ICU.”

  “Give me a second.” There was my other shoe.

  Russwin grabbed a soda. I could feel his impatience.

  Once I had my shoes on Catskinner took my arms and grabbed his knives, then moved me to the door.

  “you drive.” he told Russwin.

  Russwin paused to grab the twelve pack of soda and stuff the wrapped sandwiches in it. He handed it to me, Catskinner took it.

  On the way out the door Russwin asked, “Can you eat? Or does James have to do that?”

  Catskinner seemed to be confused by the question. I answered for him, and took my body back at the same time.

  “He doesn't understand how food works. It's tough to explain.” I swung up into the passenger seat of the van, put the soda and sandwiches at my feet.

  Russwin got in the driver's seat, looking thoughtful.

  The streets were empty and Russwin took them just a little faster than he should have, then put his foot to the floor once we got on the highway. Of course, we were in a Water Company van, top speed wasn't much over the speed limit. Still, we were at the hospital in less than the half hour he'd estimated.

  It took us another twenty minutes to get to White's room. Russwin went over the security arrangements with the front desk, showing his ID and introducing himself to the staff. I trailed along behind him, he introduced me as a confidential informant to anyone who asked, but most people didn't.

  He was a good man, I realized. Confident and controlled. He understood how things worked, the bureaucracy of the hospital and how to talk to the uniformed officers in front of White's door. He would be a good ally.

  They let us go into the room by ourselves. Tom White lay in the bed with the usual tubes and wires and machines. He wasn't on a respirator, which I figured was a good sign. The side of his head was wrapped up, but other than that he looked like he was just asleep.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “the night is the day's winter.”

  Russwin went and sat beside the hospital bed. I stood by the door.

  “How are you doing, buddy?” Russwin said quietly. “You don't look so good. I don't know if you can hear me, but I got the son of a bitch that did this. I put a pair of county cops on the door, too. You just rest up and get better, you hear me? You'll be okay.”

  He reached out and touched White's hand. “I got a message for you, too. We saw Ace, picked up some stuff. She said—and I quote—tell him that I want to live in his heart forever, but I'll settle for getting in his pants tonight.”

  Russwin laughed. “I don't know how you do it, buddy. She's got it bad for you.”

  He sat quietly for a while. I stood by the door and looked at my feet.

  “You get better now, you hear me?” Russwin was almost whispering. “This shit's getting ugly. This is not the time to be lying down on the job.”

  He scrubbed his face with his hand. “What the hell time is it, anyway?”

  I found a clock on one of the machines. “Almost four,” I said.

  “See if you can find a doctor, okay?”

  I nodded and went out. One of the uniformed officers was sitting on a folding chair by the door, the other one was empty.

  The cop looked up at me. “What's the story, anyway?”

  I shrugged. “I don't know much. I'm . . . uh, DEA. On loan from the Tucson office.” I used to live in Tucson so I figured the DEA had an office there, and if they didn't they should.

  “Drugs, huh.” The cop nodded just as if I'd explained something. “Bad news, a cop getting hurt like that.”

  “Yeah. Say, do you know where I could find a doctor?”

  He pointed down the hall. “Try the nurses station.”

  “Thanks.” It took me a good half hour of aimless wandering before I found a middle-aged man who was willing to admit that he was the doctor assigned to Tom White. Hospitals in the middle of the night have a unique emptiness, they seemed to be designed to be empty like some airless city on the moon where anything living is unwelcome.

  Then again, I'm prejudiced. I spent my childhood in locked wards. I still have nightmares in which I hear the sound of footsteps echoing on tile.

  Anyway, I got back to the room with the doctor. Russwin was sitting by White's bed. He got up, introduced himself, and shook hands with the doctor.

  “What can you tell me?” Russwin asked.

  The doctor looked at the chart. “Agent White was brought in about nine last evening. An anonymous 911 call reported a man unresponsive in the parking lot of the QT gas station about a mile from here. Paramedics found him lying on the ground beside the pay phone where the call was made. His wounds were dressed, a very good field dressing, actually, looks like it was made from the victim's shirt.

  “He suffered a severe skull fracture. We were able to remove the skull fragments and relieve the pressure on his brain, but at this point there is no way to tell what long-term effects he may face. Six months from now he may be completely recovered—”

  “—or he might never wake up,” Russwin finished for him.

  The doctor frowned. “There's still too much we simply don't know about brain injuries. I will say that he is breathing on his own, uh,” he looked at his watch, “about five hours after surgery. In my experience that's a positive sign.”

  “Thank you, doctor.” Russwin looked over at White. “Two tours in the Gulf without a scratch on him, and then this happens in the States.”

  “The wound has a very unusual shape—is there anything you can tell me about how it happened?”

  “No, I wasn't there. Did he have anything with him when he was picked up?”

  The doctor paged through the chart. “Just his clothing. No personal effects. It evidently took a while to ID him through fingerprints. At first the FBI said he wasn't on file, then they called back and gave you as the point of contact.”

  “He's detached from the Bureau. We're on special assignment through the State department.”

  “The admissions desk said you had some information regarding Agent White's next of kin?”

  “Yes, his mother's name is Joan White, and she lives in San Diego, she's in a nursing home—I can't remember the specifics, but I can get that information to you over the next couple of days. She's, uh, pretty confused these days. A couple of years ago Tom set up a trust fund fo
r her care, when he moved her into the home. To be honest, I don't know if she's responsible enough to make, uh, any decisions regarding . . . you know.”

  The doctor nodded gravely. “Well, we'll keep you informed of his status.”

  Russwin gave him a card. “Please do. That's my cell phone, and also an office in DC where you can leave messages if I don't pick up.”

  The doctor glanced at me. During the whole exchange I had been trying to pretend I wasn't there, so I just nodded. He turned back to Russwin.

  “I'm sorry, but I really can't give you anything more at this time. We've done what we can. Now it's just a matter of waiting to see how things develop. How he weathers the next few days will tell us more. Right now there are just too many unknown factors to make any predictions.”

  “I understand.” Russwin took a last look at the still figure on the bed, then headed for the door. “Please, call me when there's something to report.”

  I opened the door for him and we headed out. Both cops were at the door now, he paused and said, “I don't think you men are going to have any trouble, but I'm glad you're here just in case. Some of these Ukrainians are just flat out psycho.”

  The cops nodded their agreement. The one I'd spoken to before said, “We'll keep our eyes open.”

  We didn't talk on our way back out of the ICU. There didn't seem to be anything to say. Aside from a thin woman in a white uniform slow dancing with a floor buffer, we didn't see a living thing on the way out.

  There was a blue sheet of paper stuck under the van's windshield wiper. I pulled it free. A flier, advertising something called the Seventh Midwestern SETI/Encounter Convention. A UFO convention, it looked like. I started to pitch it.

  “Wait, give me that,” Russwin said.

  I handed it to him and got in the driver's seat. Russwin got in more slowly, studying the flier.

  He held it out to me. “Read the last line.”

  The last line was in large type and bold.

  the Great misunderstanding of Our time is the iDea that we are alone In the uniVerse and we Are not!

  The capitalization was screwy, but I kind of expected that...

  Wait a second...

  G.-O-D-I-V-A. Godiva.

  I looked at the information. The convention was being held at a banquet hall in South County and the opening ceremonies were tomorrow at three in the afternoon. Well, technically, today at three in the afternoon.

  I looked over at Russwin “This is—?”

  “Morgan's move. Yeah.” He sighed.

  “So, what do we do?”

  “We show up and try not to get killed. But first we get some sleep.”

  Try not to get killed and get some sleep. Great. He was starting to sound like Catskinner.

  “Can't we . . . I don't know . . . do some research? Case the joint or something?”

  Russwin rubbed his temples. “We've got about ten hours. That's not enough to find out anything useful. Ordinarily I'd call Alice and ask her if she had any intel on this group, but that's not an option right now, is it?”

  Alice. Morgan had her, too. I'd forgotten about that.

  “I guess.” I backed the van out of the space. I remembered how we got here, so I could get back to the motel.

  “Look.” Long sigh. “It's a trap. We know it's a trap. They know that we know it's a trap. We know that they know, et fucking cetera. We can walk into it, or we can run away. I'm not running.”

  I thought about it. I was good at running. I'd spent my whole life doing it. But . . . not this time. Not when things were maybe going to change for me. I couldn't go back.

  But it wasn't just me.

  we won't run.

  I could die, you know. This could kill me, and then you'd have nowhere to go.

  we won't run.

  “Me, either.”

  “Then let's get some sleep.”

  I pulled onto the highway. “What I don't understand is—is this whole convention just for our benefit?”

  “Huh? No, it's probably been in the works for months. Just another group that Morgan has his fingers on.”

  “But Godiva's name in the flier?”

  “Oh, that? That's a new flier, printed out special for us.”

  I considered. “So . . . Morgan had to find us, get hold of someone to add a new line to the flier, and come out and put it on our van in the middle of the night?”

  “Yep.”

  “That's a lot of work. Couldn't he have just called you?”

  “Sure. But that wouldn't have sent the same message.”

  “What message?”

  “He wants us to know that he's got this UFO cult in his pocket. He's trying to intimidate us.”

  “Oh. Is it working?”

  “Pretty much. We're fucked. You do know that, right?”

  I sighed. “Yeah, I figured that part out.”

  I drove south. The sunrise was red over the river at my right hand.

  At one o'clock in the afternoon we were eating lunch at a pancake house. I insisted. If we were going to die, I refused to have my last meal handed to me through a drive-thru window. We'd slept, showered, and in Russwin's case, shaved. Me, I didn't care what I looked like.

  Russwin nursed a soda and watched me engulf an order of chicken fried steak and eggs, plus pancakes.

  “Not much puts you off your feed, does it?” he asked, amused.

  I shrugged. “I'm always hungry—always have been.”

  A considering look. “I guess that makes sense—you're eating for two.”

  “Yeah. And one of them isn't human.” I was finished. I pushed my plate away and dropped cash on the table. “Let's go.”

  Russwin stood up. “Right. We want to make sure we get good seats.”

  The woman at the registration desk was wearing a T-shirt with my father's picture on it. I'm sure she thought I was staring at her tits—which, to be honest, were worth a second look—but she looked down, looked back at me and said, “Michael Chase. A true visionary.”

  I looked away. “I know exactly who he was.” Russwin paid for two admissions, collected two badges. He hung one around my neck and Catskinner let him. I grabbed a program off the stack and looked at it.

  Well, let's see. There was a panel discussion on something called “Bell's Conjecture” that started at 4:00, and the ever popular “George Adamski: Notes And Observations” forum at 5:15—no information on who George Adamski is or why I should care about him—and then an EXCLUSIVE (with lots of exclamation marks) advance screening of We Pass From View—

  —wait a second. We Pass From View? Somebody made a movie of one of my father's books? And that one? There wasn't any story there. I pointed that out to Russwin as we walked away from the registration desk.

  “I don't get it. It's not like there are any characters. It's just a bunch of theories. I mean, do they just have some guy saying, 'This is what some people think happens when you die, and this is what other think happens when you die, and this is what I think happens when you die.' It's got to be the dumbest movie ever.”

  He sighed. “Just be quiet, okay?”

  “Seriously, it's like making a movie of, I don't know, Windows For Dummies or something—”

  Quietly, but very forcefully: “Shut. Up.”

  That got my attention. I looked up from the program.

  We had acquired an escort. Two men, one big guy, about Russwin's size, with tattoos covering his arms and a bushy biker beard. The other was huge, about seven feet tall, with that gaunt Abe Lincoln look that so many really big men have. They were watching us and making no attempt to conceal it. If the intent was to be intimidating it didn't quite work. Catskinner isn't impressed with size. Giants have weak joints.

  I stuffed the program in my pocket and looked around. Everybody except for us and our big shadows seemed to have someplace to go and most of them were late, judging from the rush.

  There was a Meeting Room A, and a Meeting Room B. One of them was having that panel about what'
s-his-name's thingie, and the other one was having the talk about that other guy I couldn't remember.

  Then there was Screening Room—where the movie version of We Pass From View was going to have its Exclusive!! Premier!! later on in the evening. Right now something else was playing in there—dark room, probably crowded, limited mobility, no, not a good option.

  That left the Vendor's Room. Perfect. Maybe we could buy some moon rocks or pixie dust or something. I met Russwin's eye and nodded towards it. He fell into step beside me.

  There was a bored security guard in a gray uniform sitting by the door. Inside the room tables were set up on both long sides, maybe twenty in all. Behind the tables were the sellers. Milling around in a mass in the middle of the room were the buyers, on the tables was the stuff.

  Books, a lot of books. But also DVD's, magazines, T-shirts, a table loaded down with crystals, another one with a selection of knives—

  —You want a knife?

  i have enough for now, thank you—

  —one that was full of tiny bottles of God knows what, one set up with a row of laptop computers that people were entering information into.

  Russwin and I wandered around, trying to look at everything without getting close enough to any particular table to trigger a sales pitch. So was everyone else, so in a way we were blending in. Except for being followed by a pair of thugs, of course.

  Catskinner didn't like the crowd. He wasn't particularly concerned about our shadows; it was the whole roomful of people, moving, talking wandering in the usual chaotic social Brownian motion of human beings everywhere and getting too close for comfort. I could feel Catskinner's awareness flitting from person to person and I was acutely conscious of the mismatched blades tucked in my clothes. This could get ugly.

  By reflex I moved to the edge of the room, Russwin staying close without looking like it was intentional, the biker and the giant simply stalking the pair of us without apology. I moved to the end of the row of tables, trying to get most of the crowd on one side of me so Catskinner could keep my eyes on them without breaking my neck.

  The last table was the one with the laptops on it. “Repressed Memory Testing” the signs said. How do you test a repressed memory? Play Concentration with a blindfold? I glanced at Russwin. He seemed to be utterly fascinated with the table across the hall, which had stacks of old magazines wrapped in individual plastic bags.