Darkwalker: A Tale of the Urban Shaman

by Duncan Eagleson

  Rok answered him. “The fishing boat captain, Hawthorne, was the first kill we know of. He fought for you in the Takeover, and at least once he claimed to have been the man who killed Wendell Crichton. If we’re correct, that might not need to be true to make him a target.”

  “Hawthorne to Castro to Finch to Adams to Czernoff,” I said. “Each killing getting closer to you. One of your soldiers in the Takeover, then an officer, then a current-day guardsman, your Chief, and finally the Treasurer.”

  “And each on a waning moon.” Rok added.

  Roth turned toward me. “And the harlot?”

  “She’s the one anomaly,” I told him. “She breaks every part of the pattern. I think she wasn’t really part of his campaign against you. She ran afoul of him somehow, presented some threat to his plan, and that’s why he eliminated her. She’s the only one without an association with you, the only woman, and it’s the only time he’s killed under a waxing moon.”

  “Yeah? Or maybe he killed her as a favor to a friend. I’m sorry, Railwalker, this theory of yours doesn’t hold up very well.”

  “But it does,” said Weldt. “Except for Suzi Mascarpone, it does. Five out of six is close enough for our purposes. We have to assume they’re right; you are the ultimate target. Chief Gage…”

  “I’ll assign bodyguards.”

  “Hell,” said Roth. “If this is true, then we have to contact anyone who might become a target, protect them.”

  “But discreetly,” I said. “I’d prefer the Beast didn’t know that we’ve sussed out his pattern.”

  “What,” said Roth, “you think this animal watches the newsfeeds?”

  “Yes, he watches the newsfeeds. And scans the net, too. He does his research, plans carefully. He probably knows the floor plan of this building better than you do. Don’t let his appearance and his savage mode of killing deceive you. He may be a beast, but his body houses a calculating, human mind. He’s patient, careful, and thorough, as well as being ruthless. He’s a soldier, a warrior for a cause.”

  “And that cause is revenge? For the Takeover?”

  “For Crichton’s defeat and death, yes, I think so.” I let them digest that for a moment. Then I said, “We’re going to set a trap for this beast. You’re going to announce a post-Summersend dinner at Hartshall for yourself and a few select friends.”

  Rok produced a sheet of paper. “Here’s the guest list,” he said. There were only five names on the list, all that were left of Roth’s inner circle from the Takeover days.

  “None of these people will actually be present two nights from now at Hartshall,” I assured Roth. “They’ll be replaced before they leave home by guardsmen dressed in their clothing.”

  Roth didn’t look happy. “And the guardsmen will be the bait in this trap?”

  “Armed and dangerous bait,” I agreed. “But yes, bait nevertheless.”

  “I have to be there,” he said. “No body double for me. I can’t ask my guards to do something I’m not willing to do myself.”

  Gage shifted in his seat. “Not possible, sir. Too much risk.”

  “You could too easily be killed or taken hostage,” I said.

  Roth glared at me. “Railwalker,” he said, “I am still the boss of this city, and I still go where I choose.”

  Gage gave orders for guards to be assigned to protect the five people on our list, and we sat down to plan out the particulars of the trap.

  “You want to keep the whole plan under wraps,” said Morgan, “but the people we’re sending guards to protect, we’ll have to tell them something.”

  “We have reason to believe they may be targets,” I said. “That’s all they need to know.”

  Several hours later I arrived at Riverwalk Park for my evening run and found Robles there, warming up. “What,” I said, “does Gage think I need a bodyguard now?”

  “Nah, I’m here on my own lookout.”

  “You think I need protection?”

  “Karstairs says you do Parker running.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Not many Parkerers around Bay City. You mind some company?”

  Even though the sweats weren’t as tight as her guard uniform, somehow they did more to set off her figure. Or it seemed that way to me. Maybe it was the softness of the fabric and the loose cut; it came across less like armor, had me seeing her as a woman instead of just a guard. I smiled. “Think you can keep up?”

  She grinned back. “Look out for your own self, Railwalker.” She dashed off across the park.

  “Hey!” I shouted as I started after her. “You didn’t give me time to warm up!”

  She turned, running backward for a couple of steps. “I thought Railwalkers weren’t supposed to lie. You’re warmed up already!” She turned again and continued her sprint.

  “I didn’t say I wasn’t,” I muttered, grinning, and put on a burst of speed.

  We ran the length of the upper park. Sometimes Robles was in the lead, sometimes I pulled out ahead of her. As we started down the hill that led to the waterfront, Robles, ahead of me, veered to one side and vaulted the park fence to the sidewalk beyond. I followed as she dashed across the street and ducked between two buildings. For the next few minutes she put my Parkering abilities to a more serious test, going over fences and through passageways, across empty lots and down alleys. I let her keep the lead, since she clearly knew where she was going.

  We reached a street that had been converted to a pedestrian mall, all brick cobblestones and decorative streetlights that looked like old gas fixtures. She slowed to a panting stop.

  I jogged up beside her. “Nice route,” I said, catching my breath.

  “Only one knows these streets better than me is Gage.” She grinned, nodded toward an expensive-looking coffee shop. A sign in the window read “100%.” “You like real coffee? My treat.”

  The coffee at the CA Tower had been good, but the last time I’d had actual one hundred percent real coffee was almost four months back at Almagordo. I followed her.

  “You’re pretty enthusiastic about your job,” I said when we were settled at a small, round table, steaming cups of rich black brew before us. “You from a guard family?”

  “Sort of. My Dad was a guard, back before the Takeover.”

  “Did he fight for Crichton?”

  “No, he’d mustered out by then. Went into law school. Ended up as a Councilman. He died a couple of years back, heart attack.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  “You planning on something similar?”

  She snorted. “Dying of a heart attack? Well, I hope not.”

  “No, I meant law school, politics.”

  “Me? Nah.” She laughed. “Career guard, that’s my path.” She looked at me like she was expecting disapproval or challenge. “I know,” she added, “kind of a cop-out.”

  “Why?” I was honestly mystified. “Guard’s a respectable career.”

  “Yeah, it is,” she allowed. “You know, there are pieces of paper, they got the right writing on them, can kill you sure as a bullet. I’m not talking about juju. I mean legal documents. Fighting the bad guys on the street is easy. They bang, you bang back. It’s cleaner and clearer than politics. Fighting the bad guys in City Hall, that’s harder, messier. It’s like fighting knee-deep in mud, with cheap weapons that can explode on you.”

  “You really believe that?” I asked. She raised her eyebrows and shrugged, as if to say “doesn’t everybody?” I shook my head. “Like nobody on the street ever lies or backstabs or cheats? You can handle yourself on the street because you know the street. You know the physics of violence, how it works. That’s why you’re good at it. Your Pop knew the rules of politics. At least I presume he did. Was he good at it?”

  “Not good enough.”

  “Good enough for what?”

  “To accomplish everything he wanted to.”

  “Few men ever are. Doesn’t mean they’re not still good at what they do.
”

  “Yeah.” She looked down at her coffee, nodded. “Yeah, he was good at it, actually. He believed in the law. He was an amateur historian, you know? Had all these books on the history of the guard, the ancient police and military. Had a whole collection of antique weapons and badges and stuff like that.” She paused and sat back in her chair. “Do you believe in the law, Railwalker? Consider yourself a lawman?”

  I shook my head. “Two different questions,” I said. “I believe laws can help people live together amicably. I’ve also seen them used to oppress. So no, I don’t consider myself law enforcement. As a Railwalker, I’m in service to the community. Sometimes that means doing rites for the dead, sometimes mediating conflicts, sometimes it’s helping to build a barn or dig a well.”

  “And sometimes tracking down a serial-killing monster?”

  “Yeah,” I allowed, “sometimes.”

  She leaned forward, her crossed arms on the table. It did nice things for her breasts under the sweatshirt. I made myself look at her face.

  “Scuttlebutt in the guard says you talked to the Old Man’s ghost. Is it true?”

  “Not exactly. We recorded some electromagnetic residue of the chief’s passing. What we call a shade—a little like bloodstains, only instead of a piece of his body it’s a piece of his mind, his personality that’s left behind.”

  “But it talked to you.”

  “Yeah, after a fashion. Told us some things that may help.”

  “I guess, in a sick sort of way, that’s kinda cool. The Old Man getting to help you find his killer, I mean, even though he’s dead and gone. Way to go, Chief Adams.” She glanced at her watch and stood. “Gotta run. Don’t want to be late for lit class.”

  “Lit class?”

  “Adult ed over at Bryers’. Can’t spend all my time beating up on people. Gotta acquire a little culture now and then, keep the brain limber, too. Same time tomorrow?”

  “Barring unforeseen circumstances.”

  She nodded, grimacing. “Yeah, roger that.” She picked up her coffee and left, giving me a little wave over her shoulder as she hit the street. I enjoyed watching her walk away. The back view was every bit as nice as the front.

  Was she interested in me? I wasn’t sure. Didn’t really matter. Either way, she’d be an interesting woman to get to know better. And right now, the sheer relief of indulging in basic human contact, chatting over coffee with minimal reference to a series of brutal murders, was really nice. I sighed. Okay, I thought, recess is over. Time to perform the evening Salute, and then back to obsessing about a series of brutal murders.

  Some days I really love walking the rails. Other days, not so much.

  25. BAY CITY

  “Suspended!” The Tankard was filling up with the early evening crowd, and Nickas Turrin was on a verbal roll. “Fuckin’ suspended without pay! If that ain’t a big old shit sandwich...”

  “Stop whining,” the burly man growled.

  “What, you sayin’ it’s right?”

  “No, I’m sayin’ stop fuckin’ whining!” Remming put his beer down hard, the sound like a gavel falling. Several other patrons glanced in their direction, then quickly looked away. They were mostly guards; they knew what had happened in Riverwalk Park, and about its aftermath. Remming lowered his voice. “We both knew what could happen if things went wrong. Well, things went wrong. Deal with it. Just be glad that with the Beast running around, they couldn’t afford to suspend us for more than a few days. And be glad you’re not Mattingly, sitting in a cell without bail.”

  “What’d he do that for, anyway?” Turin asked, returning to the subject of their disastrous attack. “We agreed no guns.”

  “What do you want me to say? He panicked.”

  “Yeah. Well, I gotta admit, the Railwalker surprised me. Never seen anybody move that fast. Fair broke my wrist.”

  “That was one fucked-up night.”

  “Yeah.” Turrin looked at the dregs in the bottom of his beer glass, signaled the bartender for another. “Hey,” he said to Remming, “you tell Dobbs he was wrong about that mutie he thought was the Beast?”

  “Like I needed to.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Remming took a deep breath and mustered his patience. He basically liked Turrin, but the guy could be dense at times. “You didn’t see Dobbs sitting outside the City Arms in his runabout, the night we braced the mutie? He knows we’re not moving on the guy.”

  “Huh.” Turrin digested that. “No, I didn’t see him. Dobbs seemed pretty certain about the whole thing. We don’t move on the mutie, you think he’d actually go to Kabanov with it?”

  “Nah.” Remming snorted. “Dobbs wouldn’t go to Kabanov if the ruskie had the only hooch on the west coast.” He sat thinking for a moment, then added, “But he might take his fuckin’ amateur guards out to do something about it.”

  “The Citizen’s Safety Committee?” Turrin laughed. “Bunch of lame-arse wankers. What are they gonna do?”

  “Individually, not much. But he gets a whole gang of ’em together, there could be real trouble.” Remming finished his beer, fished out his wallet, and dropped some bills on the bar. “Maybe we better pay Dobbs a visit after all.”

  Turrin looked up from the beer he’d only sipped at as Remming stood up from the stool and started to move toward the door. “Hey,” he said to Remming’s back, “we’re suspended without pay. Not our problem.”

  Remming stopped and turned, stared at his companion for a moment. Then he slapped Turrin on the shoulder, and Turrin yelped. “Fuck’s a matter with you?”

  “Me? ’Smatter with you, dickhead? We’re city guard, suspended or not. A lynching in Bay City isn’t our problem? Fuck that. I’m going to see Dobbs. You can come or not as you please.”

  Turrin quickly chugged about half the remaining beer and followed in Remming’s wake.

  “Jezus, Elvis, and JFK, am I glad to see you guys!” Betty hauled her girth out from behind the bar and waddled toward Remming and Turin. A solitary old man stared into his drink at the back of the bar; otherwise, the place was deserted. That had to be a first even for a Tuesday night in the Bar of Gold.

  “Oh, fuck,” Remming muttered.

  The fat woman clasped her shaking hands in front of her as if trying to still them. “Dobbsey made me promise not to call you, but you’re here now, and I’m so worried they’re gonna hurt that guy...”

  “The mutie?” Remming asked.

  She nodded. “Dobbs was shooting his mouth, you know, the way he does, and—”

  “How many people?’

  “I dunno, thirty-five, maybe forty.”

  “How long ago did they leave?”

  “Five, maybe ten minutes.”

  “Turrin, call it in.”

  “What?” Turrin snorted. “We’re suspended. Besides, I don’t got a radio.”

  Remming backhanded his friend’s shoulder. “Then use a phone! It’s a fucking lynch mob, Turrin! Call it the fuck in!”

  Turrin did as he was told.

  Auden had just taken a mouthful of gyro when his radio went off. One-handed, he fumbled the radio out and grunted at it. Listened, swallowing hard. Took a sip of coffee, and said, “Patch me through to the Railwalkers.” He looked up at the counterman. “Can you wrap this for me, please?” He tossed a few quid onto the counter. “Yeah, Railwalker Wolf? Auden. Seems some dickhead down Water Street thinks he’s found the Beast, a mutie who lives on Hallard. He’s leading a lynch mob to get the guy now. On the outside chance the dickhead is right, I figured you might want to know.” He listened for a second as he accepted the wrapped gyro, and then headed for the door.

  Minutes later, Rainer Auden pulled his runabout into Hallard Street to find it full of people. The dispatcher had told him the caller reported forty or fifty people in the mob, but their numbers had swelled along the way, and now nearly a hundred people crowded the street before the City Arms apartments. Auden blared his siren and bulled the runabout through the crowd to th
e building.

  Someone had been on the ball, he thought, seeing several uniforms had arrived before him. One runabout and one of the few full-sized guard autos were pulled up on the sidewalk, forming an impromptu barricade. Half a dozen uniformed guards held the crowd back, and farther down the sidewalk two more uniforms were holding back a couple of newsfeed anchors. Sergeant Roberts, who would have been the ranking officer until Auden’s arrival, stood at the front, arguing with Hanover Dobbs. Roberts was clearly doing his best to keep hold of his temper as Dobbs worked himself up to an apoplectic rage, ranting and shouting at him. Auden stepped up behind Roberts and put a hand on his shoulder. Dobbs stopped yelling and looked at Auden.

  26. WOLF

  Rok and Morgan were out to dinner together when Auden’s call came in to our suite. I agreed with Auden that it didn’t seem very likely some average citizen had discovered the lair of the Beast in an upscale apartment in the North End. And I seriously doubted the Beast was a mutie. Still, we couldn’t afford not to check it out. I decided not to interrupt my partners’ dinner, but to leave a message for them and go myself.

  Rush hour might be over, but the streets around the City Plaza looked heavy with traffic. The address Auden had given me on Hallard Street was only a few blocks away, in the North End. I decided I’d make better time on foot.

  I left the tower heading north on State. Within a block or two I was certain I was being followed. I reached the next intersection and dashed across against the light, one or two horns blaring at me. I kept my eyes on the store window opposite, watching to see if anyone tried to mimic my move, but no one did. I took a corkscrew path through the city streets, mindful that I was costing myself time, but determined to flush out my follower. Nothing.

  Traffic was thinning out now. I stopped on the corner of Hale and First. Dammit, I knew there were eyes on me; I could feel them. I looked down Hale and saw a woman standing at the mouth of an alley, staring directly at me. She was small, slight, with wavy, blond hair. She wore huge, baggy jeans and a sweatshirt much too large for her. Her face was in shadow, but she seemed familiar. I took a step toward her, and as she turned to retreat into the alley, I saw her face clearly for an instant. It was Suzi Mascarpone. I dashed down Hale and crossed to the alley.