The room suddenly feels suffocating, surrounded by so much horror, and the red light is beginning to make my head ache. My hand fumbles for the door handle. "I'd better be going."
She waits until I've turned away before she speaks. "Thank you for what you said."
I pause. "Hmm?"
"The compliment. It was very sweet. You weren't just being polite?"
"No," I reply, with a short shake of my head. I still haven't actually turned back to face her for fear that she will see how much I'm trembling. My heart's pounding like crazy.
A hand alights on my arm and gently pulls me round so I'm gazing into her brilliant blue eyes once more. "My father has always taught me never to trust anyone," she says softly. "He says that everyone is steeped in lies and the truth was buried deep within. But I see in you no need for lies because the truth is so close to the surface - we've both witnessed it emerging tonight. You have demonstrated that you have nothing to hide from me."
"Ramona, I-"
"Would you like to kiss me?"
"Listen, your father..."
"He brought me up on his own when my mother died, sheltered me, instructed me as to how the world works. He taught me everything. But I'm making this decision for myself." She puts a finger to my lips briefly. "Now, answer my question."
My throat has dried up, so all I can do is nod. She smiles prettily, removes her glasses and places them on the worktop, then pulls me forward and we embrace, my hand cupping the back of her neck, my mouth locked to hers. Her skin feels wonderfully soft and smooth as my fingers trail beneath her T-shirt, caressing the small of her back and her waist. I close my eyes to shut out the frozen screams of the dead hanging above us.
I awake with a start, disorientation flooding through me until I see the curve of Ramona's back as she slumbers beside me, her shoulders imperceptibly rising and falling. We'd talked into the early hours, lying in each other's arms on the floor of the darkroom, until we drifted off into sleep.
I sit up gingerly and struggle into my clothes, careful not to disturb her. My joints protest at having been trapped in an awkward position for too long. Gently stroking her hair, I gaze down at her. In sleep, she looks just as beautiful, her lips slightly parted as she breathes lightly, the soft exhalation the only sound in the room.
I've never met anyone quite like her, the magnetic power she exudes is so powerful. It's her self-belief that's so compelling, her total conviction behind her "art" and the truths she's uncovering about the human condition. In a city in which dumbness and moronic gullibility are the pervading traits of the population, to come across anyone as fiercely intelligent as Ramona - no matter how disturbed - is a moment to be celebrated and cherished. Coupled with her extraordinary beauty, the desire she evokes in me makes me ache with a need to take her away, far away, from the corrupting influence of her father's homicidal insanity. I don't know whether she can be cured of her funereal fixation, or indeed that she wants to be. But however this mess is resolved, I want to keep her safe from harm. With this in mind, betraying her is going to feel like slow torture from which there's no escape.
I stand and snatch a torch from the work surface, also grabbing a small camera, then cross over to the door, easing it open slowly and checking behind me that Ramona hasn't stirred. I peek out into the corridor and, discovering it empty, slip out of the room and into the shadows. My watch says its 3:30 am and I'm hoping that Catalyst goons don't habitually patrol this area. I hug the walls, my ears attuned to the silence, listening out for any sign of life, the soft carpet absorbing my footfalls. It's almost oppressively quiet, my breathing sounding unnaturally loud.
Passing an office door, I flash the torch on and catch DuNoye's name stencilled on the glass, the room beyond in darkness. I swallow nervously and try the handle but it's locked. Crouching, I slip my hand into my shoe and retrieve my Justice Department lock override, inserting it into the mechanism. Seconds later, the door clunks open. Another quick look around me to check that I'm alone then I disappear inside.
The beam of the torch highlights an expensive office with posters for studio movies on every wall. Moving across to DuNoye's desk, I pick up a couple of folders left strewn upon it and give the contents a quick look: it's mostly a list of shipments for Catalyst products, detailing quantity and destination.
Jovus, they're going everywhere. Ramona said that the Vi-zines were shipped out through the company's distribution network. If that was true then they were being sold all over the world.
The Vi-zine racket, by its very nature, is a small-scale, covert operation that deals with a highly selective client base, and I've never seen an outfit with such huge resources behind it. Catalyst must be flooding half the major cities in the world with their brand of high-quality snuff rags: Texas City, Hondo, Brit-Cit, Emerald Isle, Pan-African States... Serious numbers were being pushed out to all of them, right under their respective authorities' noses. As the propaganda flicks were coming with Justice Department approval, Customs must be rubber-stamping them automatically. The lists didn't specify customers but I have a feeling they would be held on DuNoye's computer. I'm loath to touch it, however, in case it's alarmed. This is one for the Tek-Judges to hack into once the uniforms were called in. I take a couple of quick snaps of the shipping documents as evidence. It was disturbing just how many sickos must be out there, lapping this material up.
Exiting the office, I pad further down the corridor, discovering meeting rooms or supply cupboards containing shelves groaning with glossy torture mags. Click, click, goes the shutter on my camera. I poke my head round the door of an empty edit suite, the bank of monitors gleaming in the torchlight.
The corridor ends in a large, ornate door, which I can only assume leads to Erik Rejin's quarters. I place my ear to the wood but hear nothing on the other side. I weigh up the choice: if I'm discovered breaking into Rejin's rooms, then it's game over. No amount of fast-talking is going to convince them I don't have a suspicious agenda. But this is the gruddamn dragon's lair, the point where all roads have led to. Dredd and Hendry instructed me to explode Catalyst from the top down, and finding proof that the big cheese is fully aware of what his company is up to will be enough to close the whole operation down for good. There's no argument. I unlock the door and tentatively twist the handle, wincing at the smallest creak.
Playing my torch over the surroundings, it's clear that this is some kind of viewing room. An impressive wall-mounted screen dominates the area with chairs and a sofa positioned in front of it. On the far side, there's another, smaller door, and crossing over to it quickly I can hear the rhythmic sound of snoring coming through the divide. It must be Rejin's bedroom. To be in such close proximity, and knowing that it's probably not going to take much to wake him, galvanises me into action.
Ramona had made a fleeting mention of her father watching movies here and presumably Rejin would approve anything that the studio produced, so I check the Tri-D system standing before the screen, sorting through the labelled discs lying next to it. I try to find something incriminating, but they all seem to be typical Catalyst films, with names like Eagle Down, East-Meg Apocalypse, Perils of the Black Atlantic (rough cut) and Sov Strike Squad.
I dig deeper, moving the discs aside to get a look at the others that appear less new. Some of them have no titles and I can only guess at their contents, but one catches my interest - Anna. I retrieve it, turning it over in my hands, casting a glance at the connecting door which separated him from the slumbering CEO behind it. My curiosity won't be denied so I insert it into the Tri-D, making doubly sure that the speakers are disconnected, then turn the machine on, light and shadow dancing on the ceiling. I listen for any disturbance in the snoring pattern coming through the wall, but there's no change, and I turn my attention to the three-dimensional images projected in front of me.
It's not a professional movie; it's been shot with a handheld camera, jittery and unfocused. The subject is a young woman, maybe in her thirties and I immediately rec
ognise similarities with Ramona, but the woman on-screen is too old to be her. Also, the woman's clothes and those of the occasional bystander that crosses into view date this film to be a good ten to fifteen years old. I suddenly realise that this is Ramona's mother - Erik's wife.
The opening shots are of her performing onstage, evidently an actress of some note. With the sound off, it's impossible to gauge her performance, but judging by the applause and bouquets presented to her, she's clearly popular and talented. I fast-forward through cuts to parties and holidays, sometimes catching a glimpse of a five year-old Ramona running into shot, or being held in her mother's arms, but the focus of attention is always on the woman, Anna. There's no sign of Erik, and I guess he must be operating the camera, the adoring onlooker.
I continue to flash past more images of her, but as time goes on she appears troubled by the camera rather than welcoming its presence. At one point she seems to be shouting, pushing the intruding lens away. Then a jump-cut and the material changes entirely: Anna is tied to a chair, her mouth gagged, her eyes terrified and pleading, and as the camera moves closer to her a knife emerges from under the frame, presumably grasped in the cameraman's hand.
I watch Ramona's mother's protracted murder for several minutes before I look away, my eyes blurry with tears. My gaze rests on the threshold to Rejin's bedroom and I take an involuntary step towards it, shaking with anger and an insatiable desire to go in there and throttle the sick old drokker in his sleep. My trembling fingers reach out to turn off the Tri-D, but before I can do so the main lights flicker on. I whirl round to find DuNoye standing in the main doorway, a couple of creeps behind him.
"Enjoying Mr Rejin's home videos, I see," he says, smiling menacingly, and he takes a moment to stare up at the events displayed on the screen, the violence reflected in his face. "Not quite happy families, is it?"
I start to instinctively back away. "Look, DuNoye, t-this isn't what you think..."
He waves my protestations away. "There's no need to explain. I know everything... Judge Trager."
TWELVE
"I want spy-in-the-sky cameras trained on him every step of the way," Dredd barked into his radio mic, swinging astride his Lawmaster. "All units to relay his movements, but not to apprehend unless expressly instructed. Fugitive has a hostage at gunpoint - we can't move in until we can secure her safety."
"Roger that," Control replied. "PSU cameras report vehicle matching your description is heading north on Massey, approaching Kevin Spacey Interchange."
"Keep me informed," he muttered, gunning his engine and speeding off in pursuit.
It was ridiculous, there was nowhere for Matheson Peat to go. Surely he would be aware that Justice Department was not just going to let him waltz out of the city, with or without his secretary as a prisoner? They had the surveillance technology to trace his route across the city, and with the Black Atlantic on one side and the Cursed Earth on the other, he couldn't make his own way beyond its walls.
The spaceports and harbour guard were put on alert and were told not to allow the councillor passage but to stall him as much as possible. Justice Department had a roster of excuses it could use to stop potential hijackers commandeering a craft to escape in: mechanical failure, weather problems, unnecessarily convoluted red tape. By the time the perp had experienced enough of these, they were ready to just about give up.
It was a risky proposition, when a citizen was being held against their will and could end up being whacked by a frustrated gunman, but Dredd felt the alert would work with Peat - the man was not a murderer. He was a coward and a weak-willed idiot who had covered for others to help advance his own career, and who had used his position of power to aid and abet a series of horrific slayings.
It gave Dredd no small sense of satisfaction to think that when he apprehended the councillor, the creep would be staring at the inside of an iso-cube for a very long time, but even so, the man was not violent or cruel or capable of taking life. Peat was panicking, that was all. His secrets had been discovered, and fleeing was the only response he had left, even if it was just making the situation worse for himself and simply delayed the inevitable.
It had been frustrating for Dredd to watch as Peat had backed away, out of his offices and onto the slab, his gun jammed under his secretary's jaw, a look of fevered desperation on his face. He had known the game was up, but was going play it out right to the bitter end. Sweaty, wide-eyed, his cheeks stained with tears, he appeared every inch a man on the brink, and it was difficult to tell who seemed more scared, the captor or hostage. In such a state, Dredd knew that the councillor's finger could squeeze the trigger at the slightest provocation and so he had to relent, reluctantly permitting him to make his way out onto the street. With the barrel jabbing into her chin, the lawman sensed too that if he tried to bring the perp down with a leg-shot or even go for a straight standard execution between the eyes, all it would take would be a nervous twitch and the secretary would be minus a head.
Dredd carefully shadowed Peat's movements, all the time telling him to give it up now before events got even more out of hand. He couldn't tell if the councillor was listening to him - the words certainly had little effect - and in truth he wished his negotiation skills were a tad more polished, allowing him to project a note of empathy with the criminal. However, even the most judicious of his colleagues would admit that he was not known for his sympathetic side so Dredd tended to leave that aspect of the job to those who were trained for it. All he wanted to do was get the cit out of the way so he could take a shot at the meathead.
Nobody messed with the councillor as he made his way down to ground level. The office staff had stared as their employer had passed them, stumbling backwards, one of their colleagues held close to him, her head tipped back by the gun barrel wedged under her jaw. Some of them had risen from their seats, their mouths dropping open in shock and disbelief at what they were seeing. They'd looked enquiringly at the Judge, but he'd just made a calming motion with his hand, his attention focussed on Peat, and they could do nothing but silently watch as the three figures disappeared down a set of stairs and onto the street.
Outside, Peat had ploughed his way through the crowd, citizens parting in waves when they saw the blaster, and once at the kerbside had managed to force a vehicle to stop. He'd swung the gun in the driver's direction, yelling at him to get out, smashing the barrel against the side window. The man didn't argue and tumbled out onto the tarmac, arms held high in surrender, as the councillor threw his hostage into the passenger seat then jumped behind the wheel. The speedster had torn off, tyres squealing, the other traffic swerving wildly to avoid it as it careened across the lanes and powered onto a meg-way. Dredd had called in a full description of the vehicle and approximate location, knowing that the cameras would do the rest. Peat couldn't escape. He was running in tighter and tighter circles, and eventually he would come to a stop.
"Suspect still heading north, now on Gulacy," Control crackled in his ear. "He's left the main thoroughfare and it looks like he's heading into a residential district. Might have a particular place in mind."
"What sector is that?" Dredd asked, thinking the name sounded familiar.
"Thirteen."
"I'll be on his position in five," Dredd said. He had an inkling about where Matheson Peat was heading.
Keisha had stopped crying. She was curled up on the passenger seat, staring straight ahead, an expression of grim stoicism on her face. Peat glanced across at her as he drove, his left hand gripping the wheel, his right still pointing the gun in her direction; she looked mighty pissed. He'd always been slightly intimidated by her when they'd worked together - he found her no-nonsense efficiency and frankness disconcerting - and he'd often suspected she took him for a self-serving fool. Maybe she'd been proved right.
"Keisha," he started, "I'm sorry I've dragged you into this. You've got to understand... I had no choice."
She didn't answer at first, continuing to gaze blankly out of the
windscreen. When she finally spoke, her voice was strained. "Are you going to hurt me?"
"No... Not if everybody does what they're told." In truth, he hadn't planned for that eventuality. He wasn't cut out for the life of crime, he decided, that was becoming abundantly clear. He wasn't nearly ruthless enough. "I don't want any... unpleasantness."
"What is this about?" she demanded, at last meeting his gaze, her temper rising as she sensed she wasn't in any immediate danger. "I knew something was wrong, but I never thought you were in trouble with the Judges. Is it some financial thing?"
"No," he snapped, then added softly: "No. I just made a mistake, many years ago. I thought what I was doing was for the best, but... these things have a habit of coming back to haunt you."
"And you think this is going to help?" She snorted derisively, her glare withering. "You're an idiot, Matheson. Where do you think you're going to go? The Judges will get you, no matter where you try to hide."
Her words stung him, but he attempted to maintain his composure, anxious to prove that he had the power here. He was the one that was meant to be calling the shots. "They won't stop me, not while I've got you. They'll have to do what I say."
"Jovus, what drokking city are you living in, man?" Keisha was shouting now. "You're going to end up arrested or dead, that's all."
"Keep your voice down," he warned.
His secretary ignored him. "You've got to give yourself up. Stop the car and maybe we both won't be going to Resyk."
"I said shut your damn mouth. I won't tell you again."
"Stop the car!" she yelled and lunged forward, grabbing hold of the wheel, wrenching it to the right. The speedster swerved across the road, oncoming traffic having to screech out of the way. Peat fought to wrest control back from her, but he only had one hand available. Desperately, he swung the gun and slammed the barrel into her face. Blood spattered the dashboard and windows as her nose shattered and she let go instantly, slumping back into her seat. He steered the vehicle back into the correct lane, casting a glance at his hostage who was holding her face and trying to stem the flow.
The Final Cut Page 18