"Clean up?"
"Mm. We can drain him in the tub, then cut him up and take him down to the burn plant. They won't sift for his bones down there."
Adrian gaped at her. She turned a fretful eye up to him as she rose. "Come on, Adrian," she said. "Can't you get anything right? I thought you claimed you knew the score."
"I—I never killed anyone."
Jaguar threw her head back and laughed loud and long.
"What's so funny? That's not funny," Adrian snarled at her.
"Funny? My God, it's a scream." She put her face close to his and grabbed the back of his collar, holding him. "What do you suppose happened to all those ISD patients you sold worthless placebos to, huh? What do you suppose happened to those mothers and fathers who spent their last pennies on your miracle cure, then watched their children die anyway? Granted, you didn't pull the trigger when they blew their own brains out, but you sure gave them something to load the gun with." She shook him roughly, then let go. "Never killed anyone. Of all the willful ignorance. Help me get him into the tub, and don't drag him across the carpet—blood's such a bitch to get cleaned."
Alex squatted on his ledge and listened to the tree talk, watched the mist dissolve, observed how ordinary the grass of the cemetery looked with the morning dew dried and gone. Just brown grasses, unkempt and as thirsty as he was.
He ran his tongue over his teeth, wishing for a toothbrush. He'd have to get into town. Do something. But every time he tried to move, he was stopped cold by the image of Nick's face, and Jaguar's glass knife.
Jaguar's glass knife.
Red glass, and retractable into a little holder on her wrist. It was a very practical weapon, and she used it with expedience on Nick. The glass knife was also a ceremonial tool for her, and he could imagine her pulling Nick's stillwarm heart from his body, saying the death prayers, feeling only a deep calm.
He hadn't seen that because he stopped looking. Didn't want to see more. He saw a flash of Nick's grin. His shock at the soft motion she made and what it meant. Her knife in his heart. Her words. That was more than enough.
Did she have the sickness, too? The creeping shadow, permanently lodged inside her from the Serial years, just waiting for an invitation to act in the world. Invasion of her psyche by the shadow of that time, corroding her judgment and spirit.
Or had Nick gone over the line? Was he working for DIE, and did she know that? Damn her and her capacity for silence. She'd protect Nick from the Board, and kill him herself. He'd save her life, and then torment her with the salvation. No wonder they'd hooked up. They were two of a kind, morally ambivalent and emotionally closed. He took a minute to blow off steam, kicking hard at a rock, which hurt him a lot more than the rock, he supposed.
Then he focused on what he had to do. What action he needed to take.
It was clear. He had to get to a town, and get in touch with her. Find her, and see if she was all right. If he couldn't reach her, he'd have to find someone who could, because whether she was shadowed or not, she was certainly in danger beyond her own awareness.
He picked his way back down the hill he'd been perched on, saluting the men who rested within it before moving through the trees at the base and across the cemetery. He kept his eyes open for anyone following him as he went, but saw no signs of it.
At the edge of the cemetery, he noticed a caretaker's house, looking forlorn and as ill-kept as the cemetery itself. He considered stopping there to see if anyone was around, or if there was a telecom inside, then decided against it.
He bypassed the town of Leadville itself, keeping it in his vision long enough to get his bearings so he could remember where the next town was. It took him another hour to reach it, and then more time to locate a bar that had use of a public telecom. Jaguar's line was not working, and he figured she'd turned it off. She did that when she was working a case in her own apartment. He'd have to try reaching someone else. Someone from the Board, he thought. Then at least he'd have a public record of what had happened to Neri and to him.
The telecom was an older model, and when he pressed the sequence for Paul's classified line, it took longer than usual for his face to appear, out of focus and with a tendency to crack at the edges.
"Paul," he said, calm now and sure of what he had to do, "how are you?"
"Confused, Alex," Paul said, looking at him on the screen from over a pile of papers. "Where are you?"
"Home planet, getting some work done. Too many assignments, not enough Teachers. You know how it is."
"Sure. I know. Where's Nick?"
So he didn't know. That, at least, boded well.
"Nick? I advised him to take home leave. Thought he took my advice."
Paul shook his head. "No, Alex. I don't think that'll do. I sent him with a warrant to that crazy woman's house. Jaguar Addams. She's to be arrested."
"The charges," Alex said calmly, "were dropped for lack of evidence."
"We picked them up again. He brought us some of your private files, and it didn't look good. Doesn't look very good for you, either, but we can talk about that. You aren't," he added, "playing favorites here, are you?"
Alex chewed on his lip and thought. Then he moved forward. "Paul," he said, "did you give Nick carte blanche?"
"I don't know what you're talking about, Alex."
He nodded. "Sure. I know that Board members never give signals to Teachers or cops that they should handle a case as they see fit, without benefit of due process. I know that never happens. But if it ever did happen, would this have been one of the times?"
Paul ran his fingers through his hair and raised tired eyes to Alex. "What's the problem with it, Alex? She's a maverick. A menace. Always has been. Everybody knows that but you."
"The problem," Alex said, "is that, hypothetically, if Teachers ever used the empathic arts, if they ever got the theoretical shadow sickness from that hypothetical use, then Nick would have had, in theory, all the symptoms."
"What? But the files were—"
"Full of shit, Paul. Faked. I have no private files on any of my people. If I want something kept private, I don't file it And Nick has the sickness. Or couldn't you tell?"
"Where is he, Alex?"
"I don't know. Aren't you going to ask where Jaguar is?"
"Shit," Paul said, with feeling. "If she screws up the Rilasco case—"
"I don't think even Jaguar could make it worse than it already is."
Paul's face turned a mottled gray, and he pulled back from the screen. Alex could almost smell his fear.
"What's that mean?" he demanded.
"DIE's in it," Alex said. "Up to their filthy red eyes."
"Shit," Paul repeated. "Are you sure?"
"Very. I'll explain when I get back. If I get back," he added. "In the meantime I want you to check on Jaguar. Make sure she's aware of what I told you. Tell her to stay away from Clare until I get back, and to be very careful. And Paul—if the warrant's still outstanding, I'd suggest you withdraw it."
He clicked off the telecom, leaving Paul still babbling, and thanked the bartender for his help.
It wasn't until he stepped outside that he realized how much trouble he was in himself.
Two unmarked wings had landed outside the diner. One to his left and one to his right.
He took a step back, and felt the pressure of someone behind him.
After that he had time only to curse himself once for his stupidity, and be briefly thankful that he'd gotten a warning through, before the world went black.
12
When she left her apartment, intending to go to the House of Mirrors, she realized she had passed the turn for the street and was headed for Alex's. By the time she reached his building, and parked her car and walked in, she understood why.
She'd learned how to open his lock some time ago, and used this skill when she had to, in emergencies, when she needed a place to hide. Usually she knocked first, but today she didn't bother. If he had returned, he would be expectin
g her. If he hadn't, it didn't matter.
He wasn't home.
She stood in his apartment, breathing in the pungent aroma of recently burned incense. He'd been thinking hard before he left. Looking for her, she thought. But last night, after she'd taken care of Nick's body, she had tried to make empathic contact to warn him. Tell him what Nick said. Tell him there must be someone else on the Planetoid involved. Someone who had enough access to fake a good file on her.
She couldn't find him.
She should have been able to locate him easily. She knew where he was, when he was, who he was. Knowing just one of those should have been enough. Yet she couldn't locate him anywhere.
A circle of dead men, and Alex caught within it. Alex, walking with the dead.
She wasn't an adept, she reminded herself. That image wasn't a projection into future possibilities. It might have been generated from her contact with Nick. Or from Clare, who read death objectively, without prejudice.
"Shit," she said, "where are you, Alex?"
Then she calmed herself, stilled herself. She had to find him, and she had to be quiet in order to do so.
She let the sweet stillness of the empathic moment envelop her, concentrating on Alex, who he was, the particular molecules of his being. He had to be somewhere. Everyone was somewhere. But she couldn't find him. All she found was an infinite space, cold and emptied of life, filled with loneliness. She removed herself from it, and shook it off.
Dead men, and Alex among them. Dreams of dead men and Clare. Nick, dead at her hand. Pyrite, and the interests of organizations such as DIE.
One thing only was clear.
She had to get to Leadville, and Clare, who knew everything, would have to go with her. She began thinking through the particulars, her thoughts moving fast through sets of options. She looked around the apartment, speaking to the walls and furniture as if they might relay the message. "I'll be there as soon as I can," she said, "if I can find where there is."
Then she left his apartment and drove to the House of Mirrors, grateful for light traffic and her car's capacity for speed. She walked into the central room with purpose and stood directly in front of Clare, between her and the mirror.
Clare startled, and refocused on her.
"Come with me," Jaguar said, and led her through the halls, toward the door, to the outside.
When they stood in the bright sunshine, Clare staring at her as if she was seeing her face for the first time, Jaguar spoke.
"I've killed someone. Another Teacher. I'll need to leave the Planetoid, and I intend to take you with me."
Clare's forehead furrowed as she tried to absorb this, and then her face softened into a smile. "You've killed another Teacher?"
"That's right," Jaguar said. "Nick, in fact. The lousy fuck."
"Well, good job, then," was Clare's rather distracted comment.
"Clare, I have to leave here. I want to work for your people on the home planet. I can get you off the Planetoid, if you'll set me up."
Clare breathed in deeply, a sound of pure pleasure. "You can get me out of here?"
"I can. It'll take a few hours, but I don't think they'll turn up anything on the guy I killed between now and then."
"Where's the body?" she asked.
"Burn plant. I cut him up."
"Mm. I hate that, don't you? But I wish I'd seen you do it."
"Why?"
"Well, for all I know this is a story you're making up. Part of the Planetoid program or a foolish attempt to get me to bring you to my employers."
Jaguar threw her head back and laughed hard. "Your employers? I know who they are, Clare. You work for DIE. Have for years. They took you in after you killed your trick, and you went to work for them. I'm not sure what they're working on now, but I know it has to do with superluminary transfer of information, and pyrite is a necessary ore for their experiments."
Clare's eyes widened. "Who else knows this?"
"Nobody yet. I wanted to make sure of my facts first."
"And have you?"
"Yes."
"How?"
Jaguar grinned. "Just now. By confirming it with you."
Clare turned her face toward Jaguar and stared at her hard through cold eyes. Her expression went through the motions of surprise, anger, and something almost like fear, before returning to its well-instructed neutrality.
"Gotcha," Jaguar said softly.
Clare nodded at her sagely. "You did," she said. "And now what?"
"I'll be back," Jaguar said to their reflections. "Tonight. Be ready for me. Dress in something dark."
She drove back to her own apartment to find Adrian slouched on the couch, either morose or drunk—she couldn't tell which. The depressed phase of the program.
"Adrian," she said, singsong, and he turned glazed eyes up at her. "Sweetheart, I hope you're in a condition to listen, because I have got quite a story for you."
"Fuck off," he muttered.
"Love to, but no time. You know how you said you always wanted to be somebody?"
"Fuck off twice," he muttered louder.
"Right. Well, here's your chance. Because the truth is, you're not in Toronto. You're on the Planetoids. You've been doing your Planetoid sentence with me from the start, and now I need your help in saving a life or two."
He pushed himself out of the chair and shoved a fist in her face. "FUCK OFF," he shouted at her, and then stopped, suspended in mid-action.
"Adrian," she said, "I need your help."
He lowered his fist, and frowned. He might be a lousy con man, and he might be a failure at everything he'd done, but he still knew how to read a face. She was worried about something, and it looked like something important.
"You're in some kind of real trouble, aren't you?" he asked.
"That's right," Jaguar said. "Real trouble. Sit down, and I'll tell you all about it."
First, Alex felt a ringing in his ears that seemed to spread in ripples from the center of his brain, to the space he occupied. It grew in volume and range, encompassing him and then dispersing at the edges of pitch, going out and out. Ripples of sound, sharp at the central point, then harmonics stretching into wavering bands that dissipated around him.
He groaned, felt himself struggling to move, and opened his eyes.
The room he was in was dimly lit, and his eyes took their time adjusting to it. Thought returned before vision, and he knew he was in trouble. When he tried to move and found he was firmly bound to the chair he was sitting in, he knew it all over again.
He blinked, shook his head roughly to get rid of the residual ringing in his ears, and peered through the green darkness.
Green. There were green lights glowing somewhere.
He scanned the room, and saw that he wasn't alone.
There were five men, bound in chairs similar to his, but hooked up to monitors that glowed above their heads.
They all stared at nothing, stared ahead, blinking occasionally.
Alex wrinkled his nose. A funny smell here. Not rotten or offensive, but disturbing. An olfactory sensation more than a scent. It had the feel of electricity burning the surface of skin. The smell of lightly singed hair. Something in between. It made the back of his teeth feel as if he'd been chewing on aluminum.
The monitors blinked and lines wavered across them. Alex watched the men staring ahead at nothing.
"Hey," he said, "where am I?"
They didn't respond. Unconscious, he thought. Some kind of drugged state. He looked at the man across from him and noticed a repetitive, rhythmic twitch in his left eye. Watching, he felt his own eye begin to twitch, and he shivered, shook his head to chase it away.
The smell was disturbing. Elusive. Something familiar about it, but he couldn't place it. He stared at the man across from him, and felt the twitch returning to his own eye. When he moved his gaze down the man's body, the twitching in his eye ceased.
"I'm pulling something in, and I don't like it," he murmured to himself.
>
He examined the man as much as he could from where he sat, noticing that his skin was gray and mottled. Noticing that there was no color to speak of in the skin of his arms. Noticing that his chest was hollow and sunken and—
"Jesus," he whispered. "He's not breathing."
He wasn't breathing.
They weren't breathing.
None of them was breathing. Chests, sunken and hollow, didn't move.
The man's eyes shifted in his head, turned toward him sightless, and rested full on his face.
His heart pounded as if he'd been caught in an act of absolute desecration. Viewing the dead. Being seen by the dead. Seeing the dead as they saw you. He didn't mean to be here. He didn't want to be here. This was not supposed to happen not these eyes staring at him accusing him what had he done except get caught jesus god what was this like every child's nightmare the sightless eyes staring, twitching and none of them breathing at all.
Waves of despair washed over him and he realized he was caught in an empathic connection with this horror this not breathing not dead not breathing. He blocked it quickly, and found that beads of sweat had formed on his face, and he was cold.
It was cold in here. Cold as ... death.
Something Terence said. Cold as death. Something Neri said about the dead being easier than the living.
Something Neri said about they are doing it. Now.
He rested his head against the back of the chair and tried to let go, set up whatever boundaries he could to keep this not-death from washing over him again. Don't look at their faces. Don't look at their eyes. Don't let their despair get into you. He kept his gaze down, looked at the skin on his own arm, afraid that it, too, would appear that mottled gray, because at this point he wasn't sure what condition he was in either.
Did these men know? Were they aware?
Of course they knew. That was the despair. What he'd felt was what they were experiencing. Consciousness trapped within endless death. The spirit unable to free itself from death. The body powerless to live or to die.
Don't look at their faces. Don't look at their eyes. He knew enough already.
THE FEAR PRINCIPLE Page 18