"Begging your pardon ma'am, but you may want to look in the mirror then," said Lee.
"What?" asked Ruth in confusion.
"Your eyes ma'am, they're still black," said Lee, disappearing through the door.
She glanced at the wall and almost didn't recognize the she-demon staring back at her. Three deep, slow breaths and her features—cold, obsidian eyes and gaunt bony face—had returned to a more normal appearance—icy blue eyes and a softer if not cheery face. Ruth picked Anne up in her arms and carried the girl out of the transfer chamber as gingerly as she could.
"Jill? Would you collect her possessions and get a uniform started for her? I'm sure our guest will want something to wear," said Ruth with practiced calm.
"Yes, ma'am!" replied the technician smartly, rushing out of the room.
Anne gasped, and her eyes went wide with panic. Ruth almost dropped her as Anne tore the blanket away to make sure her arms and legs were still there. Seeing them, Anne broke away from Ruth and backed into a corner of the room, clutching tightly to the blanket.
"It's okay dear. Calm down," said Ruth in her most soothing voice. "You're safe here. What's your name dear?"
"Anne. Where am I?"
"You're in the Pocketville receiving station. You've had a rough time getting here," said Ruth. "No thanks to that good for nothing bastard that calls himself my husband!"
Calm, thought Ruth, I have to stay calm.
"Pocketville?" asked Anne. Ruth could see the gears turning but let the girl's thoughts run their own course.
"Yes, dear, You're in Pocketville."
"I'm alive?"
"You're very much alive."
"The only thing she brought with her was this notebook ma'am," said Jill, stepping out of the transfer chamber.
"My notebook!" yelled Anne, throwing away the blanket and snatching her precious possession violently from Jill. She clutched the book to her chest tightly and curled her body into a ball, rocking back and forth on her toes.
Ruth wrapped the blanket around Anne again and nodded silently to Jill, indicating that the technician should leave.
"Anne, what did Janus tell you about transference?"
"Transference?" she asked, confused.
Ruth's fist clenched tightly. She could feel her anger ready to boil over and had to force herself to remain calm.
"Transference is what you just experienced," said Ruth.
"I read something about a sterilization procedure in the paperwork he gave me but nothing like that," answered Anne, her voice still shaky. She paused and looked down at herself, suddenly realizing that she was naked.
"Umm, who are you?"
"My name is Ruth Tekcop. Let me guess, Janus didn't tell you anything about me either."
"Not that I can remember," said Anne, tentatively. Her face started turning a very distinctive shade of green. Ruth scrambled for a trash can or anything that could hold liquid, but found nothing. Anne's gastric convulsions were short lived and didn't produce anything beyond thin bile that left a slick sheen on the floor.
"Come on, let's get you to the infirmary. The cleaning staff can deal with this mess," said Ruth helping Anne to her feet.
The pair made their way, unsteadily, out into the hallway, and Anne got her first look at her new home. The walls were painted the same uniform shade of industrial grey as she'd seen before the transference. The floors were little more than bare stones, polished smooth but otherwise unadorned. Thick concrete crossbeams spanned the ceiling, giving the impression of being inside a parking garage rather than the research facility Anne had been led to believe she was headed for. Even in her barely aware state she noticed the roughly hewn appearance of everything around her. Not that things were unfinished so much as the designer had all but ignored appearance.
"May I have some water?" asked Anne around the sour taste in her mouth.
Ruth sighed, "There aren't any water fountains between here and the infirmary, so that will have to wait. One of the many flaws in this level that I can't get fixed."
"Please tell me all the rooms aren't like this," Anne said.
"Unfortunately, Janus doesn't have an architect's bone in his body, and he designed this place," replied Ruth. "Don't worry, you'll only be staying in the on-site infirmary overnight. We have living arrangements for you in town."
"Town? There's a town?" asked Anne.
"You must really be the trusting type," commented Ruth, fighting to keep her temper under control. "He didn't even tell you that?"
"He mentioned Pocketville," said Anne. "But I thought this was a sealed facility-"
"It is," said Ruth, cutting her off. "It's a little difficult to explain. But that can wait too."
The infirmary was all too similar to the hallway—a bit wider and painted mauve rather than grey. One wall was lined with cabinets and a desk, while the other had metal frame, adjustable beds. Old, but well kept.
Ruth helped Anne into one of the beds then stood back while Lee came over and took Anne's vital signs again. He made a few notations on her chart and nodded to Ruth.
"She should be fine in a day—" he started to say.
"There you are!" said Jill, peeking her head in the door. She was carrying a stuffed duffel bag with Anne's name embroidered on the side. "Here's the uniform set you requested. It was already waiting when I got to stores."
"How thoughtful," growled Ruth. "He thinks to order a uniform and not about the transfer procedure. He is so dead."
CHAPTER SIX
T- 72 Hours - Unknowns
"I am sorry, but there's nothing more I can do," apologized the short, balding bank manager. The placard on his desk named him Don Yenomym. I almost laughed when I saw it, but there were more important things on my mind just then.
I had been ushered into his office as soon as I started asking questions about the check. The only two things he had been able to tell me were that the check was indeed a valid financial instrument, and that money was present to cover it.
"You can understand my concern, Don. I've heard one too many stories where some patsy winds up being the unsuspecting mule in a money laundering scheme. Are you sure you can't tell me anything else about this check?"
"No, I'm afraid not," said Don spreading his hands.
I thanked him for his time and left—after depositing the check in my own account. No matter where it came from, I needed the money too badly to ignore it.
Tracing my benefactor's check through normal channels had turned into a dead end and burned too much time for me to do more digging on my own. Having his letter delivered to my desk like that irked me enough that I wasn't ready to give up just yet and there was still one more option—the only question being if I was willing to take the risk.
I found the nearest pay phone, dropped in two quarters to be nice, and waited for it to start beeping as a reminder to dial a number. Dealing with the Hidden was like putting your life down on black and giving the roulette wheel a spin. The danger lay in his fee: these days the Hidden dealt exclusively in favors. Favors of equivalent value.
"Adam, this is Zachary. I have need of your services. Would you . . . ."
"You know better than to use that name," interrupted a familiar voice.
"Four seconds from the time I started talking, you're slipping," I chided. The Hidden had an ear to every phone line in Pocketville—I still hadn't figured out how he pulled that little trick off.
"What do you want, Artemas?" His voice was deep and slow, as if speech were somehow beneath him.
"Information. I received a cashiers check numbered five-four-three-two-four issued from Pocketville First National Bank to me. It came with a letter signed T.E.M., no return address, my name, and a single bloody fingerprint. I would like to know who I'm dealing with," I stated as succinctly as possible.
"Your request will take some time."
"Time is a problem. I need this information in the next five hours or it is of no value," I replied.
"That will b
e expensive."
"Money I can get."
"I didn't say anything about money," he stated. It was the closest to laughing I'd ever heard in his voice.
"Your usual fee?" I asked, already knowing the answer. I didn't have much choice given the looming deadline and too many questions in my mind to say yes to T.E.M. or simply walk away.
"You will owe me a favor, Artemas. You haven't been indebted to me in a long time—not since before the Wastes."
"Back then neither of us knew crap. Now I have rules," I stated. Owing a favor to the Hidden could be bad or very bad. It all depended on what he thought the favor was worth.
"I know your limits, and they are of no consequence. Do we have a deal?"
"We have a deal," I answered, regretting the words even as I said them. "How will you contact me?"
"Do not concern yourself with trivialities, I know where you are."
The phone started beeping again, and I slipped it back onto its hook.
Five thirty found me sitting in Mike's bar with a glass of scotch I had been nursing for the last half hour. With another half an hour till T.E.M.'s deadline, my complete lack of success at finding anything on my potential employer was not encouraging. Nothing was forthcoming from the Hidden and I didn't see a female bartender. T.E.M.'s letter had specifically referred to the bartender as a 'she,' and I couldn't believe that was a mistake.
Mike kept eying me while he put away freshly cleaned glasses. I couldn't blame him. I was surprised he let me in the door. The booth where Candice died was spotless. You would never know that a woman had been butchered there a little under twenty-four hours ago.
"Good evening, Mr. Artemas," called Sheridan from behind me.
"And to what do I owe the pleasure of your company, Lieutenant?"
"I'm here for a wee nip before heading home."
"Be my guest," I said and went back to my scotch. Sheridan could put a crimp on things; his eyes were entirely too keen to miss anyone passing off a note, and he was already watching me—sealed envelopes look a little too much like payoffs.
"I've been checking up; you're an unusually interesting man," said Sheridan.
Mike set a dark, chocolaty brown pint with a thick creamy head in front of him without prompting, and Sheridan smiled appreciatively. He took a long draught from the glass and sighed with pleasure.
"Have you tried Mike's home brew? It's the best stout in town."
"I generally stick to scotch."
"Your loss."
"You were saying I was 'unusually interesting'?" I asked.
"For instance, what do you mean by 'find things'? That's what your ad says you do," he asked, looking at me askance.
"It means exactly what it says," I answered. "I'm very good at finding things."
"What? You find lost poodles?"
"Pets are not my usual fare. Should the owner be willing to pay the fee, I would happily do my best to locate their animal," I replied.
"Huh. A real mercenary."
"I wouldn't say that. I have rules."
"Ha! That's rich," he laughed. "I'll bet you'd find your way into a bank vault if someone paid you enough!"
"Only if the owner, and only the owner, asked," I replied. "I said I have rules; one of them is my clients must have rights to what I'm requested to find."
"Huh, we'll see about that. How about people then? You do people?" asked Sheridan.
"People are an interesting problem. They often don't want to be found."
"Not so good with questions, huh? I asked if you do people too?"
I narrowed my eyes. "When necessary, I find people as well."
"You know a guy named Michael Mulhullond?"
"No, can't say that I do."
"That's funny. I found a copy of your ad on his desk. Right smack in the middle of the page, 'Zachary Artemas: the man who can find anything!' You write that yourself?" said Sheridan shaking his head.
"Anyone with a phone book has a copy of that ad. Not that it does much good," I said. "That stupid thing cost me nearly a month's rent and brought in exactly one customer—a man with a lost cat."
"Yeah, but most people with phone books still have their faces," he said and finished off his beer. "Hey, Mike, what's the damage?"
"Don't worry about it, Zee. Ya're good for it," answered Mike.
"Thanks, Mike, you're a lifesaver," said Sheridan. "You though, I've got my eye on you. Seems Mr. Mulhullond has a thing for blondes, and Candice used to be his thing."
"That's an interesting coincidence."
"That's what I thought. You know what else?" said Sheridan, standing up to leave.
"What?"
"He works for Pocketville First National Bank," he commented over his shoulder. "I'm keeping an eye on you, Mr. Artemas. Don't let Mike down. He said you were good people, and he'll be mighty upset if you make a liar out of him."
I looked at Mike and saw him staring me down; his eyes were steel grey and just as hard. I barely knew the man, why would he cover for me?
As Sheridan cleared the door, I couldn't help but notice every stunning detail of the figure who came in after him. She wore a brilliant blue dress that matched her piercing sapphire eyes. Silky brown hair flowed over her ivory skin like a river of molten chocolate. Everyone in the bar was captivated by her beauty the moment they laid eyes on her.
"Hey, Michelle! Ya covering for me tonight?" Mike called to her, a giant smile on his face. "Ya better be careful with that dress. Don't want to give the customers a heart attack and kill'em all off!"
"If they can't stand the heat they should get out of the fire!" answered Michelle, clearly enjoying all the eyes on her as she made her way to the bar. "I'm covering for ya. Go blow your profits at the game."
"Alright, girl, I'll see ya at closing," said Mike, retrieving his coat and hat from somewhere below the bar.
"Don't worry about it, pop. Just head home and get some rest."
"Ya sure?"
"Yes! Now get moving before Mom figures out just what you're up to."
"That's my girl! I'll see ya in the morning then," said Mike and hustled out the door faster than I thought a man his age could move.
Michelle took up her station behind the bar and started checking over open tabs one-by-one. She looked at each ticket and then to a table in the room to verify that the customers were where she expected them. When she found my tab, a crooked smile crossed her lips.
"And you must be Zachary Artemas," she said. "I heard that Dad vouched for you with Sheridan. That's not something he would do lightly."
"And good evening to you too," I replied. "You seem to have me at a disadvantage. As to your Dad, I have no clue why he'd vouch for me to anyone much less the police. That's just one of the mysteries I'm wrestling with today."
"Michelle Dooley at your service! Everyone calls me Mikey. Well, if Dad thinks you're good people, you can't be all that bad. Now, what are you having?"
"A bit of scotch that Mike recommended," I said, eying the glass. "It's actually pretty good stuff."
"Scotch it is! Not my drink, so I can't say much about it. You need another round or you still nursing that one?" she asked, and then continued more quietly. "If I were in your shoes I'd go for another glass."
"My shoes?"
"You know what I'm talking about," she whispered, leaning close enough to my ear that I could feel the heat of her skin. "We have a mutual acquaintance. An acquaintance who is waiting for an answer, and you have about fifteen minutes to give it to him."
"Maybe you can help me with that. Who is T.E.M.?"
"I wish I knew," she said quietly and pulled away. "I'll get you another scotch, on the house."
The bar's phone rang while she was topping off my glass.
"Mike's Bar. Yeah, he's here," she said looking straight at me. Michelle nodded and held the phone out.
I swallowed hard; only one person could be on the other end of that line.
"It's for you."
CHAPTER SEVEN
<
br /> T- 17 Years - Pocketville
"I'm glad to see you're awake!" exclaimed Ruth. "The first time I went through that thing, it took me days to get out of bed."
Anne shuddered. Her trip through the transfer chamber had only happened yesterday, and the memory was still very fresh in her mind. She'd spent the entire night suffering with phantom pains. Even twelve hours later, a few of the smaller muscles in her hands were still twitching.
"Did you—" she started but broke into an uncontrollable coughing fit.
Ruth handed her a glass of cool water and waited while Anne took a sip.
"Did you have to bring that up again?" Anne continued.
"Probably not," said Ruth with a mischievous smile. "But you're not reacting too badly. I may downgrade my plans for Janus from killing to maiming."
"What happened to me in there?" asked Anne. "It felt like I was being dissolved from the inside out, and Mr. Tekcop, he just kept counting down."
"Do you remember what number he started at?"
"Five, I think."
Ruth nodded. "What you experienced is a form of matter transference. We're still working the kinks out of the process. Normally you'd be unconscious for that part, or it would happen so fast that you wouldn't have time to notice. Janus used the slow process sending you through."
"That's an understatement. I thought I was dying in there."
"You're not that far from the truth," mumbled Ruth.
"What did you say?"
"Oh, nothing. Unfortunately, the only person who really understands how the transfer process works is Janus," said Ruth. "He's tried to explain it to me, but none of it makes much sense. You'll find that happens a lot around here."
"Okay, so why do you use it?" asked Anne. The pinky finger on her left hand kept curling, almost pulling her hand into a fist along with it. She held it up in front of her face, trying to bring it under control, but the nerves weren't listening.
"That has to do with where and what Pocketville is," answered Ruth. "And is a question you wouldn't understand the answer to right now. Let's just say that we're a long way from where you started."
The Erasable Man: Chronicles of Zachary Artemas Page 4