"Then why are you here?" asked Ruth.
The words stung. He could feel the anger and frustration behind them as if they had physically struck him. Janus hung his head.
"I'm here to give you a warning. The Man in White is back," said Janus. "And I think he's making a move."
"Anne?"
"I don't know. He showed up in the Ossuarium," growled Janus. His anger boiling deep inside, lending more weight to the words than he meant. They blew through the room like a strong gust of wind, disrupting the curtains. For an instant, Janus saw seething darkness through the glass—no longer empty, but filled with faces pressed against the pane as if trying to force their way into the room. His eyes locked with one of the tormented creatures and energy flowed between them in a thin tendril of light. The creature outside leaned into the glass, trying to force its way through the thin barrier.
"Janus!" yelled Ruth breaking his gaze with her body and pulling him back to reality. She rushed to the window and yanked the blinds closed.
"Thank you," gasped Janus. "That was way too close."
"You should have Paige cover these windows."
"She's tried. Paint flakes away and anything else disintegrates in a few days," said Janus, willing himself to be calm. "Even sewing the curtains together doesn't work. The house is 'fixed' between the two worlds for all senses of the word."
"I did too good a job," said Ruth. Now it was her turn to look away.
"You didn't know any better than I did," said Janus.
"I'm sorry," said Ruth. "If you weren't such an asshole I wouldn't get so mad at you."
"If I weren't such an asshole, you wouldn't have married me."
She pulled him to her in a longing embrace. Their lips met as they held each other tight, and for a long while nothing more was said.
CHAPTER TEN
T- 68 Hours - Rattling a Cage
"Seeing you is really starting to piss me off," growled Sheridan as he dropped into a chair opposite my desk. The seat was usually reserved for paying clients.
Sheridan's only purpose in being there was to make my life miserable.
"And what can I do for you this morning Lieutenant?" I asked. "Would you like a cup of tea?"
"You drink tea? I had you pegged as a coffee man."
"Can't stand the stuff," I said.
"Hmph! No wonder I don't like you," he said. "What were you doing in Mulhullond's office yesterday?"
"That was a personal matter."
"That's not how he sees it. He tells me you were asking questions about Candice Aberdeen," said Sheridan. "And that puts you squarely in my territory."
"I might have asked a few questions," I said. There was no point in trying to hide what he already knew.
"Well don't. I have enough problems without some amateur detective mucking around," barked Sheridan.
"I'm not a detective, I just—"
"Know how to find things," said Sheridan, cutting me off. "Don't give me that line. You're still pretty high on my hit list you know."
"Are you sure you wouldn't like a cup of tea? I have some chamomile that is quite calming, and I already have water boiling—"
"Just keep your nose out of my case," he said and stood to leave. "If I hear that you've been asking anymore questions, you really won't like me."
He cleared the door as the teapot started screaming. I had just poured my cup and was inhaling the scent of hot, steaming chai when the phone rang.
"Zachary Artemas at your service, who is this?"
"Hello Artemas"
"Adam. Mulhullond made his move?"
"He made some unusual phone calls," responded Adam.
"Okay, who did he call? What did they say?" I asked, my heart racing. It was one thing to think an attack might be coming and another entirely to be certain.
"I don't know."
"What do you mean you don't know?" I asked. "You've got your grubby ears on every phone call in Pocketville."
"There are gaps in the data stream. Nothing was recorded."
"Gaps? What could block you like that?"
"Until now, I was unaware anything could interrupt the data stream. This is very disconcerting," said Adam.
"What can you tell me then?"
"There are two breaks in the record: one period of ten minutes and a second period of approximately fifteen minutes. During both time windows, no data was collected," stated Adam. "Artemas, be careful. An opponent capable of operating on that level is potentially capable of anything. I should know."
"You almost sound as if you're worried about me. How touching," I said.
"You owe me. I prefer to collect debts prior to death."
There was a click and the phone started beeping angrily in my ear.
With nothing more to go on, T.E.M.'s case had turned into a waiting game. The rest of the morning I reorganized loose papers on my desk and paid bills that were long overdue. After that, my nineteen-eleven was stripped, cleaned, and thoroughly oiled. The process always helped calm my nerves, especially when I expected to be using it shortly.
The pistol went into a leather shoulder holster, and I surveyed the desk to verify I hadn't left anything undone. A little book of matches I kept in the same drawer as the pistol caught my eye. I stuffed the matchbook in my pocket and hoped I wouldn't have to find out if they still worked. It had been years since I last saw the friend who gave them to me or witnessed what her matches could do.
Armed to the teeth, and with nothing left to do, it was time to take a walk. Not more than three steps out the door I picked up a tail. He stood about six foot four and carried himself like a linebacker itching to pummel something. My new admirer stuck with me for nearly an hour while I went about my afternoon routine.
With the firepower I was carrying, the linebacker wouldn't pose much of a problem on his own. That made me nervous. Big guys stand out, and his demeanor only made him more obvious. It was almost as if he were trying to keep my attention focused on him instead of looking for anyone else.
"Now, you aren't going to give me any trouble are you?" whispered a voice just behind me. Something small, round, and distinctly barrel-like pressed solidly against my left kidney. "This little pop-gun won't kill you… right away. It'll just make you wish you were dead."
"Clever. Is the linebacker your partner or just some muscle off the street?" I asked.
"Paid him fifty bucks to follow you around. Worked pretty good," answered the voice. "I might let him live long enough to spend it."
"Well. You mean 'worked pretty well.'"
"Nobody likes a wise guy, asshole! Now come along quiet like, and I might let you live," he said. My new friend was short, probably a hair under five feet from the angle of his gun. I couldn't get a good enough look to tell for certain. For all I knew, he could have a small dowel jammed into my back rather than a pistol.
He led me into a dark alley and shoved me face first against a brick walled building. Pretty strong for such a small guy.
"Take off your jacket and toss it," ordered the man. "Don't even think about that cannon you've got under your left arm."
Carefully avoiding my holster, I took off the coat and tossed it to the side. I still didn't know what kind of weapon the man carried, and I didn't want to find out how much damage it could do at point blank range.
"Drop that hand cannon and kick it too. If I see a finger near that trigger you'll bleed in a hurry."
The pistol went with the jacket. I cringed as I kicked it; hopefully, the concrete didn't scuff it too badly.
"My employer doesn't like you very much, and that means I don't like you at all. I'm supposed to make sure you don't stick your filthy nose where it don't belong," said the man. "He wasn't too specific on how I'm supposed to do that."
"If you're planning to kill me, there are several significantly easier and safer methods than this."
"Don't worry your little head none about that. I'm not supposed to kill you unless you're difficult," said the little man. "He gav
e me a note to read to you. It says: Next time it will be you. What's that supposed to mean? Next time it will—"
The man gurgled and collapsed with a heavy thud behind me. I glanced over my shoulder and the angle of the light seemed to change in the blink of an eye. My would-be assailant was on the ground, surrounded by dried blood. A zip-tie, pulled tight enough to have cut into the man's wrists, bound his hands at the small of his back. Next to the body was a pile of neatly folded skin and two eyeballs—sharing a skewer—set in a small ceramic dish. Whoever placed them there had arranged the fleshy orbs to look directly at me.
There was no need to check his pulse; the man had been dead for a long time already, several hours if the change in the Sun's elevation could be trusted. The new gap in my memory ached like a missing limb. How could I deal with a killer capable of immobilizing anyone without warning?
I recovered my jacket and pistol, which thankfully hadn't been damaged when it slid, and pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves from my pocket. My assailant's effects revealed very little: no wallet, no keys, not even a picture. The only potentially useful bit of information was a matchbook from Mike's Bar. Tucked under his body was a knife identical to the one used on Candice. The blade had a razor sharp edge and was polished to a mirror finish. It had been wiped clean, leaving it just another curiosity.
"Hey! Is he alright?"
The yell had come from a wide-eyed boy at the end of the alley. His eyes bounced between me, the knife in my hand, and the faceless body I was leaning over. Not good. Then his eyes bounced to the gruesome dish, and all color drained from his face. Not good in the least.
A screaming kid running from a murder scene after seeing me kneeling over the dead body was the last thing I needed. The boy's eyes were locked on the knife, which happened to be in my hand. Its reflection was visible as a tiny glint in his eye. Sheridan would love that one! He'd have me cuffed and doing the perp walk in nothing flat.
"No, he's not alright," I answered as calmly as I could. "What's your name?"
His eyes were bouncing between the knife and the dead man. Corpse. Knife. Corpse. Knife. Bloody eyeballs. Short ragged breaths. I snapped with my empty hand to break the kid's trance. If I didn't pull his attention away from the gore fest, it was all over for me.
"What's your name, kid?" I asked again.
"Johnny," he said, his quivering eyes locked to mine. A thin tear flowed down his cheek.
"Johnny. I need you to keep looking at me. Can you do that?"
He nodded.
"Now, Johnny," I said. "This is not a place for a young boy to be playing around. How old are you?"
"I'll be twelve tomor… "
An all-too-familiar prickling sensation crawled up my arm as Johnny's voice faded and his eyes turned into pitch black spheres. The boy's shoulders slumped as if he'd fallen asleep standing up. I hung my head and shook it, already aware of what or rather who was coming next.
"Zachary, Zachary, Zachary. Do I have to clean up all your messes?"
My new problem stood about six feet tall, was bald with dark, deep-set eyes, and wore a matte black cloak with mirror-like, patent-leather shoes that clicked against the concrete. There was no mistaking that aura of power, the clothing, or the eyes—like polished obsidian.
"You didn't have to do that, Janus," I scowled. A strand of drool seeped from the boy's mouth. "It's not nice to take over people like that, especially children."
"You're right, I could have sent him off screaming 'Help! Help! Murderer!' but that would have defeated the point of my visit," responded Janus. "Haven't I ever told you witnesses bring the herd?"
"No. Not that I can recall."
"Well then, I've told you now! Do remember it. I can't be around to clean up your messes all the time. The least you could do is thank me for taking care—"
"Why are you here, Dad?"
"An old friend gave me a call and mentioned that you were none too polite. Then I find you standing over a fresh—well fresh-ish—corpse, staring down a child," answered Janus. "I hadn't taken you for one to play such violent games. You don't appear to be cut out for it if a child gives you this much trouble—"
"That's enough!" I interrupted him again. "I didn't kill the man. He was a message from someone telling me to back off."
"Oh dear! Have I mistaken your intentions that badly? Well then!"
The boy's eyes returned to their natural faint green, and Johnny yawned. When he saw me, the body, and then Janus towering behind him, Johnny jumped away from us and backed into the alley wall.
"Johnny!" I snapped. His head spun in the direction of my voice, a faint flicker of recognition flashing across his eyes. "Go! Get out of here!"
The kid didn't need to be told twice; he took off running and disappeared faster than I would have thought possible for someone that small.
"Dear me," Janus said. "What kind of trouble have you gotten yourself involved in this time?"
"It's my kind of trouble. Stay out of it."
"Ah! You are my son after all. My own flesh and blood. If you have trouble," his voice dropped to a guttural growl, "then I have trouble." The power threaded through his words boiled around the two of us in a seething cloud of darkness. Dear old dad, he had never learned to be subtle about anything—much less threats to family.
"This is my problem, not yours. Just do me a favor, tell Mulhullond I'm onto him."
"Mulhullond?" he said, letting his gathered malice dissipate. "That horny old goat? Haven't spoken to him in years."
"Then who called you?"
"Mike Dooley, of course. He and I have been friends almost as long as you've been alive, and he makes the best beer in Pocketville!"
"Mike? I was wondering why he vouched for me," I mused.
"Do be careful. Strange things are going on in the City. If I had to guess, I would say there's a new Outsider mucking about."
"That… would explain a few things."
It had been a long time since anyone had used the term Outsider around me. Being from outside Pocketville brings a different perspective, a different way to see the world, and that gives an Outsider—any Outsider—power. Power is dangerous if you don't know how to control it, and even more so when you do.
"What are you not telling me, Zachary?" asked Janus. Dad only used my name when he was serious, deadly serious. It might be the "I'm going to beat your ass" kind of serious or the "be careful, I don't want you getting hurt" kind of serious—most of the time it was the first.
"Nothing I know enough about to—"
"Don't play games with me." His words slammed into me like a fist. Something buried deep inside me stirred in response. It had slept silently for so long I had almost forgotten it was there. Already being angry at Janus only fanned the growing fire. The flow of power came easily, almost without thought, searching for a way out.
"I don't play games," I said, feeling the words pulse with anger and unbidden force.
Janus flinched and backpedaled half a step rubbing his temple. "Your point is taken. I'll leave you to your fun," he said and turned to walk away, a touch unsteadily. "For now."
Dealing with dear old dad always left me in a foul mood. It took me half an hour to calm down enough to feel safe leaving the alley, and another fifteen minutes before people stopped instinctively crossing the street to avoid me.
Unless my employer suddenly decided to loosen up, which was not likely to happen anytime soon, circumstances pointed to the killer and my thief being the same person or, at the very least, working together. The only thing certain was that dear old dad only came to town when something really nasty was afoot. Janus's Outsider could be T.E.M., the invisible assassin, or someone else entirely—there was no way of knowing until I caught up with one or the other. A dead body at my feet was the killer's way of telling me to back off or else, which meant that pressuring Mulhullond had hit a nerve. If only I could get away from Sheridan without getting locked up.
"And you've never seen this guy before?" asked S
heridan again. We'd been sealed inside the tiny interrogation room for nearly an hour—long enough that I had identified, counted, and cataloged every crack in the wall behind Sheridan and was considering moving on to the ceiling. Sheridan hadn't arrested me, yet, but he really wasn't happy to find me at another crime scene.
"I can't say that for certain. He stayed behind me the entire time, and I don't recognize him without his face. It could be he's been following me around for days and I hadn't noticed. All I'm willing to say is that he doesn't look familiar."
"Well, ain't that something! I'm getting little tired of this 'I didn't see anything' story you keep feeding me."
"Lieutenant Sheridan, I assure you that if I had seen more I would tell you."
"I guess you didn't recognize his voice either?" asked Sheridan offhandedly.
"His voice?" I said frowning.
There was something I had missed in a voice—not the dead man's, but another one I had heard recently. Something so subtle that it tickled the back of my mind like a splinter hidden in a finger.
"Yeah, his voice. I guess you'd never heard this guy before either?"
"No. I didn't recognize his voice," I replied more slowly.
"Didn't I tell you I was tired of this crap!"
"Believe me, I don't like it anymore than you do. I hate the very idea that someone could cut a chunk out of my memory!"
"That's it. I'm done! I've got a dead man, without a face, and you standing over the body. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't arrest you on suspicion of murder?"
"I did not kill this man!"
"Not good enough! Every asshole that comes through those doors says that!" yelled Sheridan.
"Look at my hands! Do you see any blood?"
"You were wearing rubber gloves when we found you," Sheridan snapped back.
"How about this then, there's blood on my back and none anywhere else on me. If I had attacked this guy, there would have been blood on my sleeves and the front of my shirt, not the back."
The Erasable Man: Chronicles of Zachary Artemas Page 7