“I think so,” Greg said. “I reviewed the Macmillan art encyclopedia database. We got lucky, the most valuable piece Tyler owns is also the smallest one. It should be easy enough to lift it.”
“When do you want to start?” Morgan asked.
“Right away. See if you can get an appointment with Townsend tomorrow morning. Gabriel, you’re going to be the accountant. You’ll have to hire an office for us in Peterborough. It needs to be ready by Tuesday at the latest. Suzi will give you a hand.”
“Suzi? You’re kidding!”
“No way. I’m going to bring her in as your company’s secretary. She’ll be perfect as the courier for the swap—Townsend won’t argue with her.”
“Jesus wept. Okay, if you say so.”
“What about the Firedrake site?” Morgan asked. “Won’t Townsend be suspicious of me marketing the interactives of a dead celebrity?”
“You won’t be selling Tyler’s products,” Greg said. “I’ve got Royan designing a completely new architecture for us; from midnight, Firedrake will be selling software products and obscure music acts. Once Townsend has bought in, we’ll change it back.”
Gabriel gave her glass of beer a quizzical glance, then smiled softly. “Sounds good to me.”
Greg had been right about Amanda Patterson—she was a first-rate detective. As soon as Hugh Snell confirmed the McCarthy was a fake she redirected her team’s effort to produce maximum results. Every art house and auctioneer in the country was squirted an immediate notification about the painting, and CID staff were told to get in touch with known fences and dealers. A reward was mentioned.
Of course, as Townsend was blissfully unaware he had anything to hide, Sotheby’s in Stamford got back to Amanda less than two hours later. Richard Townsend was identified.
“Not the person who actually pushed Tyler,” she said regretfully, as she compared his picture with the genome visualization. An undercover team was assigned to keep Townsend under surveillance.
Greg watched as she turned her team to establishing the link between Tyler and Townsend. It was the accountant who tracked down the partnership in Firedrake. After that it was plain sailing. The accountant worked well with Alison, running analysis programs through the virtual company’s records. The distribution company made their order logs available.
By ten o’clock that evening they had it all worked out. Byrne Tyler was ripping off his Firedrake partner Townsend, who discovered what was happening. Knowing the money would never be paid over, a burglar was hired for a custom theft. But there had been a flaw. Byrne Tyler was awake when the break-in occurred. There must have been a struggle.
Amanda took the case to Vernon at quarter past ten. He reviewed it, and authorized the arrest warrant.
Throughout the interview with Townsend, Greg had felt as if he was the one on trial. Not so far from the truth. He was the one who had brought them all together. The strain was twisting him up inside, having to wait patiently while Amanda asked questions which Townsend didn’t understand, let alone have answers for. Finally, he could ask the one question that counted.
Physically, Townsend froze up. His hands gripped the armrests, sweat glistened on his brow as his mouth hung open. In his mind, horror and fright rose like ghouls to contaminate every thought.
“Guilty,” Greg said. He hoped he hadn’t sagged at the release of his own tension.
“Thank you, Mr. Mandel,” Amanda said.
It was the tone which alarmed Greg. He hadn’t been paying attention to the detective. Now he could sense the doubts rippling through her mind. She held his gaze steadily, and said: “I think we both need to take a break now. No doubt you’d like to consult with your solicitor, Mr. Townsend. Interview suspended.” She switched the AV deck off. “Greg, a word, please.”
“Sure.”
As they left the interview room a frantic Townsend was whispering furiously to Jodie Dobson. Amanda went straight downstairs and out into the station’s car park. She rounded on Greg. “What the hell is going on?”
“You were right about him, my question confirmed that.”
“Oh, bollocks, Greg. He doesn’t have a clue what’s going on.”
“He’s guilty. I swear it, Amanda.”
“Yeah?” She dug in her pocket and pulled out a cigarette.
“I thought they were illegal?”
“No. That’s a common mistake. Usage just prohibits you from claiming National Health Service treatment. If you choose to make yourself ill, don’t expect the state to pay to make you better. So given that smoking actually makes it illegal to go to an NHS hospital, it’s easy to see how confused people can get over the actual wording of the law. And it suits the government to encourage that confusion.”
“Are we talking in metaphors here?”
“I don’t know, Greg. I don’t know what’s metaphor, what’s confusion, and what’s truth. But I’m bloody sure Townsend didn’t have anything to do with Tyler’s death. Detective’s instinct, remember.”
“The evidence points straight at him.”
“Yes. With amazing clarity. Funny how that all fell together yesterday. Why yesterday? Why didn’t we have it before?”
“We only discovered the painting had been taken yesterday.”
“So we did. No, actually, you did. On the third visit. What’s the matter, Greg—psychic power not what it used to be?”
“It’s not an exact science.”
“No, it isn’t. But you’re right. We’re lucky to discover the painting. After all, it must have been stolen during a burglary, and that burglary must have been last Wednesday night. Because it couldn’t have been taken afterward; no one else has been alone in Tyler’s apartment since then, have they Greg? Alone downstairs while I was taking a stupid call from Mike bloody Wilson.”
Greg spread his arms, trying not to show how alarmed he was getting. “A few seconds.”
“How long does it take to switch something that small?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Neither does Richard Townsend. He claims he only received that painting yesterday.”
“He claims. Do you think Alan O’Hagen can confirm that?”
“You know as well as I do I’ll never get to ask that question. But my investigation only took off once every piece of the puzzle was dumped into Townsend’s hands for me to find.” She dropped the half-smoked cigarette and crunched it under her foot. “What the hell happened to you, Greg? You, I thought you, of all people were trustworthy. For Christ’s sake, you fought the PSP for a decade while people like me hid behind our desks. This is the world you were fighting for. Are you surprised it’s not perfection? Is that it? Do you have so little faith in the police, in me, that you have to fabricate all this crap to set up an innocent man? Who the hell are you protecting, Greg?”
“Amanda, I promise you, Townsend is not innocent. He is responsible for someone’s death.”
“But not Tyler. If I asked that in the interview room and he said no, what would you tell me, Greg? Would you tell me he’s lying?”
“You have all the evidence you need. It will hold together in court without my testimony. He’s an accessory to murder. He’s responsible.”
“And you couldn’t prove it? Not for the real crime. That’s it, isn’t it? No proof. So you set him up for this.”
Greg remained silent, wondering where all this shame he was suddenly feeling was coming from.
“Fine, Greg,” she said. “You got your man. But what about Tyler’s killer. He’s still walking around loose. He got away with it, with murder. Tyler might not have been the best person in the world, but surely he deserves better than us turning our backs on him?”
“Tyler wasn’t murdered. It was a genuine accident. Although, if he hadn’t been the person he was, it wouldn’t have happened.”
“What do you mean?”
Greg slowly took his cybofax from his jacket pocket, and flipped it open. The face of Tyler’s killer looked out blankly from the screen
. Greg typed in a few simple instructions, altering the characteristics age-projection program. The face evolved again, but not running its standard eighteen-to-eighty cycle. This time it went back eight years. Daniel Sullivan stared out at Amanda.
“Oh, fuck,” she whispered.
“He found out that Tyler was blackmailing his sister into having sex,” Greg said. “So that night he sneaked into the Ingalo’s boot. He must have got in through the cloakroom window, probably even saw them on the bed together. Tyler heard him moving around and went to investigate. Daniel pushed him. A little boy incensed at what he’d seen happen to the sister he loved.”
“And she covered for him,” Amanda said. “Turned down the air-conditioning, took the crystal from the AV deck, wiped his fingerprints, then drove him home.”
“Yeah.”
“You knew it all the minute you walked into the bungalow, didn’t you?”
“That poor kid was so scared I’m just surprised no one else noticed him.”
“I need another cigarette.”
“You shouldn’t. They’ll kill you.” He waited to see what she’d do.
She took the packet of twenty from her pocket, and after a long moment handed them to him. “You keep them, and don’t tell the health police, huh?”
“I don’t have time right now. I have to organize a funeral.”
“Anyone I know?”
“My father-in-law. He died after a hit-and-run.”
Amanda paused for a moment. “Take care, Greg.”
“And you.” He got into the Ranger, and drove out of the station car park. A last glance in the rearview mirror showed him Amanda squaring her shoulders, then marching back into the station.
The Raggle Taggle Gypsy-O
MICHAEL SWANWICK
Here’s a story featuring characters who are literally larger than life, in which we’re given a vivid and passionate look at the worlds behind the ordinary world we know … .
Michael Swanwick made his debut in 1980, and in the twenty-one years that have followed has established himself as one of SF’s most prolific and consistently excellent writers at short lengths, as well as one of the premier novelists of his generation.
He has several times been a finalist for the Nebula Award, as well as for the World Fantasy Award and the John W. Campbell Award, and has won the Theodore Sturgeon Award and the Asimov’s Readers Award poll. In 1991, his novel Stations of the Tide won him a Nebula Award as well, and in 1995 he won the World Fantasy Award for his story “Radio Waves.” In the last two years, he’s won back-to-back Hugo Awards—he won the Hugo in 1999 for his story “The Very Pulse of the Machine,” and followed it up last year with another Hugo Award for his story “Scherzo with Tyrannosaur.” His other books include his first novel, In the Drift, which was published in 1985, a novella-length book, Griffin’s Egg, 1987’s popular novel Vacuum Flowers, and a critically acclaimed fantasy novel The Iron Dragon’s Daughter, which was a finalist for the World Fantasy Award and the Arthur C. Clarke Award (a rare distinction!). His most recent novel was Jack Faust, a sly reworking of the Faust legend that explores the unexpected impact of technology on society. He’s just finished a new novel, featuring time travelers and hungry dinosaurs. His short fiction has been assembled in Gravity’s Angels, A Geography of Unknown Lands, and in a collection of his collaborative short work with other writers, Slow Dancing Through Time. He’s also published a collection of critical articles, The Postmodern Archipelago. His most recent books are three new collections, Moon Dogs, Puck Aleshire’s Abecedary, and Tales of Old Earth. Swanwick lives in Philadelphia with his wife, Marianne Porter, and their son Sean.
Among twenty snowy mountains, the only moving thing was the eye of Crow. The sky was blue, and the air was cold. His beard was rimed with frost. The tangled road behind was black and dry and empty.
At last, satisfied that there was nobody coming after them, he put down his binoculars. The way down to the road was steep. He fell three times as he half pushed and half swam his way through the drifts. His truck waited for him, idling. He stamped his feet on the tarmac to clear the boot treads and climbed up on the cab.
Annie looked up as he opened the door. Her smile was warm and welcoming, but with just that little glint of man-fear first, brief as the green flash at sunset, gone so quickly you wouldn’t see it if you didn’t know to look. That wasn’t me, babe, he wanted to tell her. Nobody’s ever going to hit you again. But he said nothing. You could tell the goddamnedest lies, and who was there to stop you? Let her judge him by his deeds. Crow didn’t much believe in words.
He sat down heavily, slamming the door. “Cold as hell out there,” he commented. Then, “How are they doing?”
Annie shrugged. “They’re hungry again.”
“They’re always hungry.” But Crow pulled the wicker picnic hamper out from under the seat anyway. He took out a dead puppy and pulled back the slide window at the rear of the cab. Then, with a snap of his wrist, he tossed the morsel into the van.
The monsters in the back began fighting over the puppy, slamming each other against the walls, roaring in mindless rage.
“Competitive buggers.” He yanked the brake and put the truck into gear.
They had the heat cranked up high for the sake of their cargo, and after a few minutes he began to sweat. He pulled off his gloves, biting the fingertips and jerking back his head, and laid them on the dash, alongside his wool cap. Then he unbuttoned his coat.
“Gimme a hand here, willya?” Annie held the sleeve so he could draw out his arm. He leaned forward and she pulled the coat free and tossed it aside. “Thanks,” he said.
Annie said nothing. Her hands went to his lap and unzipped his pants. Crow felt his pecker harden. She undid his belt and yanked down his BVDs. Her mouth closed upon him. The truck rattled underneath them.
“Hey, babe, that ain’t really safe.”
“Safe.” Her hand squeezed him so hard he almost asked her to stop. But thought better of it. “I didn’t hook up with a thug like you so I could be safe.”
She ran her tongue down his shaft and begun sucking on his nuts. Crow drew in his breath. What the hell, he figured, might as well go along for the ride. Only he’d still better keep an eye on the road. They were going down a series of switchbacks. Easy way to die.
He downshifted, and downshifted again.
It didn’t take long before he spurted.
He came and groaned and stretched and felt inordinately happy. Annie’s head came up from his lap. She was smiling impishly. He grinned back at her.
Then she mashed her face into his and was kissing him deeply, passionately, his jism salty on her tongue and her tongue sticky in his mouth, and he couldn’t see! Terrified, he slammed his foot on the brake. He was blind and out of control on one of the twistiest and most dangerous roads in the universe. The tires screamed.
He pushed Annie away from him so hard the back of her head bounced off the rider-side window. The truck’s front wheels went off the road. Empty sky swung up to fill the windshield. In a frenzy, he swung the wheel so sharply he thought for a second they were going to overturn. There was a hideous crunch that sounded like part of the frame hitting rock, and then they were jolting safely down the road again.
“God damn,” Crow said flatly. “Don’t you ever do that again.” He was shaking. “You’re fucking crazy!” he added, more emphatically.
“Your fly is unzipped,” Annie said, amused.
He hastily tucked himself in. “Crazy.”
“You want crazy? You so much as look at another woman and I’ll show you crazy.” She opened the glove compartment and dug out her packet of Kents. “I’m just the girl for you, boyo, and don’t you forget it.” She lit up and then opened the window a crack for ventilation. Mentholated smoke filled the cabin.
In a companionable wordlessness they drove on through the snow and the blinding sunlight, the cab warm, the motor humming, and the monsters screaming at their back.
For maybe fi
fty miles he drove, while Annie drowsed in the seat beside him. Then the steering got stiff and the wheel began to moan under his hands whenever he turned it. It was a long, low, mournful sound like whale-song.
Without opening her eyes, Annie said, “What kind of weird-shit station are you listening to? Can’t you get us something better?”
“Ain’t no radio out here, babe. Remember where we are.”
She opened her eyes. “So what is it, then?”
“Steering fluid’s low. I think maybe we sprung a leak back down the road, when we almost went off.”
“What are we going to do about it?”
“I’m not sure there’s much we can do.”
At which exact moment they turned a bend in the road and saw a gas station ahead. Two sets of pumps, diesel, air, a Mini-Mart, and a garage. Various machines of dubious functionality rusting out back.
Crow slammed on the brakes. “That shouldn’t be there.” He knew that for a fact. Last time he’d been through, the road had been empty all the way through to Troy.
Annie finally opened her eyes. They were the greenest things Crow had ever seen. They reminded him of sunlight through jungle leaves, of moss-covered cathedrals, of a stone city he’d once been to, sunk in the shallow waters of the Caribbean. That had been a dangerous place, but no more dangerous than this slim and lovely lady beside him. After a minute, she simply said, “Ask if they do repairs.”
Crow pulled up in front of the garage and honked the horn a few times. A hound-lean mechanic came out, wiping his hands on a rag. “Yah?”
“Lissen, Ace, we got us a situation here with our steering column. Think you can fix us up?”
The mechanic stared at him, unblinking, and said, “We’re all out of fluid. I’ll take a look at your underside, though.”
While the man was on a creeper under the truck, Crow went to the crapper. Then he ambled around back of the garage. There was a window there. He snapped the latch, climbed in, and poked around.
The Year's Best Science Fiction: Eighteenth Annual Collection Page 49