Desolate Mantle

by L. K. Hill

  Nothing moved in the back yard. He’d installed an expensive sensor light near the back door, and even that wasn’t on. No midnight feline prowlers after all, then. He dropped the blinds back into place and moved forward.

  He nudged the door with his toe hard enough to swing it inward, but not hard enough for it to rebound in his face. It only opened ninety degrees before being stopped by the flat wall, and Gabe leaned left to check the corner opposite the door. Empty. Lunging forward, gun still at the ready, he reached in and flicked on the long, fluorescent light that ran almost the entire length of the ceiling. It emitted a soft, electric buzz as he moved into the space.

  At first he saw nothing but an empty room, an overflowing hamper, and an ancient furnace. It couldn’t have just been him, though. Could it? The way his heart raced, the feeling of another presence, and yet.… He glanced down. A mason jar lay on the floor against the wall. Full of random nuts and bolts, he kept it around for small household repairs. The jar had been on a shelf at the height of Gabe’s shoulder. It was something of a miracle that it didn’t shatter when it hit the concrete. No way could that thing have jumped ship on its own.

  Gabe didn’t move. Pointing his gun at the center of the room, he listened, his trained eyes running over the length of it. The light was bright enough to illuminate most of the shadows. There were smaller, unlit crannies, but none into which a person could fit. Wait. No. That wasn’t true. None into which he could fit. A punk kid, though…

  He stepped forward. A slender space existed between the dryer and the wall, hidden further by one of his storage shelves that protruded, obscuring it. The space was nothing but shadow. Gabe concentrated on it. He couldn’t see anything at all. Just black. He should be able to see something. Lint covered the floor in that space, and he kept a spare window screen back there too. He could usually see it when the overhead light flicked on.

  Tightening his grip on his Glock, he made his voice as harsh as possible. Given his cold, he had no idea how it actually sounded. “I can see you. Come out of there.”

  The blackness jumped when he spoke.

  “Come on. Slowly, now,” Gabe said. “Stand up.”

  A resigned sigh came from the burglar as they straightened, and Gabe’s earlier thought that it must be a kid was confirmed. At full height, they barely stood five feet tall, if that.

  “Slide out of there, now. Slowly. Hands where I can see them.”

  The figure obeyed, slipping between the shelf and the dryer until it stood in front of Gabe, its back to him. The figure wore black pants and a midnight black hoodie. The two blended together so seamlessly as to look like a single piece. Black sneakers that made no sound when the figure stepped completed the look. Hunched over in the shadows as it had been—probably with its head down toward the corner—no wonder Gabe hadn’t been able to make the silhouette out.

  “Now turn around, and push your hood back. No sudden movements.”

  The figure obeyed, turning slowly. Once they faced him, he could still see only a hint of face. When delicate hands pushed the black hood back, Gabe’s mouth fell open and his gun dropped from chest height down to his waist.

  Sandy blond hair framed a familiar face devoid of makeup. She was pretty even without it. Her pale blue eyes looked chagrined. At least she had the grace to blush about the situation.

  “Tanya?” he asked, not bothering to keep the disbelief from his voice.

  “Evening, Detective. How’s the shoulder?”

  Ignoring the question, he gaped at her for another second before shaking himself. “Did you…break into my house?”

  She shifted her eyes to the side and twisted her lips, as though thinking. Even though he’d only been face to face with her a handful of times, he’d seen her do that before. “Little bit. Yeah.” She gave him a weak smile.

  He didn’t smile back. The more he thought about it, the angrier he became. Letting the gun drop to his side, he stepped toward her. “I’ve tried to get you to talk to me. Every time I’ve seen you in the Mire. You always run. Now you decide to talk. Here? Like this?”

  She held up her hands. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to invade your privacy. I just…didn’t expect you back until morning. And I didn’t fancy hanging out on your back porch all night.”

  “My back porch? There are these things called phones, Tanya. Or you could have come to precinct. Or just talked to me on the street!” He was yelling now. “And how do you know what my work schedule is?”

  She shrugged uncomfortably. “It’s posted on the website.”

  His eyebrows jumped. Did she really just admit that? “A website only employees can get to. You a hacker now too?”

  She twisted her lips again, but looked him straight in the eye when she answered. “No. But I…know people who are.” He gave her a scathing look and she shrugged. “All the top secret stuff like open case files are buried behind mountains of security, okay? The employee schedule isn’t nearly as important. It’s only one level deep. Not that hard to get to.”

  “Apparently,” he snapped. Realizing he still held his gun, if casually, he set the safety and holstered it. “What are you doing here, Tanya?”

  “My name’s not Tanya,” she said quietly.

  He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I figured that. So what do I call you? Supra?”

  She shook her head. “Kyra Roberts.”

  “Kyra? Is that your real name?”

  She gave him a look of immense irritation. “Yes, it’s my real name. It was my grandmother’s, okay? I have no idea how she got it but my parents stuck me with it.”

  That deflated him. “It’s an okay name,” he muttered. So the last name was real. He thought about asking why she’d used her real last name before, but he could guess. Roberts was one of the most common surnames in the world. Without a real first name, it would have been a dead end anyway, and she no doubt knew that.

  “Look, Detective. I know I’ve given you no reason to trust me—quite the opposite—but I need to talk to you. Urgently. That’s why I’m here. And I’ll tell you everything. Anything you want to know. I won’t hold back. I won’t be cryptic. I promise. I know I owe you that much.”

  Gabe scrutinized her face. It gave little away. “You’ve owed me that much since the night you killed Norse and saved my bacon. Why decide to talk to me now?”

  Tanya—no Kyra—pulled her gaze from his. Her eyes swept everywhere but over him for a moment: the walls the floors, the ceiling. When they met his again, they projected guilt.

  Gabe got the feeling he wasn’t going to like her answer. He raised his eyebrows anyway, prodding her.

  “Because,” she finally said, “I…didn’t really want to tell you everything. Now things have happened. I don’t feel like I really have a choice at this point. Or at least, not a particularly good choice.”

  “So not because you owed me an explanation, then?”

  Kyra sighed, looking somewhat pained. At least that was something. “I’m sorry. Maybe you’ll understand better after I’ve explained.”

  For the first time, his curiosity overcame his anger. “I really should cuff you and march you right down to the precinct for breaking and entering.”

  Her eyes snapped to his face and he glimpsed a moment of panic in them. Good. So she was human after all. She dropped her face to the floor, and when she raised it again, it was utterly calm. “If you feel like you need to do that, I understand. Go ahead. But if you do, I won’t talk to you. Now or ever.”

  A bitter laugh escaped his lips. “Threatening a cop, now? On top of everything else?”

  “It’s not a threat,” she snapped, then moderated her tone. “You have the right to deal with this situation, with me, however you see fit, Detective. You’ll also have to deal with the consequences. I came here because I’m willing to talk, so what do you want to do?”

  He studied her for several minutes. He wasn’t going to arrest her. He wanted to hear her story too much, and if she’d wanted to hurt him, or steal from
him, she would have already. He just wanted her to sweat a bit. Though, admittedly, she didn’t seem to be.

  Letting out his breath, he nodded. “Are you armed?”

  “Um,” she glanced back toward where she’d been hiding. “Not on my person. My gun’s in my duffel bag. Back there.”

  “Head out toward the living room. I’ll bring your bag.”

  The room was small to begin with and after the washer, dryer, and shelving crammed into it, there was really only enough room for one person at a time. As Kyra moved past him, she put her palms against his chest, glancing up self-consciously, and how small she was struck him again. How did someone her size take on the street toughs that stalked the Slip Mire?

  He wrestled her black bag out of its space. It wasn’t large—she carried it around after all—but bigger than he’d expected. How she’d crammed her entire body into a tiny sliver of space with a bulky duffel bag was beyond him. Just thinking about trying to do it himself brought a wave of claustrophobia.

  When he emerged five seconds later, Kyra stood in his kitchen, eyes sweeping over the walls and furnishings. “Have a seat,” he said, dropping her bag on the table. It thudded heavily. “I’m going to search this,” he said.

  She nodded and waved her hand at him without turning to look, instead studying the pictures that adorned the top of a half bookshelf. “It’s got tampons in it. You’ve been warned.”

  He rolled his eyes. The bag was something of a treasure trove. Plastic bags of mostly-eaten food were swaddled with extra clothes, her black, spiky Supra wig, extra makeup and fake skin, a box of bullets, some petty cash, and yes, some feminine hygiene products. The heavy gun had sunk to the bottom, so it took him a minute to find it.

  When he pulled it out to examine, his eyebrows jumped. “Nice piece,” he muttered. It was small enough that he had to wiggle his finger to get it between the trigger guard and the trigger—too small for him to fire comfortably—but even so, impressive. A plain, chrome-plated slide action, the gun was compact, the kind of thing TV actors had way too much fun posing with.

  “What caliber is this?” he asked. “Forty?”

  “Three-eighty.” She watched him, now.

  He popped the mag and frowned. “Have you fired this recently?”

  “Not at all since I shot Norse. That was—what? Six weeks ago?”

  “Why don’t you keep it fully loaded?”

  Her lips curved into a rueful smile. “I keep it as loaded as I’m able.”

  “What does that mean? This magazine will hold three, maybe four, more bullets.”

  “I know, but it’s relatively new. The spring’s stiff. My fingers aren’t strong enough to push more than five bullets in.”

  “Oh. You want me to load it up for you?”

  She smiled. “I’d appreciate that.”

  He stared at her. The smile transformed her face. And with the different hair and complexion…he couldn’t get over what a completely different person she was. He pressed four more bullets into the magazine, then replaced the gun in her bag and joined her in the living room. She sat on one end of his beat-up brown couch. He took the love seat adjacent to it, waiting for her to speak.

  She seemed to struggle with how to begin, opening and closing her mouth several times.

  “Why are you here in Abstreuse?” he finally asked. “You said before you were doing research for a book. Was that the truth?”

  She shook her head slowly. “I am a writer. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure I’ll get at least one book out of this experience, but that’s only secondary.”

  “To what?”

  She took a deep breath. “I’ll tell you, but I have to give you some background information, first. So you’ll understand.”

  He arched an eyebrow. He’d rather she got to the point, but at least she was talking. He nodded for her to go on.

  “I come from a tight-knit family, Detective. We’re all very close, and very religious. I’m a twin, actually. Fraternal. My twin brother’s name is Manny.” She took another deep breath and settled back against the sofa. “You must understand, Detective, that I have an extremely complicated relationship with my mother. As a teenager, it translated into a lot of teenage rebellion for me. At first, the way I did that, was through drugs. Mostly marijuana. I didn’t do it because I liked it or particularly wanted to, but only because I knew it would anger my parents.” Her brow furrowed in pain and she studied her hands, clasped in her lap. “I got my brother into it as well. Manny was reluctant at first, but eventually he started smoking weed, to please me. So we could hang out together.

  “The thing was, once I got into it, I didn’t like it. I’m one of those rare people who actually doesn’t like the feeling of being high. I hated it. I hated the way it made me feel, how sick I got afterward. I kept doing it for a while, on principle, but eventually couldn’t stand it anymore, so I stopped. I found other ways to rebel, I assure you, but left the drugs behind. Then, you know how it goes: you grow up, figure out your life, look back at your teen years as what they really were: proof that teenagers have brain damage.”

  Gabe smirked. “I think most kids are just trying to find themselves,” he said softly, but couldn’t help glancing at her arms.

  She noticed the glance and shrugged. “And I did.” She pushed the sleeves of her shirt up past her elbows to show him thin, clean arms. “The track marks are just makeup, Detective. For my disguise.”

  He nodded, feeling impressed. On top of everything else, she was a damn good makeup artist.

  “The problem is, Manny didn’t. Find himself, I mean. He got hooked, and became progressively worse. His school work became non-existent. He didn’t go to college, though before the drugs he was an honor student on the fast track to the ivy leagues. Definitely smarter than I ever was.”

  Gabe’s eyebrows jumped. Kyra was obviously intelligent. Given the IQ of most people who lived in the Mire, she was probably one of the smartest people in that part of the city. If she had nothing on her brother, Manny must have been a bona fide genius.

  It wasn’t lost on him that she kept talking about her brother in the past tense.

  “He graduated to harder stuff—cocaine, meth, eventually heroin. Over the past five years, my family’s been through the ringer with him. We tried everything from coddling to tough love, every program out there, several interventions. My father paid for rehab three different times. He’s still in serious debt because of it.”

  “It never worked?” Gabe asked.

  “He got clean the first time, but went back to the drugs after only a few months. He didn’t make it all the way through the program the second or third time. Long story short: about a year ago, we got to the point where everyone’s patience and wallets were exhausted. He didn’t want to be helped. He’d burned bridges with most of the family, both immediate and extended, and by the way he talked, I got the feeling he was going to take off. So, I sat him down for a long talk. I told him I could see his struggle, and he couldn’t ever burn his bridges with me. I told him if he ever decided he wanted help, he could come to me and I’d help him. No questions. No judgments.”

  “What’d he say?” Gabe asked.

  She shrugged, studying her hands again. “He cried a lot, but didn’t take me up on it. He even got mad. Said I should stop trying to save him. I told him everyone deserved to be saved, and one day, he might want to be. After I said that, he seemed uncomfortable, like he didn’t want to be there. Eventually I let him go. Two days later, he disappeared.”

  “You haven’t seen him since? In a year?”

  “A little more than that, now.” She took another deep breath. “As I told you before in the precinct, I write a lot of different things, crime novels included. Because of that, I have a lot of contacts in the criminal justice system, including several PIs. I didn’t want to pay one of them to actually find them—we knew we had to let Manny be for a while—but I did ask them to keep their eyes and ears out for him.”

  Gabe fr
owned. The world was a big place, and she was from out of state. “Did you have some inkling that he’d come here?” he asked.

  “Yes and no. We knew he had friends in surrounding states, but none specifically here. We broke into Manny’s email account several times while planning the interventions. One of his dealers asked him to come on a road trip to Abstreuse to buy product. Manny never did, but it was a contact. We figured if he needed some place to stay for a while, maybe he’d contact that dealer again.” She shifted positions and crossed one knee over the other. “One of my PI friends, Ted, came here on an unrelated case to do some field research. He came face to face with Manny.”

  Gabe raised an eyebrow. “Where?”

  “He’d fallen in with the Sons of Ares. He was with them, working on a low level of the hierarchy, and obviously still using.”

  Gabe leaned back. He thought he understood where this was going, and she was right: he didn’t like it.

  “Now,” she continued. “Manny didn’t know Ted. They’d never met. Ted knew Manny because I’d sent him several pictures over previous months. Ted managed to pull Manny aside privately and tell him who he was. He told Manny the family was worried about him and asked if he wanted to send us a message.”

  Gabe leaned forward again. “What did he say?”

  Kyra pushed some hair behind her ear and swallowed. She seemed to be scrutinizing his coffee table. Gabe thought she might be battling her emotions. Her next words came out sounding thick. “He said he didn’t have a message for the family, but he did have one for me. He said he understood now what I’d meant before about one day wanting to be saved, wanting to change his life. He said if he had it to do over again, he’d take the help. But that it didn’t matter anymore. He was too far gone and there was no getting out for him. That I should forget about him. Think of him as dead, because he might as well be.”