by Glen Cook
"Right. So what is it?" I had a creepy feeling.
Didn't take a genius to figure it would be something big and nasty.
"I better just show you," he insisted.
Despite his fine-sounding offer I was liking this less and less.
11
We walked only a mile but that mile took us over the edge of the world into another reality, into the antechamber of hell, the Bustee. Now I understood why he was out of uniform.
TunFaire boasts peoples of almost every intelligent race. Mostly they clump like with like in closed neighborhoods. Likewise with humans not of the ethnic majority. Breeds fall into the cracks, live in between, catch as catch can, often welcome nowhere. Two-thirds of the city is ghetto slum. Poverty is the norm.
But the Bustee is to those slums as the slums are to the Hill. People there live in tents made of rags or in shanties put together from sticks and mud and trash scavenged before the ratmen could collect it. Or they cram in a hundred to the building meant for five or ten two hundred years ago, when the structure had windows and doors and flooring that hadn't yet been torn up to burn for heat during the winter. They lived in doorways and on the street, some so poor they didn't have a grass mat for a mattress. They lived amidst unimaginable filth. The ratmen wouldn't go in there without protection. The soldiers wouldn't go in less than company-strong—if at all. Too many soldiers had come out of there and wouldn't go back even to visit.
The Bustee is the bottom. You can't roll downhill any farther. You roll that far, chances are you'll never climb back. Not till the dead wagons come.
Only the deathmen are safe in the Bustee. Each day they come with their wagons, wearing their long gray robes with the veils that conceal their faces, to collect the dead from the streets and alleys. They chant, "Bring out your dead! Bring out your dead!" as they work. They won't leave the streets to collect. They load their wagons and make their deliveries to the city crematoriums. They work from dawn to dusk, but every day they get a little farther behind.
Death in the Bustee is as ugly as life.
In the Bustee there is no commodity cheaper than life.
In the Bustee there is only one commodity of any value at all. Young men. Hard young men who have survived the streets. These fellows are the only real beneficiaries of the Cantard war. They enlist as soon as they're able and use their bonuses to get whoever they can out of hell. Then, despite their hard and undisciplined youths, they work hard at being good soldiers. If they're good soldiers they can make enough to keep their families out. They go down to the Cantard and die like flies to keep their families out.
That such love should flourish, let alone survive, in the Bustee is ever an amazement to me. Frankly, I don't understand how it does. In the more affluent slums, youth seems to victimize those closest to it first.
Another world, the Bustee. They do things differently there.
Block stopped walking. I halted. He seemed to be having trouble getting his bearings. I looked around nervously. We looked too prosperous. But the streets were deserted.
Maybe it was the rain. But I doubted that. There was something in the air.
"This way," Block said. I followed, ever more alert. We saw no one till I spotted a pair of obvious Watchmen, though out of uniform, peeking from a narrow passageway between two buildings that might have been important back at the dawn of time. They were as big as they get in the Bustee. The men faded back into the passageway.
My nerves worsened. I was supposed to go back in there with a guy loved me the way Block did? But he didn't dislike me that much. Not enough to bring me down here for that kind of fun.
I stepped into the passage—and almost tripped over an old man. He couldn't have weighed more than seventy pounds. He was a skeleton with skin on it. He had just enough strength to shake. The deathmen would collect him before long.
"All the way back," Block said.
I didn't want to go. But I went. And wished I hadn't.
I like to think I developed a solid set of emotional calluses in the Marines, but that's only because my imagination can't encompass horrors worse than those I saw and survived in the war. I keep thinking there's no devil's work that can surprise me anymore.
I keep on being wrong.
There was a little open area where porters had made deliveries in a bygone age. Several Watchmen were there. They had torches to break the gloom. They looked like they hoped the rain would drown the torches.
I didn't blame them.
The girl had been about twenty. She was naked. She was dead. None of that was remarkable. It happens.
But not the way this had happened.
Somebody had tied her hand and foot, then hung her from a beam, head down. Then they had cut her throat and bled her and gutted her like a game animal. There was no blood around, though the human body is filled with an amazing amount. I muttered, "They caught the blood and took it away." My meals for the month wanted to desert me.
Block nodded. He was having his troubles too. So were his boys. And they were angry besides. Hell, I was angry, but my anger hadn't had time to ripen.
No telling why she'd been gutted. Maybe for some of her organs. Her insides had been dumped on the ground but were gone now, carried off by dogs. They had been at the body too, some, but hadn't done much damage. Their squabbling had brought about the discovery of the corpse.
Block told me, "This is the fifth one, Garrett. All of them like this."
"All in the Bustee?"
"This's the first one down here. That we know of."
Yeah. This could happen here every day... I looked at her again. No. Even in the Bustee there are limits to the sickness they'll tolerate. They don't kill for sport or ritual, they kill for passion or because killing will, directly or indirectly, put food in their mouths. This girl had been killed by somebody insane.
I said, "She came from outside." She was too healthy, too pretty.
"None have been Bustee women, Garrett. They've turned up all over town."
"I haven't heard about anything like this." I hadn't been out listening, though.
"We been trying to keep it quiet, but word's starting to get around. Which is why we're about to go in the vise. The powers that be want this lunatic and they want him sudden."
On reflection, I said, "Captain Block, sir, I don't believe you're being entirely forthright. Maybe if there'd been fifteen or twenty of them and people were getting panicky, they'd bestir themselves up there. But you're not going to convince me they give one rat's ass what happens to four or five street girls."
"They don't care, Garrett. But these ain't street girls. They was all from top families. All of them gave some perfectly good, even trivial reason for going out the days they were killed. Extended errands. Visits to friends. Everything perfectly safe."
"Yeah? There's no such thing as perfectly safe in TunFaire. And that kind of woman doesn't go anywhere without armed guards. It's a status thing. So what about their guards?"
"Most of them don't got no idea what happened. They delivered their charges to friends' houses, went on about their rat-killing. There's something going on, but the guards aren't it. Though maybe their memories would improve some on the rack. Only we ain't been authorized to go that far. Yet."
"Any leads at all?"
"Diddly. Nobody's seen or heard nothing."
That's the standard state of affairs throughout TunFaire. Nobody sees anything.
I made a sick grunting noise and forced myself to look at the victim yet again. She'd been a beauty, slim, with long black hair. Unpleasant as the truth may be, you feel it more when they waste the pretty ones. Block looked at me like he expected some blast of wisdom. "So what do you want from me?" As if I didn't know.
"Find out who did this. Give us a name. We'll take it from there."
I didn't have to ask what was in it for me. He'd told me. His word was good. Like I said, he stayed bought. "What else do you know?"
"That's it. That's all we have."
<
br /> "Bullshit. Come on, Block."
"What?"
"That right there tells you a bunch just by being what it is. Especially if the others were like it."
"They were."
"All right. They gutted them. They took their blood. That stinks of dark religion or black sorcery. But if it's a cult, it can't have a base, else the bodies would have been disposed of there."
"Unless they wanted them found."
"There's the weakness in my thinking. Maybe we're supposed to think it's ritual when it's just crazy. Or maybe crazy when it's ritual. Though it's crazy for sure. Nobody sane would do that."
"You keep saying ‘they.' You figure on more than one?"
I thought about it. It'd been a gut reaction. "Yeah. Somebody had to get her away from her bodyguards. Somebody had to bring her here. Somebody had to strip her and tie her and string her up and do that. I don't think a solo crazy could manage."
I flashed on a kidnapping I'd helped break up one rainy evening, went stiff and cold. Any connection seemed unlikely, but... "These girls got anything in common besides being high-class? They know each other? They all the same physical type?" This one couldn't have been confused with Chodo's brat, but she did have a similar build, black hair, and dark eyes.
"Age range is seventeen to twenty-two. All with dark hair and eyes except for one blond. All between five-four and five-eight. Built pretty much alike, near as I could tell, seeing them this way."
"Five of them."
"That we know about."
There was that. In TunFaire there might be that many more not yet found or reported. "You have yourself a blue-assed bitch of a problem, Captain. These things are hard to untangle because there's nothing to grab hold of that makes any sense to anybody who isn't crazy. If you get many more, the thing will turn into a circus."
"I know that, Garrett. Goddamnit, that's why I came to you. Look, you want me to beg, I'll beg. Only—"
"No, Block. I don't want you to beg." That had its appeal, but I couldn't stomach it. "I want you to calm down. I want you to come walk with me in the rain and tell me everything you know. And I mean everything. Whatever little thing you hold back, to keep from embarrassing somebody important, might be the key."
I hadn't decided to get involved. Not yet. I wanted to distract him long enough to walk him over to my place so he could have a sit-down with the Dead Man. The Dead Man could sort everything stashed in his feeble mind and, probably, hand him what he needed to solve his case. Thus would I satisfy my civic obligation. I could feel smug without having to stick my neck out.
Only thing was, going back out that narrow passage, Block's boys went with us, carrying their torches. Those spat and sputtered in the drizzle and gave me more light than I'd had coming in. Which meant there was enough light for me to spot the butterflies.
There were three of them. They weren't anything special. Just little green butterflies. But how come there were butterflies dead in an alley in the Bustee?
I stopped when we reached the narrow street. "Take that old man somewhere and feed him. Get a doctor to look after him. Do whatever you have to do to get him well enough to tell us what he saw. If he saw anything."
Block told his men, "Do it."
I headed for home, Block hustling along beside me, telling me anything he thought might help. I didn't listen as closely as I could have. Besides being horrified, I was bemused by the fact that I might hold the fate of the Watch in my hands. I could destroy the useless bastards. Or maybe even force them to become some small percentage of what they were supposed to be. Hell, people will do anything to keep their jobs. Sometimes even do their jobs.
I wasn't used to that kind of power. Maybe I'd have to have Dean follow me around whispering in my ear to remind me I was mortal.
Dean had noticed that the door was unlocked. He'd locked it. I whooped and pounded till he tore himself away from his evangelists. When he opened up, he had a gleam in his eye that had nothing to do with salvation.
"You rogue, you." He pretended he didn't understand what I meant. Hell, a fling would be good for him and them both. If it didn't kill him.
I'd never let Westman Block enter my house before. He did so warily, like a soldier visiting an enemy stronghold.
The Dead Man is no secret. Anyone interested in such things would know he lives with me. But hardly anyone has seen him. They go into his room with all sorts of wild prejudices, then find out the real thing is worse than anything they imagined.
I told Block, "You take the chair. I need to pace."
He couldn't stop staring. "What're we doing here?"
"Old Bones there is a genius. You don't believe me, ask him. I thought we'd lay it out for him. He'll find connections, tell you where to start looking." Old Bones wasn't talking. I couldn't tell if that was a good sign or bad. I did know that if he cooperated he would bring more than genius to bear here. He'd been around a long time. Something from yesteryear might be the key to today's horror. It had happened before.
There are horrors that recur in long cycles, like locust plagues, but separated by generations. If these murders were cultist, they might fit one of those cycles.
The Dead Man wasn't talking but he was listening. He was poking around. He's damned subtle, but when he starts prying, I can tell. If I'm paying close enough attention.
Garrett. Shall we set all sham aside? Shall we abandon all childish efforts to abrade one another's nerves? I will not yet admit that we must pursue this monster, but I will stipulate that we owe the situation a close look.
"You grow up, I'll grow up."
Block gave me a strange look. He hadn't heard the Dead Man's end. The Dead Man can do that if he wants. It makes some of our conversations spooky.
Excellent. I will set my concern for your soul in abeyance for the moment.
Oh, boy. He wasn't going to let me off. Those women had offended his sense of rationality. He hates people who won't examine beliefs critically. Most of the time he hides it when he deals with me, but he holds the majority of humankind in contempt. Of the gods-know-how-many sentient species in the world, we humans are the only ones who insist on fervent belief in things logic and our senses demonstrate to be implausible. Amongst other races those who stumble into never-never-lands of wishful thinking are considered insane and are dealt with about the way we deal with Barking Dog. Or more harshly. Other races don't make priests out of their nuts, then give them money and follow them wherever they lead.
"I take it you're going to handle this, Garrett," Block said. He was nervous as hell. Most people are around the Dead Man. He has a considerable reputation, all of it deserved. He's done some amazing things since I've known him.
"We're considering it." I was fighting myself. Laziness and the desire not to get involved in another bizarre case warred with outrage. Outrage was ahead by a nose. The white knight had been on the shelf too long, his only chance to strut his stuff his rescue of Chodo's spooky daughter. But the white knight has his weaknesses. While he doesn't mind charging full tilt against a visible villain, rusty sword flailing, he hates having to hunt the villain down. Legwork buries his resolve faster than anything the hard boys can do by way of threat or violence. And this thing would be solved by legwork.
Relax, Garrett. It should not be so bad as you anticipate. I saw Block jump, so knew the Dead Man had included him in this time. Captain Block. I sense that you have a great deal hanging upon the outcome of the investigation you propose.
Block turned pale, took on kind of a green tinge around the edges. Having somebody talk right into your head is not a reassuring experience. Not the first time. And especially so when you're a guy who has a whole encyclopedia of corruption stashed and doesn't want it out where the world can see. I guess you'd say it was a measure of his distress and determination that he coped so well. He bounced back quickly. "Yes. There's a lot of heat from the top of the Hill. It'll get hotter every time some dizzy bitch gets herself offed."
You are certain there
will be more?
"Damn straight. What do you think?"
I think you are correct. The Dead Man was all business now. The killings will continue and will come more and more rapidly until the people responsible are destroyed. I think we are up against something like nothing any of us has seen before. The evidence I glean from your minds tells me this is the work of a compulsive killer who cannot help doing what he is doing and who will have to do it again, ever more often, to appease the devil that drives him. But it also tells me he is not doing this without help.
I asked, "You figure there's a connection with—?" With what had happened at Morley's place. Only he cut me short.
Yes. We had something he didn't want handed to Block. Garrett, I see you shrinking from the legwork this will entail. You are correct in your estimate. This will require talking extensively with everyone even remotely involved. The families of the dead women. Their guards. The people who found them, and the Watchmen who followed up. People in the neighborhoods where the bodies were found.
He knows how to beat a guy down. I shrank with every word. I was the size of a mouse. I looked for a hole in the baseboard so I could scoot off and hide. He was talking about the rest of my life.
I do legwork because it's what I do; talk to people and talk to people and poke and prod until things start to happen. But I don't like it, partly because I'm lazy, but mostly because of the people. I never cease to be amazed and appalled by the sheer scope of human wickedness.
You are not considering our resources, Garrett.
Right. I was busy feeling sorry for myself.
We have the Watch. A thousand men for legwork. Is that not so, Captain? Will not every man of the Watch throw himself into this with the greatest vigor?
"It's our asses if we don't. They're already hinting. We have another five murders, I figure the Watch is out of business."
Break my heart.
I saw what the Dead Man meant. I'd been too involved in myself. The Watchmen would do anything to cover their asses. Maybe even their jobs. We just had to grab them by their instinct for self-preservation.