The Green And The Gray

by Timothy Zahn

  "I did that with the other detective," Green said. "Don't you talk to each other?"

  "Come on, fella, give me a break," Fierenzo said, lowering his voice. "His handwriting's lousy. I'll get a migraine if I have to get this from his report."

  Green hissed between his teeth. "Fine," he said. "But make it fast."

  The interrogation room was just down the hall. "Can I get you some coffee?" he asked as he ushered Green inside.

  "No, thanks," the other said, his pace faltering as he looked at the bare walls and simple table and chairs. "The other place was cozier."

  "But not as private," Fierenzo said, sitting down at the table and gesturing to the chair across from him. "Have a seat."

  "Ten minutes," Green warned, reluctantly sitting down.

  "Ten minutes," Fierenzo agreed, pulling out the sketches and spreading them out across the table.

  "Tell me what happened."

  Green sighed. "I saw a car racing down Waverly Place toward a man—"

  "This man?" Fierenzo interrupted, tapping the sketches of the adult.

  "Right," Green said. "He was pointing some kind of gun at the car, but I never heard any shots. The driver had his hand out the window, and I think he was pointing something back."

  "No gunshots from him, either?"

  "Nothing that I heard," Green said. "The car missed the guy and kept going—"

  "Missed him how?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean how exactly did the man avoid the car?"

  "He jumped between two of the parked cars along the curb," Green said. "The car kept going, coming toward where I was standing. I ducked around the side of the building, heard the car stop, then saw a kid come running out."

  "This kid?" Fierenzo asked, indicating the other set of sketches.

  "That's the one," Green said. "He ran to Greenwich Avenue and disappeared around the corner; and when I looked back down Waverly I saw the car sitting there with the other man running the other direction."

  "I see," Fierenzo said, collecting the papers together again. "And why exactly did you help our artist make these sketches?"

  Green frowned. "I was just trying to be a good citizen."

  "No, I don't think so," Fierenzo said, leaning back in his seat. "Good citizens in your situation generally make more of an effort to tell the truth."

  "What are you talking about?" the other demanded cautiously. "I told you exactly what I saw."

  Fierenzo shook his head. "Neither the man nor the boy would have just run away," he said mildly.

  "At least, not at street level."

  Green's face had suddenly gone very still. "What do you mean?" he asked.

  "I mean I know all about these folks," Fierenzo said, watching him closely. "They don't run alongside buildings. They climb them."

  He had expected some kind of guilty reaction. To his mild surprise, Green merely settled back into his chair and leveled a hard stare at the detective. "So you're working for them."

  "I'm working for New York City," Fierenzo corrected. "Why do all you people assume I'm working for the other side?"

  "Because there are only two sides," Green bit out. "If you're not with us, you're against us."

  "Whatever." Fierenzo tapped the stack of sketches. "You want to tell me now why you wanted these?"

  "You're the clever one," Green countered. "You tell me."

  "Okay," Fierenzo said agreeably. "These two are part of the group your people are gearing up to fight. You saw them playing Waverly Place Chicken, possibly over who was going to get first crack at the Whittiers. You do know who the Whittiers are, don't you?"

  Green didn't answer, but the question had been rhetorical anyway. Fierenzo had already caught the reaction in the other's eyes at his mention of the Whittiers' name. "At any rate, you saw them, but didn't recognize them," he went on. "You could have gone back to your group and tried to describe them, but verbal descriptions to untrained people are always a little dicey. So when Detective Powell showed up, you decided to avail yourself of a police artist's services to get some actual pictures made. How am I doing?"

  Green pursed his lips. "You can't keep me here, you know."

  "I know," Fierenzo agreed. "Fortunately for you, I have no interest in doing so." He stood up and stepped to the door. "Thank you for your assistance; you're free to go. Have a nice day."

  Green's forehead creased uncertainly. "If you're not going to hold me, why did you keep me here all afternoon?"

  "Mostly, to make sure we were both on the same page," Fierenzo told him. "And also to make sure you knew where I stood on this; namely, for life, liberty, and peaceful streets. I hope your people won't get in my way on that."

  Green snorted. "You'd better hope instead that you don't get in our way."

  Fierenzo lifted his eyebrows. "Is that a threat?"

  "Merely a statement of fact." Almost leisurely, the other unfolded himself from his chair and got to his feet. "What about my pictures?"

  "I'll hold onto them for now," Fierenzo said. "If your friends want to see them, they're welcome to come down here and discuss it."

  "I'll tell them that," Green said, circling the table. "I can find my own way out."

  "I'm sure you can," Fierenzo said, stepping out of his way. "The officer down the hall will make sure you don't get lost. Good-bye, Mr. Green."

  Silently, Green pulled the door open and left the room, leaving it ajar behind him. Fierenzo watched long enough to make sure the duty cop down the hall was escorting him to the exit, then returned to his chair and sat down. Swiveling the sketches around to face him, he spread them out again.

  There had been something about the boy's picture that had been nagging at him earlier. Now, having given his subconscious time to mull it over, it practically leaped off the paper at him.

  The boy was a younger version of his new houseguest Jonah. Brothers, most likely, or at least close cousins.

  He leaned back in his chair, scowling. Yet another puzzle piece that didn't seem to connect with any of the others in his collection. This kid was almost certainly the Jordan that Jonah had been talking to back in his kitchen, the Jordan who was apparently sitting somewhere near Canal Street collecting traffic reports.

  Only from the way the rest of the conversation had gone, he had the feeling that it was actually Jonah, not Jordan, who was supposed to be on spotter duty out there.

  But what it was all ultimately about, he still didn't have a clue.

  With a sigh, he gathered the sketches back into a pile. He might not know what was going on, but he would bet dollars to donuts that Jonah did. Actually, from the way the other had been behaving earlier, he'd rather expected him to have shown up here already. Apparently, he'd decided catching up on his sleep was a higher priority.

  Which was fine with Fierenzo. He was going to have to spend the next couple of hours here anyway, trying to come up with something plausible to write about this case.

  Once the paperwork was done, though, there was definitely going to be an earnest little conversation back at the apartment. Folding the sketches lengthwise, he slid them into his inside coat pocket and headed back to his desk.

  21

  "Before we continue," Aleksander said when they were all seated in the living room, "I'd like to apologize to you, Roger, for Sylvia's behavior yesterday morning. I'm afraid she was a bit overzealous in her desire to obtain your cooperation. Please understand that what we do, we do for the best."

  "I'm not sure 'overzealous' even begins to cover it," Roger countered, his heart pounding painfully in his ears. Aleksander, the Persuader. Was that how they intended to get Melantha back? "She was trying to use the Persuader's Gift on me, wasn't she?"

  " 'Trying' being the operative word," Aleksander said, smiling faintly. "At best, it was pure intimidation. At worst, it was probably fairly ludicrous. Sylvia has no more ability to persuade than a three-year-old finger-painter could reproduce a Renoir masterpiece."

  "Unlike you?" Car
oline asked, her voice tight.

  Aleksander shook his head. "I'm not going to try to persuade you," he said. "For one thing, I'm not even sure it would work. Particularly on you, Caroline, now that you've successfully resisted one attempt. Besides—" the lines in his face deepened "—you don't know where Melantha is anymore, do you?"

  Roger felt Caroline's hand tighten in his. "Of course we do," he insisted.

  "There's no need to lie," Aleksander said. "People like you would never have simply deserted her in the park last night or this morning."

  Roger sighed. "You win," he said, ignoring Caroline's sudden stiffness. "So what happens now?"

  "We have dinner, of course," Aleksander said, sounding surprised. "That is why you were invited."

  "I thought you just wanted Melantha," Caroline said.

  "Melantha is the key to our survival," Aleksander said. "But that doesn't mean we can't pause to thank those who have been our friends."

  "Are you sure we're your friends?" Roger asked bluntly.

  "You took in a helpless child and protected her as best you could," Aleksander said. "Those are the actions of a friend, whether you understood that or not."

  "And if we'd rather leave?" Caroline asked.

  Aleksander shrugged. "You'd miss a good dinner. But no one will try to stop you, if that's what you mean."

  Roger looked sideways at Caroline. But her face held no cues. "Personally, I'm too hungry to go hunting for a different restaurant," he decided. "Besides, I'd kind of like to see how this tree thing of yours works."

  "Then you shall," Aleksander promised, standing up. "But first things first. Dinner is ready."

  "Thanks," Powell said, dropping the phone back into its cradle and scribbling a final note. "Bingo, Tommy. They found the Parks truck."

  Fierenzo looked up from his report. "Where?"

  "Way the hell down in Chelsea, near Pier 59," Powell said. "The branch was still in back, too, which pretty well proves picking it up was just a pretext to get something else. You want to get down there before they take it back to the garage?"

  Fierenzo hesitated. But at this point, finishing his report and having that talk with Jonah were higher priorities. "No, I'd better stay here. You can go check it out if you want."

  "What's the trouble?" Powell asked, craning his neck to see what Fierenzo was doing.

  "Oh, it's this report," Fierenzo said, waving at the papers in front of him. "It wasn't until I started writing it down that I realized how insane the whole thing sounds. I need to find a way to phrase it so it'll be taken seriously."

  "Good luck," Powell said, standing up and snagging his coat from the back of his chair. "I guess I'll go take a look at that truck."

  "Thanks," Fierenzo said, looking at his watch. "And after that, you might as well go home. It's already past five, and you weren't even supposed to be working today. Say hi to Sandy for me, and have yourselves a nice quiet evening."

  "If it's all the same to you, I think I'll leave your name out of it," Powell said dryly. "Just make sure you get some sleep, too." Threading his way between the desks, he left the squad room.

  "Yeah," Fierenzo muttered after him. "Right." Taking a sip of room-temperature coffee, wishing he'd paid more attention during his lone creative writing course in college, he turned back to his report.

  "The first few years were the hardest," Aleksander said, taking a sip of dark red wine from the delicately sculpted glass beside his plate. "Velovsky had helped us through the Ellis Island experience, but once we were on our own there was little he could do."

  "I can imagine," Roger said. "Buildings were something brand new to you, weren't they?"

  "They were certainly new to our generation," Aleksander said. "The Others had lived in buildings, though, and our Pastsingers had preserved those memories. Of course, our own short time in the transport had also given us a taste of what it was like to live with a roof over our heads."

  "And of course, those of us who grew up here are quite comfortable with it," Iolanthe added. "There are times, especially in the winter, when our children would rather stay indoors than go out to their trees."

  "Though I suspect the existence of video games has something to do with that," Vasilis murmured.

  "Is that why you don't want to leave Manhattan?" Roger asked. "Because you've become accustomed to this way of living?"

  "We don't want to leave Manhattan because it's our home," Aleksander said, a little tartly. "We fought for a place here; fought to learn the language and the culture; fought for jobs and livelihood and a safe place to raise our children. Why should we let ourselves be pushed out?"

  "Yes, of course," Roger said. "I'm sorry."

  "We don't ask for your sympathy," Aleksander said. "Just your understanding. And, if you choose, your presence at our side in this struggle."

  "We'll do what we can," Roger said, wincing as a flurry of ear-piercing giggles erupted from the other end of the table. "Practicing the Shriek, are they?"

  "It's more a lack of control over their vocal range," Iolanthe said, leaning forward to look that direction. "Yvonne, can you keep it down a little?"

  "Sorry," the woman at the far end of the table apologized. She snapped her fingers twice. "Children: silent manners. Eat."

  Instantly, the six children subsided, their chatter and quiet laughter replaced by the industrious staccato clicks of fork on plate as they returned their attention to their food.

  "As you can see, they're not that different from Human children," Aleksander commented with a smile.

  "You've definitely acclimated to life in middle America," Roger agreed, looking at the children.

  "This setup reminds me of Christmas dinner with Caroline's family in Vermont."

  "We're used to it, of course," Iolanthe said. "Do you have a large family, Caroline?"

  "There are about twenty of us," Caroline said shortly, her voice studiously neutral.

  Roger frowned at her. Her profile had a tightness about it, as if masking some emotion she wasn't interested in letting out. "You all right?" he murmured.

  "Yes, you seem uncomfortable," Aleksander seconded. "Is something wrong?"

  Caroline hesitated, then set her fork down and looked him squarely in the eye. "Yes, there's something wrong," she said. "We're all in here eating while Melantha's out there, alone and cold and hungry."

  "I see," Aleksander said calmly. "And what makes you think no one's out in that cold looking for her?"

  Caroline's expression cracked slightly. "Are you saying there are?"

  "There are over eighty Greens right now walking the streets of Manhattan and calling to her,"

  Iolanthe said gently. "Nearly everyone from Central and Morningside Parks, in fact. Does that ease your mind?"

  Caroline's cheek twitched. "A little."

  "Only a little?" Aleksander asked with a smile. "Please; speak on. What else can we do to quiet your concerns?"

  Caroline took a careful breath. "Nikolos said you're leading the faction that wants to fight the Grays.

  Is that true?"

  "Absolutely," Aleksander said calmly. "Like Nikolos, I was there. I saw what the Grays did, and I don't believe there can be peace between us."

  "But not all the Greens agree with you," Caroline said. "And if you're going to fight, you need all of them on your side. True?"

  "Actually, I only need a majority," Aleksander corrected. "Once I have that, the rest will follow."

  "The point is that you need a way to rally the other Greens to your side," Caroline said. "I was just thinking that supposed treachery by the Grays might do the trick."

  " 'Supposed?' " Vasilis asked.

  "I'm wondering if you might have snatched Melantha and are trying to blame it on the Grays,"

  Caroline said.

  Roger felt his stomach tighten. But to his relief, Aleksander didn't seem offended. "I see," the old Green said calmly. "And then?"

  "And then what?" Caroline asked.

  "How were we suppos
ed to maintain the illusion of Gray treachery after Melantha had been brought back?" he asked. "Do you think Cyril and the others would ever follow me again after she'd told her story?"

  Caroline swallowed visibly. "I suppose you'd have to kill her."

  "Absolutely," Aleksander said, nodding. "And therein lies the flaw in your argument. Melantha is our key to victory in this battle, our ultimate weapon against the Grays. The last thing we would ever want is for harm to come to her." He shook his head. "No, Caroline. If I had Melantha, I wouldn't be pretending it was the Grays who had taken her. I would be reopening my argument and demanding another face-off with Cyril."

  "We understand," Roger said quickly. "And I apologize for even suggesting you might do such a thing."

  "That's all right," Aleksander said, his eyes still on Caroline. "Caroline?"

  Her lip twitched, but she nodded. "I understand, too," she said.

  "Good," Aleksander said, his voice almost cheerful again. "Then let's return to our meal, and hope that the searchers will find our lost child."

  The sun was long gone by the time Fierenzo finally trudged out of the station house. The good news was that the report was finished: truthful enough to be legal, yet vague enough in the right places not to get him hauled in front of the departmental shrink.

  The bad news was that the whole thing was little more than thin air tied together with fishing line.

  And Cerreta was bound to notice.

  He scowled as he strode down the sidewalk toward where he'd parked his car a block away. The really annoying part was that he had witnesses who could put substance to the whole thing if they wanted to. But Oreste Green wasn't talking, the Whittiers weren't talking, and Jonah wasn't talking.

  Until one of them did, he wasn't going to be able to get much official traction on this.

  He zipped his jacket a little tighter, hearing the faint crackle of the folded papers in his inside pocket as he did so. Now, though, maybe he had something to get at least one of those witnesses off the blocks.

  He reached Amsterdam and turned north, looking through the tall chain-link fence beside him into the playground as he went around the corner. The place was undergoing some renovation, with a stack of long round timbers that looked like a Paul Bunyan version of Lincoln Logs piled near the fence. They were eventually going to be assembled into a new climbing structure, but up to now the only progress Fierenzo had seen had been the creation of a shallow pit entirely surrounded by orange mesh fences.