Nest of Worlds

by Marek S. Huberath

  “But—”

  “Let me finish,” said Medved. “Tobiany made a report before he died. He described his murderer. It was a tall, young white with a hangdog face. That’s not the end of the story, unfortunately. Yesterday, in the late evening, people broke into the Tobiany home and killed his wife, Marina, and his sons, Cyrus and Hans. There appear to have been two or three perpetrators of this senseless butchery. Marina was stabbed twenty-eight times, Cyrus and Hans both sixteen times. You’ll hear about it on the evening news.”

  “This is all dreadful, but how does it concern me? You don’t think I killed Tobiany’s entire family? Yesterday, all evening, I was watching the airport disaster on television.”

  “You were watching it?”

  “Yes. In the company of several people.”

  “From the beginning?”

  “The entire coverage on channel sixteen. We were all glued to the set, because the daughter of one of our tenants works at the airport, Lorraine Patricks.”

  “She was killed? I don’t recall a victim by that name.”

  “Unfortunately, Captain,” Gavein said with sarcasm, “she only sprained her wrist and is otherwise in excellent shape.”

  Medved gave him a sidelong look. He had not stopped tapping the keys of his laptop.

  “Let’s put our cards on the table,” said Gavein. “Edda told you about my death-dealing ability, and you are linking that to the tragedy of the Tobianys? Even to Edda her theory no longer makes sense.”

  “Cards on the table, that’s a good idea. Over the last six weeks, more people have died in this area than in the rest of Davabel. Actually, in the rest of Davabel not one person has died . . . These data come from the Division of Hierarchy and Classification. The people there supplied them at my request, and they are as amazed as I am. An independent analysis of the situation is under way. You still don’t want to help me?”

  Gavein was silent.

  Medved looked at his screen. “Does the name Bryce Beddow mean anything to you?”

  Gavein shook his head.

  “A baker. He fell under a truck.”

  “Wait, I seem to recall. He rode a bicycle?”

  Medved nodded yes.

  “That happened right after I arrived from Lavath. Edda mentioned the accident.”

  “Did you meet the man before that?”

  “I see many people on the street I don’t know.”

  “Please try to remember. Did you see him?”

  “I heard of his death, at the table.”

  “Interesting. That was the first death. The most poorly documented. It doesn’t fit the pattern.”

  “You mean there’s a pattern?”

  “The other deaths are connected. You personally knew or had met the victims beforehand.”

  “I hope it wasn’t my breath that killed them. I use a fluoride toothpaste and brush after every meal.”

  “It isn’t your breath,” said Medved, not smiling. “Each person died in accordance with his or her Significant Name. For every case of murder, the perpetrator is known.”

  “Then what sense does this investigation make?”

  “It’s not an investigation. There are no grounds to conduct an investigation. The perpetrators are all known. The causes of death are all clear. And you have an alibi.”

  “I’m glad to finally hear it from you.”

  “This is a study undertaken in part at the request of the Division of Hierarchy and Classification. I have no charges to press against you.”

  Gavein decided to make the man tea. Ra Mahleiné, he thought, would have done the same. Medved had shown that he was not an enemy.

  36

  “There is something bigger going on here,” Medved said when Gavein returned with two half-liter metal mugs full of very strong and very bitter tea.

  The tea will leave a deposit, Gavein thought. She’ll be angry with me when she has to scour the mugs.

  “You flew to Davabel on the twelfth of December.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Have a look here.” Medved turned the laptop so both could see. Gavein took a swallow of his tea. On the screen was the face of a man wearing the cap of the airline. “That’s Captain Calvin Sallows, the pilot on your flight of December 12. He’s dead. The copilot, Roy Borchardt, died in the recent fire. Ossya Leblanc, navigator, burned to death with the others. He too was on your flight.”

  Different faces flashed on the screen. There was a sweet girl with a snub nose, wearing the jacket of the airline. Gavein remembered her.

  “Lorna DaCosta, flight attendant. She also died. Maude Calabash, another flight attendant. Also. Shelly Herbert, also. Do you understand? These people were to fly together for the first time since December 12, and they’re all dead. You see no coincidence?”

  Gavein lowered his head.

  “Still not convinced?” Medved took a sip of the tea, made the way the Throzzes liked it, and winced. “Among the passengers on that December 12 flight, one Bharr Thorsen died. During the explosion he was at the main terminal, taking care of some business.”

  “I remember him. He sat next to me. We spoke.” Gavein felt like a butterfly stuck on a pin for display.

  “There’s more.” Medved was without mercy. “The same ground crew was there, as on December 12.” Gavein’s only revenge was the tea: you drank to remove the bitterness, but the next swallow was even worse. The Throzzes drank no other tea.

  “Do you remember this person?” On the screen now was the face of an elderly man.

  “He certified my social classification. He gave me a three on my passport.”

  “Tom Vantrook, fifty-seven. Died on the spot. And this one?” Medved pointed at a hatchet face with a jutting chin.

  “I don’t know him.”

  “Doug Waitz, customs official, also died on the spot. After you were done with Vantrook, you proceeded to him. Large, muscular, a red . . .”

  “It’s possible. Wearing rubber gloves?”

  “Customs officials all wear rubber gloves. And this one? Gummo Zuidema. He also worked there on December 12.”

  “I don’t remember. He might have been the one who directed me to the second window. I’m confusing the faces. Do you have him at another angle?”

  More pictures flashed in sequence on the screen.

  “Yes,” said Gavein, growing grim.

  “Shall we continue?” asked Medved. He saw that Gavein was tired.

  “Let’s get it over with.”

  Next, the photograph of a bald old man.

  “Him I know. From the Division of Classification. He took me to Edda’s place. He complained that soon he would have to move to Ayrrah.”

  “Rees Cozier. He didn’t have to move, he died. And this one?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Minibus chauffeur, Al Johnson. He was likely your driver. He’s in the hospital, fighting for his life. Do you recall anyone else on the airport staff December 12?”

  “Yes, of course. Lorraine Patricks. I told you before. She lives in the apartment in the front, on the ground floor.”

  Medved said nothing.

  “If only those die whom I came into contact with, then the others who are wounded will live.”

  “We don’t know. There’s a badly burnt woman there whose Significant Name is Flomirra.” Medved, giving up on the tea, put down the mug.

  “Can you tell me what all this means?” asked Gavein.

  “If you don’t know, then no one does. It’s pure coincidence then.”

  “And how in the blazes am I supposed to know?” Gavein said, raising his voice.

  Medved nodded, agreeing. It was even possible that he believed Gavein.

  37

  Two days later, Gavein took Ra Mahleiné home from the hospital. Dr. Nott’s face was stern. He
r jowls hung more, her shoulders seemed even bonier. The news wasn’t good. Ra Mahleiné, after her many beatings by the guards, had internal scarring—adhesions—and most likely was sterile. In addition, she needed an operation: there was a growth that might or might not be malignant. They didn’t know, because Ra Mahleiné wouldn’t agree to a biopsy, afraid that the knife would spread the tumor. Dr. Nott decided they should remove it and examine it afterward.

  Zef brought Gavein an article clipped from an afternoon tabloid, the Central Davabel Courier. The headline was “Death Is in the Masculine Gender, and His Name Is Dave.” The article began:

  (DDP) According to a high-placed, confidential source in the Division of Hierarchy and Classification, the mortality rate is soaring. The deaths have taken place exclusively in Central Davabel, and the victims are all reported to have come into contact, before their demise, with a certain David, B, who recently arrived here from Lavath. The police have ruled out direct involvement on the part of this person, in every case, and yet without exception the deceased met their end only after meeting him. Those who are acquainted with him die, as well as those who merely exchange a few words with him. No explanation has yet been offered for this phenomenon, but a study has been initiated. It has been determined that in every instance death came in accordance with the victim’s Significant Name.

  We can only advise our readers to give a wide berth to any individual named David who recently came from Lavath, as one of them may be this David Death. And in the event that you have actually met him, or know him . . . well, all we can say is, do your best to stay on his good side. It may improve your chances.

  “I cut it out so my mother wouldn’t see it. I don’t believe a word of this crap, of course,” said Zef, “but my mother goes into hysterics, and she’s already filled the ear of one idiot policeman.”

  On television they were showing the victims of the airport explosion. In isolated units, beds were draped with IVs and colored wires. Then a close-up: a tightly bandaged face, a tube coming from a nose, narrow slits for the eyes, swollen lips.

  “Irma Rahm, G,” said the commentator, “seriously burned in the accident. She was standing at the end of the line of passengers who had just arrived from Lavath. Yesterday afternoon she regained consciousness. One can communicate with her.”

  The camera cut to another bed in the ward, a man encased in plaster.

  “Walter Ravitzer, B. Besides burns, has a broken back. He was pulled from the rubble. He too was a passenger from Lavath waiting to go through customs. He is conscious and has sensation in both legs. The other survivors are in satisfactory condition.”

  “At times I find myself almost believing Medved,” Gavein said. “This catastrophe, it might make a good dissertation for you. Local anomaly in the probability curve of human events in sector N.”

  “You think?” Zef mused. “Doesn’t sound bad.”

  “Thirty-eight, thirty-nine,” Ra Mahleiné began counting loops out loud. That meant she had something to say but didn’t want to lose her place in the row. There were new glasses on her nose, with pretty blue frames.

  “That jackass should have some sense beaten into him,” she finally stated. “With a two-by-four. A whack for every jackass idea.”

  The phone clattered. Gavein picked up the receiver. It was Medved again.

  “Lewis died of a heart attack. He’s the cop who came with Tobiany and took Haifan Tonescu away. The one who put the handcuffs on Haifan. He was also at your place when the gas exploded and Gwenda and the Hougassian girl died.”

  He stopped for Gavein to say something, but Gavein didn’t.

  Then Medved added, “There have been no other deaths in Davabel.”

  38

  In the evening news it was reported that Irma Rahm died of blood poisoning. And Walter Ravitzer’s condition had taken a turn for the worse. At dinner Edda announced that she had found someone who was interested in the apartment vacated by Helga.

  At the bookstore the next day, the main topic of conversation was the enigmatic David Death. Both assistants, of course, had read the article in the Courier. Bette was of the opinion that David Death must be gorgeous, “to die for.” Agatha joked that he must be Gavein, and she should become his wife to protect herself from fatal accidents. Gavein’s gruff reply was that he already had a wife. Wilcox was too engrossed in his book to join in the banter. Gavein dreaded the next phone call from Medved.

  It came toward the end of the day. Medved’s voice was different.

  “Finally we have a death that doesn’t fit the pattern,” he said. “One should not take pleasure in the passing of any person, but it does seem as if this cursed run has been broken. Lola Low, the film actress, died yesterday, in a car crash. She was speeding; there was alcohol in her blood. She died this morning, not regaining consciousness.”

  “Not that long ago,” Gavein said, lowering his voice so the girls wouldn’t hear, “I saw her in one or two movies, with Maslynnaya.”

  “Hold on. Maslynnaya? . . . Maslynnaya stopped filming on the coast so she could attend Lola Low’s funeral. I may have time to make it.” Medved hung up.

  That evening they met the new tenant. It turned out to be Anabel. There was an awkward silence as Ra Mahleiné, led in by Gavein, sat opposite her at the table.

  Anabel was the first to speak. “Hello, Dave,” she said, and added, for the others, “We know each other.” Only then did she look at Ra Mahleiné. Gavein felt his wife tense, as if preparing to spring, to go for Anabel’s throat. Although taller, Ra Mahleiné was weak and would have had no chance in a fight with the veteran guard. And Anabel’s rank could cause problems, if it came to blows between the women.

  Zef stepped in. “You were Magdalena’s guard, is that true?” he began and went on before she could answer: “In thirteen years I move to Ayrrah, where blacks have a zero on their passport and reds a three. Could it happen that I would be a guard in your quarantine?”

  “Not likely.” Anabel was angry at being interrupted, and in addition this insolent red was putting her on the defensive before she could get properly acquainted with her fellow tenants. “Women have women guards. And guards are all reds. I am not a guard. I supervise a section.”

  Zef smiled too widely. “Ah . . . Then it must have been a vicious lie.”

  “I still have not recovered, from her supervising,” said Ra Mahleiné. To some degree she could speak freely, having been written into Gavein’s passport as a wife.

  “I regret what happened,” said Anabel. “It was procedure, a part of my job.”

  “Are you now maiming another girl as part of your job?” Zef asked.

  Anabel ignored him.

  “Admit it, Anabel,” Ra Mahleiné said to her directly, taking pleasure in pronouncing the name, when for years she had to say, always, “Supervisor ma’am, number 077-12-747 reporting.” “You devoted special attention to me, favored me with more than your usual professional care. The name Anabel, so like Davabel, will sound funny in Ayrrah. But no—they will give you a nice number instead, and that will be the end of your name.”

  “You! Mind who you’re talking to!” Anabel snarled, losing control for a moment. ,The rule that had been instilled in them from childhood said clearly that she was in her first incarnation, while the hated white prisoner was in her second.

  A silence followed. Anabel ate, wiped her mouth, moved easily, sure of her position. She was superior to the former prey that now sat across the table from her. Anabel had parried the few verbal thrusts without trouble.

  “Let me guess, Anabel, why you moved here,” Gavein said. “You used your professional contacts and from the file at Hierarchy and Classification learned the identity of David Death. You’re frightened. You want to save your skin. By keeping close to him, maybe you will live longer. Am I right?”

  “Ridiculous!” Anabel huffed. A drop of spaghetti sauce from her mou
th hit the tablecloth.

  “But you must know, surely, that our Dave is David Death,” said Zef. “Observe what sharp white teeth he has.”

  “We really shouldn’t joke about such things,” said Myrna Patricks.

  “But I’m not joking,” protested Zef. “Death has sharp white canines, and how he bites with them!”

  “And before long,” Gavein said, theatrically baring his teeth in a wolfish grin, “he’ll have a shiny white skull, when he loses what’s left of his hair.”

  “The skull doesn’t show quite yet,” Ra Mahleiné put in. She gently scratched his pate where the hair was thinnest. “You can hold on to your miserable life a little longer, Anabel. But watch him every evening, and you’ll see his skull shining through . . .”

  Anabel said nothing this time. The bolt had hit home.

  “Lorraine has off until the end of next week,” said Myrna. “But she’s feeling fine, and if you like, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind giving you a hand with the housework.” The loving mother believed every word of the Courier article. “You don’t have to pay her. She’s glad to do a good deed, aren’t you, dear?”

  “What do you say to that, Little Manul?” Gavein asked. “Would you like a red . . . a friendly red helper?” His laughter and his flashing teeth chilled the blood of Anabel and Myrna.

  “Why not?” laughed Ra Mahleiné. “It doesn’t matter if she’s red, as long as she’s friendly. But a black would be good only for cleaning out the toilet.”

  “Looks like the toilet’s your only chance, Anabel. You might not get another,” said Zef, laughing too. “I’ve finally hit on the title of my dissertation: Probability Field Fluctuation as Generated by Brain Power. Dave will be the subject of my research.”

  “You change the title every other day,” said Gavein.

  “In any ambitious undertaking I begin with the title. A work of genius must have a carefully crafted title.”

  The conversation at the table continued in this vein. Anabel was ignored.