robert Charrette - Arthur 02 - A King Beneath the Mountain

by Robert N. Charrette

  "Maybe I don't want it slowed down."

  "What do you want, Elizabeth?"

  "I'm not sure, but I do know that I don't want to trap you. I don't want to have you thinking you're trapped. Anything between us, I want to be pure and uncontrived."

  "I want that too. To that end I think it would be best for both of us if you have an honest means of staying in America."

  Honest? Sneak in under an assumed name, then seek an honest way to stay? But then, there were lots of meanings to the word honest. Could David be thinking of the one she had just remembered? "Don't you Americans have a saying that marriage makes an honest woman out of the bride?"

  "Are you saying you're not an honest woman?" He drew away from her in mock horror. "Gads, I've been taken! Used! Taken advantage of!"

  She gave him a shove and he sprawled on the bed.

  "Now physical abuse," he complained.

  His silliness showed her just how maudlin she was becoming. She'd had enough worry. Playing into his silliness, she pounced on him. Striking for the ticklish spot she had found in his ribs, she cried, "I'll show you physical abuse!"

  Charley's in box had a new message from Caspar, adding another five to the list of deaders to Modus 112. Only this time they weren't all streeters. It was the highest number of additions Caspar had ever made at once, which caught Charley's attention. Almost immediately he noticed another oddity: all five had the same case number, a new one dated last night.

  He called up the case, and his stomach knotted when he saw the location. The Settawego Building. He hated coincidences.

  It had to be a coincidence, didn't it?

  He wished. SIU's job was to find the reasonable explanations for cases where the circumstances were unreasonable. Sometimes they couldn't. Those cases were the real ones, the ones that gave Charley the nightmares, the ones they closed up as quietly as possible. All in all there were more Baskerville Hounds among SIU cases than Barrington Slashers, but every so often they ran into a Slasher. Nightmare time. It was so much tidier when there was a reasonable explanation.

  He kept reading, looking for that explanation. Vuong and Falerio had reviewed the case for SIU, and signed off on it as not being unit business. Their report cited the prelim investigation conclusion: explosion of suspicious origin, six accidental deaths resulting. The investigation was ongoing.

  Caspar didn't agree with Vuong and Falerio that the deaths weren't SIU business. Why? What did Caspar know that they didn't? What was there about the six deaths that Caspar was seeing and the SIU detectives were missing?

  Six deaths?

  Charley checked the subscreen where Caspar's message was still displayed. Caspar only said five. Vuong and Falerio's report had six morgue refs, so there were six bodies.

  The morgue refs gave the Cause of Death on five of the six as traumatic blood loss resulting from injury by falling glass. The shards must have cut them up pretty badly. One stiff's CoD was undeniable: the head had been severed. He'd probably been the lucky one; death had been instantaneous. The others had bled pretty badly before they'd died. The coroner hadn't looked any farther than their wounds for a CoD. But then, why should he? There might be technical differences in the cessation of bodily functions, but the proximate cause was clear. Clear enough for insurance investigators, anyway.

  It was the last one on the list that made Charley reach for his pet jar of antacid tabs. The report said injuries from the glass were minor, incapacitating but not life threatening. Cause of Death: myocardial infarction. Heart failure. Some morgue wit had appended, "Must have been looking up and seen it coming."

  Modus 112 was a list of heart failure cases.

  Charley checked the five body tags that Caspar had included in his message. Five of the accident victims matched Caspar's five; Caspar hadn't listed the decap. One of the five already had a 112 sort of CoD. Would an autopsy show that each of the other four had died of heart failure, too? Officially they had died from massive blood loss as a result of multiple traumatic injuries. Open and shut, right? The cause of death was obvious, wasn't it? Why bother with a full autopsy? When a man went through a meat grinder, who would check to see if his heart stopped halfway through? Certainly not an overworked coroner's office.

  Charley popped another antacid. He had a bad feeling that Modus 112 was going to be one of the real ones.

  David's smile was the only reassuring thing she had seen since the cab dropped them at the main entrance of what was the tallest skyscraper in downtown Hartford. The plush lobby had been bad enough, with rich natural woods and polished brass and uniformed door attendants, but the richness of the reception area for Lowenstein Ryder Priestly and Associates made the downstairs lobby look like a subway station.

  Spae felt as nervous as she had when she'd first met Magnus. She had the same "I don't belong here" feeling. The clothes David's friends had sent over might be a better fit than she could have hoped, but they were casual business attire at best. And the shoes were too tight and had heels that made her wobble. The opinion she'd reached before they left the hotel that she had made herself at least presentable foundered in the face of the rich surroundings.

  She didn't have long to suffer her pangs of inadequacy. David introduced them to the receptionist—who Spae was sure she had seen once on the cover of Fashion Forward— and they were immediately ushered into Hershall Ryder's palatial office.

  Ryder turned out to be an affable man in his late fifties, well dressed and distinguished looking but in a friendly, avuncular way. Even in his Sarmondi silk suit, he seemed a little at odds with the hard-edged corporate decor of the room.

  If he thought Spae unsuitably dressed, he gave no sign. Ushering them to chairs, he apologized for Mr. Priestly's absence; Mr. Priestly, it seemed, was out of the country.

  "What about Lowenstein?" David asked.

  Spae thought David's question forward, but Ryder didn't seem to mind.

  "Been dead for nearly fifteen years." Adding with a conspiratorial wink, "Name still brings in business, though, so we keep it on the door."

  "I have to confess that I'm a little confused, Mr. Ryder," Spae said.

  "You're wondering why we're interested in you."

  "Frankly, yes."

  Ryder smiled expansively.

  "All one has to do is read the scansheets or bring up any of the tabloid channels to know that the strange and mysterious is on the public's mind. That sort of thing used to be totally a freak show, but that seems to be changing. Catch the last SupernovaEM report, the one on McKutchen Wood? Real Bermuda Triangle stuff, and they covered it all, without an explanation. A show like Supernova has got a reputation for serious scientific subject matter. You know the producers had to be concerned that they didn't have a scientific answer, but they aired it anyway. There's a lot more of that going on these days. There are a lot of eyebrows raised, a lot of people wondering what's next. The climate's changing. Some people— and not people given to wild exaggeration, I can assure you—have suggested that there is a whole new world ahead.

  "Evolve or die is our motto, Dr. Spae. We don't intend to die, so evolve we must. We at LRP are always looking to the future. And when we look forward we see that we may not have all that it takes to find our way in this changing world. We need people with special talents, people who have an unusual—dare I say visionary—slant to their worldview. You would seem to be exactly the sort of person we're looking for. Mr. Beryle has painted a picture of you as some sort of new Darwin."

  What had David been telling them? He wouldn't meet her

  eyes.

  "I think that perhaps you've been misinformed." She started to rise. "I'm sorry that we've wasted your time."

  "Please, Doctor, stay. If the comparison is inept, it's my fault. Too many early years spent in advertising. Always looking for the phrase that will light the right fire. Seems I misjudged this one. Forgive me if I offended."

  She hadn't been offended, just spooked by Ryder's hyperbolic enthusiasm. "There's not
hing to forgive. I think you may have been misled as to my abilities and interests."

  "Doctor, I like you already. But to think that we don't know what is going on is to belittle Mr. Beryle and his friends. I may speak broadly and overdramatically at times, but I am quite sure I am not mistaken about you. Rest assured that 1 have a realistic understanding of what you can do."

  "And just what do you think that is?"

  "I refer, of course, to your arcane knowledge and skills. Such ability is just what we are looking for. We're putting together a program involving people like yourself. So far, we're still in the formative stages, so there's plenty of room for a knowledgeable, ambitious person like yourself to make her mark. You'd be getting in on the ground floor, so to speak. A rare opportunity. Your credentials with Department M—oh yes, we know about them—suggest that you would be the perfect person to direct this new effort. We can make you a home here at LRP. With substantial compensation, of course. Yes, a very happy home."

  The last thing she wanted was be part of another Department, but the thought of being out on her own was a bit frightening. It had been so long, and she had grown used to the resources an organization could provide. And she did need some way to make a living. She probably would need some kind of protection from the Department as well. "I don't know ..."

  "How does Head of Esoteric Research sound?"

  He went on to describe a facility and a program almost exactly like the arrangement she had always dreamed of. She looked to David. He nodded his encouragement to accept. How could she refuse? It sounded so wonderful. But there would be strings attached, and she had only just cut one set of strings.

  Ryder wasn't giving her a lot of time to ponder. "I'm probably tipping my hand unnecessarily here, but your experience is highly valuable to us. We are willing to make concessions in order to secure your talents."

  "I really appreciate what you're offering, Mr. Ryder. It's just that I'm not really sure that I want to be a part of any organization at the moment."

  "I can respect that. I truly can. And I must admit that I am not surprised to hear it from you. Not surprised at all. As I said, we are willing to make concessions. If you don't want to work with us just yet, I can understand. I expect you'll change your mind over time. But one does have to live in the present, doesn't one. Perhaps we could set up an interim arrangement, give you a chance to get to know us. How does that sound? Perhaps we could put you under retainer? You would still have access to our facilities, of course, and we would expect (hat you'll be participating in developing those facilities. And, of course, we would expect to have first call upon your services."

  David interrupted the pitch. "If she's not working directly for you, there is the matter of a work license."

  "Ah, yes. Didn't I mention it? It's already arranged. Consider it a sign of our sincerity, and a mark of our gratitude that you have chosen to speak with us first. You may pick up the paperwork from my assistant on your way out."

  "Thank you," Spae said. She felt a little overwhelmed. She had heard that Americans could be very openhanded, but this was—overwhelming. She had to wonder if there was a string attached.

  Ryder frowned. "You don't seem very happy, Dr. Spae."

  She made herself smile. Ryder smiled back. "It's just dial—well, I just hadn't expected such generosity. I don't know what to say."

  "Try thank you," David suggested.

  "Yes, well, thank you."

  Ryder beamed at her. "I'm sure you can find a better way to express your gratitude, Doctor. Why, for example, you might consider putting your new license to use. I would like to suggest a trial arrangement. Would your gratitude extend to consenting to work with us on a current matter? With full compensation, of course. What do you say? It would give you something to do and it would give us a chance to demonstrate our desire to create a fulfilling and mutually profitable relationship."

  That seemed the least she could do.

  David chose this moment to be suspicious, asking, "What sort of matter? And for what compensation?"

  Ryder directed his answer to her. "We would like your advice, your expert advice, with regard to a recent incident. Now I know there is no precedent establishing pay scales for persons of your expertise, so let's use our own pay scale as a guideline. Say, two thousand a day? Naturally, we will cover any expenses you might incur in your investigations. Travel mostly, I would expect. The situation is mostly a matter requiring observation and forethought, I expect. Of course, there may be the odd test or two, that sort of thing. What do you say? Are you willing to give it a shot?"

  For that kind of money, she'd be a fool to refuse; the Department had frozen her accounts and she didn't want to live on David's charity. To do so would destroy her resolve to make their relationship a free one.

  "All right," she said.

  "Excellent, excellent." Ryder raised a bushy white eyebrow. "Now, I would guess from your circumstances that you don't have any other pressing appointments just now. Am I right? I thought so. What do you say to starting at once?"

  It wasn't what she had expected, but how could she refuse? "All right."

  "Excellent, excellent. This particular matter into which we'd like you to look occurred just last night in Norwood.'1

  "Norwood?" Spae asked. She didn't know local geography, if Norwood was local.

  "Just southwest of Boston," David explained.

  Boston she knew. If Norwood was south and west of there, it was less than two hundred kilometers away. How much less she couldn't guess, but she supposed it wasn't important. "What happened?"

  "Yes, well, that is the question. It seems that there was an unexplained power surge in the grid, resulting in a progressive loss of service to several locations. At approximately the same time, there was a very mysterious explosion in the penthouse suite of a nearby building."

  "There was nothing about an explosion on the news this morning," she said.

  "And there won't be."

  "Now you are being mysterious," David accused.

  "Sorry. That dramatic flair, you know. The reason that you have heard nothing is that the building belongs to Mitsutomo keiretsu, and they're quashing the story. They say that there was no explosion. They say the glass that fell from the penthouse was the result of a structural failure. And—and this is all without fanfare, mind you—they are compensating the survivors of those killed in the incident without recourse to an insurance investigation."

  "That's odd," David said. "I would think they'd want whoever built the building to take the rap."

  "Frankly, we expected the same thing. You see, that building was built by Carenellicorp, a company that just happens to be part of our own corporate family."

  "All the more reason to hang it around your necks," David said.

  "Curious, isn't it?"

  Spae shook her head. "I don't see where this involves me. I'm not a structural engineer, or an insurance investigator."

  "Well, Dr. Spae, there is more to this situation than structural engineering. I think I can say with some assurance that there was no structural problem. The building was soundly built. This morning, Carenellicorp had crews out to survey the damage and test the rest of the building; from the outside, of course, since Mitsutomo is letting no one inside. The tests .how nothing wrong with the structure; it is as sound as the day it was completed."

  "Then there was an explosion?"

  "Well, that's the mystery. Our survey team was unable to discern any sort of damage inside the penthouse suite, yet the entire wall, three centimeters of structural monoacrylic, was entirely gone, not a shard remaining in the frame."

  "And you think it was done by magic," David said.

  "We would like to know if it was," Ryder said. "Can you ascertain that, Dr. Spae?"

  "Maybe. But I can't tell you from here. I'll need to see the site. Walking it would be better."

  "I'm afraid a visit is not possible: Mitsutomo security, you know. But I can most certainly arrange a viewing. One of
our corporate family maintains a nearby high-rise hotel with an excellent view of the Settawego Building." Ryder came around his desk, hand out. Spae rose and shook his hand; he had a firm grip that did not overpower. "I am most pleased to have you aboard, Dr. Spae. I am sure we will have a most rewarding relationship."

  CHAPTER

  17

  Spillway Sue gave John a broad smile when the control panel emerged from the wall at his touch.

  "Deucey," she crowed. "See, your access is good enough ta get us through. We're outta here."

  "Don't be so sure." The panel's indicator lights showed that the door was locked.

  "Six-three-two-seven-seven-star-two-three," she said, still smiling.

  He punched the numbers into the keyboard.

  "Out and free," Sue said as the indicator switched to unlocked. As the door started to slide open, she brushed past him and walked without hesitation into the glare flooding in liom beyond the open door.

  John's eyes had grown accustomed to the dim light of the ilwarven halls, and the bright light was blinding. Shading his eyes and squinting, he could barely make out the slim shadow that he knew was Sue; she had stopped just over the threshold.

  "Shit!"

  Spillway Sue's voice was filled with anger, but there was disappointment, too. Somehow her plan for escape had fallen apart. But how? John's eyes were adjusting rapidly; he stepped through the door to see for himself.

  A wildwood stood before him across a narrow verge of gravel. Daylight flooded down on him, but though he smelled earth and growing things and felt the moisture in the air, he had no sense of being outside. It was very strange.

  He looked up, searching for the sun, but the light was soft, as though diffused by clouds, but it was far brighter than any overcast day in John's memory. By shading his eyes, he could make out faint lines of darkness crisscrossing the sky. The thickest lines formed a gridwork of rectangles. The thinner lines swooped across between the thicker ones, sometimes turning, sometimes stopping in the middle. Beams defining panels of light while pipes and conduits crossed beneath them.