Dead Harvest

by Chris F. Holm

  "Jesus, Kate, listen to yourself! Do you even realize where we are? The last thing we need right now is attention! Now for God's sake, help me up!"

  Just then, a woman emerged from the crowd, clad in dirty scrubs, a stethoscope draped around her neck. She carried with her a tray stacked with medical implements – gauze, needles, surgical thread, and the like. She couldn't have been more than thirty, and she was thin as a rail, her mouse-brown hair pulled into a no-nonsense bun above a face that looked as though it hadn't seen sunlight in weeks.

  "I understand we've got a leg injury? A puncture of some kind?" said the doctor.

  I tried to protest, but Kate cut me off. "That's right. He got it walking past. I tried to dress it myself, but it won't stop bleeding."

  "Let's have a look, then, shall we?"

  I watched as the doctor cut through my second pair of pants in a day, this time following upward along the inseam and peeling back the fabric like a denim banana. Her brow furrowed. "You got this here?"

  "Yes," both Kate and I replied, doubtless a little more forcefully than was required.

  "You're sure."

  "Yes," I repeated, more casually this time. "I was in line for a pretzel when it happened. Next thing I knew, I was flat on my back, a hunk of metal sticking outta my thigh. I know I probably shoulda stuck around, but I was scared. I hobbled home, and my niece here patched me up, only it didn't take."

  The doctor jabbed a needle into my thigh, and soon the wound went blissfully, disconcertingly numb. "No, I wouldn't expect it would have. Probably the worst thing you could have done was removed the shrapnel on your own – as it stands, you've lost a lot of blood. Speaking of, where is it?"

  "Where is what?"

  "The metal fragment," she said, her hands expertly drawing the nylon thread through the meat of my thigh and closing the wound tightly. "The police have requested that any shrapnel be saved and cataloged, so they can better reconstruct what happened."

  Kate and I shared a glance. No doubt the doctor noticed. It was Kate that answered. "We, ah, left it at home."

  "That's fine," the doctor replied, though her expression was not as light as her tone implied. "An officer will be by to take your statement, and I'm sure they can send someone along to collect it." The stitching done, she began wrapping my leg in layer upon layer of gauze.

  "Our statement?" asked Kate.

  Her wrapping stopped. The doctor sat there, roll of gauze in hand, and met both our gazes in turn. "Yes, your statement. Like it or not, you are both material witnesses to a federal crime – the police are going to want to know where you were when the blast went off, as well as what you saw. If I were you, I'd cooperate, and that means you'd better get your facts straight."

  "Meaning what?" I asked, feigning offense.

  "Meaning there's no way that wound was made by a flying hunk of twisted metal. The surrounding flesh is too clean, the borders too discrete."

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "I'm pretty sure you do." The doctor finished wrapping the wound and taped the gauze in place. "This," she said, "is a knife wound."

  25.

  I said, "Listen, lady, I think you've got this all wrong."

  The doctor raised her hands, a placating gesture. "I'm not the one you should be talking to," she said. "I'm just here to patch you up – I don't much care what happened. But if you know something about what happened here, they will find out. You two don't look like terrorists to me – make things easier on yourself and cooperate."

  Kate opened her mouth to protest, but I silenced her with a glance. "You're right," I said. "Of course you're right. About the wound. About everything."

  The doctor said, "So you were stabbed."

  Kate looked at me – puzzled, frightened. "Sam, don't–"

  I shot Kate a silencing look and said, "It's all right, Mary – we have to tell her."

  "Tell me what?"

  "About the bomb. See, my brother – her father – he's always talking crazy, like one day, he'll have his revenge – that sort of thing, you know? He's been that way forever, and didn't nobody think he'd ever do anything about it. Only last week, when the city laid him off, he started gettin' twitchy – leavin' at all hours of the night, holing up in the basement for hours on end working on God knows what. I mean, I got worried. We both got worried. I took to snooping around, trying to figure what he was up to. That's when I found the book."

  "The book?" the doctor asked, rapt.

  "That's right. Some sort of anarchist's handbook. It was full of crazy crap about napalm and explosives and stuff. Truth is, it scared the shit out of me. So this morning, I followed him to the basement and confronted him – least, that was the plan. When I got there, there was one o' them bombs, I mean right out of the pictures, and when he saw I saw it, he freaked. Stabbed me in the leg, and just left me there. I musta passed out, because by the time this one brought me to, it was too late."

  "And your brother?"

  "I can't say for sure, but if I had to guess, I'd say he died in the blast."

  "And you'd be willing to cooperate with the police on this?"

  I nodded solemnly. "I guess at first I figured you got to stick up for your family, no matter what, but you're right – we owe it to everybody here to tell the truth."

  She put a hand on my shoulder and gave it a comforting squeeze. "Stay here," the doctor said. "I'll be right back." Then she ducked out of the tent, setting off toward the makeshift command center the cops had established on the other side of the street.

  "Sam, what the hell was that about?" Kate demanded.

  "I was buying us some time," I said. I swung my legs down off the bed – a little easier, now that the wound was good and numb – and, with a little help from Kate, managed to find my feet. There was a pair of crutches lying across the empty bunk beside me, and I grabbed one of them, wedging it in my left armpit to take the pressure off my injured leg. I took a couple cautious, hobbling steps, and found that with the crutch's help, I got along just fine.

  "By implicating us in the bombing? No way they let us walk out of here now!"

  "You saw the way that that doctor was looking at us, Kate – she wasn't letting us out of here regardless. The only difference is, now she thinks that we're cooperating, which means instead of flagging some beat cop down from my bedside, she's gonna give us a little breathing room while she goes and fetches us a bigwig."

  "Yeah, but when she realizes we're gone, this place is gonna snap shut so tight, no one's gonna get to leave."

  "You're right," I said. "Which is why you've got to get out of here now, before they realize what's happened. I can ditch this body and follow, once I get what I came for."

  She shook her head. "No."

  "Kate, you have to."

  "I'm not leaving you, Sam – not this time. Last time, it nearly got you killed, and it turned out Pinch wasn't quite so lucky. I won't make that mistake again."

  "Damn it, Kate, you don't have a choice!"

  "The hell I don't."

  I said, "Look – the man I saw on the news, his name is Mu'an. He's a messenger-demon – sort of an emissary between the demon-world and their angelic counterparts. He's also a snitch. An information broker, to hear him tell it, but whatever you call it, the job's the same. I understand he's profited quite heartily in this détente, selling whatever it is he knows to whoever'd like to know it. It seems in war he's not so lucky. Now, there's a chance that Lilith was right, and this was nothing more than a random act of violence, one of a thousand such skirmishes to come. Then again, maybe Mu'an wasn't just a target of convenience. Maybe he knew something – something worth killing to keep quiet."

  "But the man on the security tape – he was no demon, was he?"

  "No – he was an angel. But an angel of the lowest order – a foot soldier. He'd just be carrying out orders, which means the call came from somewhere else. Relations being what they are, I suspect a whispered lie in the right ear would be enough to get
the job done."

  Kate asked, "You think this Mu'an was set up by his own kind?"

  "I don't know. It's a pretty big leap, but right now, it's all I've got. That's why I'm not leaving until I talk to him."

  "Well, then," she said, a wan smile flickering across her weary features, "I guess we'd better find him fast."

  Turns out, he wasn't hard to find. Though the medical tent was a crowded, sprawling affair, the patients had been triaged according to the severity of their injuries. The end we'd been deposited in was full of scrapes and cuts and broken bones. At the far end of the tent was a makeshift ICU, a roiling mass of sound and fury as medical personnel struggled to stabilize the worst-hit so they could be loaded into one of the endless parade of ambulances that waited to whisk them away. Mu'an was somewhere in the middle. He lay uncovered atop a stretcher, eyes closed, in a navy suit of worsted wool. His tie they'd cast aside, and his shirt was unbuttoned to the waist, revealing a bloodied undershirt beneath. A coarse white hospital blanket lay tossed off on the ground beside him. His suit and hair – the latter pitch black, and tied into a loose ponytail at the base of his neck – were badly singed and reeked of smoke. His lips were dusky and cracked, his eyebrows gone; his broad cheekbones, normally so deeply tanned, were streaked with a raw, angry red that glistened beneath a thin layer of ointment. One arm was draped across his chest, his shirtsleeve cut away. The little of his arm that was visible around the gauze was blackened like an overcooked ham.

  I approached his bedside. Mu'an didn't stir. But as I reached out to shake him awake, his eyes flew open, and his hand clamped down on my wrist. It was wrapped in bandages and crackled sickeningly as he tightened his grasp around me. Then he recognized me, and his grip slackened. His head, raised suddenly when I'd disturbed him, collapsed back onto the flimsy hospital pillow.

  "Well, look at this – the man himself. I confess, I didn't expect I'd see you here." Mu'an's speech had the odd, musical cadence of some long-forgotten language, as though despite his easy fluency, he would not deign to think in a human tongue. He attempted a smile, but all he got for his effort was the slightest of upturns at the corners of his mouth, and the glisten of fresh blood in the cracks of his desiccated lips. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

  I said, "I need answers. I think you have them."

  Mu'an blinked at me a moment, his eyes glistening and unfocused. A cough escaped his lips, spraying his lips and teeth with blood. He dabbed at his mouth with the back of his one good hand and frowned. "And I'm to just supply them, then, is that it? On account of we're such good friends, I suppose." "Something like that."

  He raised his head again, looked Kate up and down. Though his expression was defiant, the strain the movement placed on him was evident.

  "Is this the girl? The one all the fuss is about?"

  "The girl is no concern of yours."

  "The hell she isn't!" Mu'an spat, his voice scarcely louder than a whisper. "You and her, you put me here. Believe me when I tell you that's not something I'll forget. If you ask me, I should kill you where you stand, and bring her in myself – save us all a world of trouble. You have no idea the wrath that you've unleashed upon us – you and that little monkey bitch of yours."

  I let my crutch fall away as my fingers found his hair. I yanked back his head, while my other hand drew the cat-shard from my pocket and held it to his exposed throat.

  "I don't think you're in a position to be making threats, now, do you? Now, I hoped we could do this all friendly-like, but you just wouldn't play nice, now would you? So here's how it's gonna be: you're gonna tell me what it is I want to know, and maybe – just maybe – you cheat death a second time today. You get me?" I said.

  Mu'an's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, the shard digging into the tender skin of his neck. Ever so slightly, he nodded.

  "Good. Now, why don't you tell me what happened in there?"

  "There isn't much to tell," he said. "I was grabbing a cup of coffee at the Market when I spotted them: three, maybe four foot soldiers, cutting through the crowd toward me. I tried to duck out through the concourse – I thought perhaps if I could get out to the street, I could shake them – but they were too fast." He laughed, just a single, barking note. "These fucking meat-sacks, they all think our noble cousins are the good guys, but you know what? Their precious angels are worse than we are. I mean, when they thought I might evade them, they damn near leveled the place, without a thought in the world as to the consequences. Fucking animals, they are."

  "Why were they after you?"

  "How should I know? You should have seen it, friend – after all, it was all your doing. I mean, when that bastard let loose, there was just this thundering, heavenly note – and then chaos. I mean, the wrath of fucking God. Can you even imagine what that's like?"

  "Like a chorus of children," Kate said. Her voice was small and tremulous, and her eyes had a strange, faraway quality to them, as though she was somehow no longer here with us. "Sweet. Innocent. Painful in its beauty. Or so you think, until the real pain comes."

  "That's right," Mu'an said, eyeing Kate a moment with sudden suspicion before continuing. "But then the light – the heat – it stripped bone from flesh, and the closest to the blast were just… erased. Gone. Had I been a moment slower, I would have been as well. But I managed to take shelter behind a pillar, which worked out well for me, because now I get the pleasure of talking to you lovely people."

  At the end of the tent from which we'd entered, there was a flurry of activity. Shouting, clanking, the crackle of static. If I had to guess, I'd say our time was running short.

  "But why? Why are they after you?" I asked.

  "What's it matter why? The body count's the same. All these lives lost, and all because you wouldn't do your fucking job." I pressed the shard tighter to his neck, dimpling his skin. "OK – all right. Let's not be too hasty. Truth is, I don't know why they chose to target me. In my capacity as courier, I'm often in possession of information of some import, and there are always parties that would be interested in obtaining that information, or ensuring no one else can. It's been some time since anyone has resorted to violence to that end. I rather thought that we were past all that."

  "So what is it you've been tasked to convey?"

  "I'm telling you, Collector, I have no idea. It's somewhat of an open secret that the appropriate compensation does wonders to loosen my tongue, which is why some of my clients choose to upgrade to a more secure method of communication. Once the rite of suppression is performed, I haven't the faintest idea what it is I'm carrying – or even who I'm carrying it to. You want to know what I know? I suggest you ask your lady friend."

  I shot Kate a glance, but she looked as puzzled as I felt.

  Mu'an laughed. "You're even dumber than you look, you know that? You should know better than to assume I'd condescend to trafficking the secrets of this monkey."

  Then Mu'an let out a horrible, rasping cough, followed by another, and then another. I released his hair from my grip, and withdrew the shard – but not far. His face reddened, and he doubled over. A thin thread of blood trailed downward from his lower lip, and this time, he made no move to wipe it away. From the corner of my eye, I saw a crash team approaching, worried by his sudden fit, while behind them, a mass of uniformed security personnel were going bed-tobed, looking for us. I turned my head to watch as a patient – just a few beds from the one I'd occupied – raised a shaky hand at whatever he'd been asked and pointed directly toward me. The cop's gaze was close behind, and our eyes locked across the massive, crowded tent.

  "Well, Collector," said Mu'an, sucking breath after labored breath, "I've told you all I can. Kill me if you must – I only ask you make it quick."

  "You aren't going to die today, Mu'an – at least, not by my hand. C'mon, Kate, it's time to go." I stuffed the shard into my pocket and grabbed Kate by the wrist, dragging her deeper into the teeming medical tent.

  "You're just forestalling the inevitable!
" called Mu'an, though his huddled form was already lost to the crowd. "She will be taken, and when she is, you'll pay!"

  As we pressed through the crowd, Kate leaned close. Her voice was nearly swallowed by the din – the patients around us now were the worst-hit, and between the flurry of medical personnel, and the nightmarish arcade cacophony of their monitors, I could barely hear myself think.

  "You think he's right? That my collection is inevitable?"

  "Eh, you know demons – they just can't help but indulge in a bit of apocalyptic bluster every now and again." I flashed her a smile. It felt tight and awkward on my face.

  Kate looked over her shoulder, and I followed suit. A half-dozen of New York's Finest were pushing toward us through the crowd, maybe thirty feet away and closing fast.