Not One of Us

by Neil Clarke

  “What can I do for you ladies?” I said.

  The big one pocketed the sidekick. Her partner started to come out of her seat but the big one stretched an arm like a telephone pole to restrain her.

  “Do we know you?” The partner had close-set eyes and a beak nose; her black hair was short and stiff as a brush. She was wearing a black tee under her fatigue jacket and black leather combat boots. Probably had steel toes. “No,” she continued, “I don’t think we do.”

  “Then let’s get introductions out of the way,” I said. “I’m Fay Hardaway. And you are . . . ?”

  They gave me less than nothing.

  I sat down. “Thanks,” I said. “Don’t mind if I do.”

  The big one leaned back in her chair and eyed me as if I was dessert. “Sure you’re not making a mistake, missy?”

  “Why, because you’re rough, tough, and take no guff?”

  “You’re funny.” She smirked. “I like that. People who meet us are usually so very sad. My name is Alix.” She held out her hand and we shook. “Pleased to know you.”

  The customary way to shake hands is to hold on for four, maybe five seconds, squeeze good-bye, then loosen the grip. Maybe big Alix wasn’t familiar with our customs—she wasn’t letting go.

  I wasn’t going to let a little thing like a missing hand intimidate me. “Oh, then I do know you,” I said. We were in the McDonald’s on Wallingford Street—a public place. I’d just been talking to my pal the cop. I was so damn sure that I was safe, I decided to take my shot. “That would make the girlfriend here Elaine. Or is it Gratiana?”

  “Alix.” The beak panicked. “Now we’ve got to take her.”

  Alix sighed, then yanked on my arm. She might have been pulling a tissue from a box for all the effort she expended. I slid halfway across the table as the beak whipped her nightstick to full extension. I lunged away from her and she caught me just a glancing blow above the ear but then Alix stuck a popper into my face and spattered me with knockout spray. I saw a billion stars and breathed the vacuum of deep space for maybe two seconds before everything went black.

  Big Ben chimed between my ears. I could feel it deep in my molars, in the jelly of my eyes. It was the first thing I had felt since World War II. Wait a minute, was I alive during World War II? No, but I had seen the movie. When I wiggled my toes, Big Ben chimed again. I realized that the reason it hurt so much was that the human head didn’t really contain enough space to hang a bell of that size. As I took inventory of body parts, the chiming became less intense. By the time I knew I was all there, it was just the sting of blood in my veins.

  I was laid out on a surface that was hard but not cold. Wood. A bench. The place I was in was huge and dim but not dark. The high ceiling was in shadow. There was a hint of smoke in the air. Lights flickered. Candles. That was a clue, but I was still too groggy to understand what the mystery was. I knew I needed to remember something, but there was a hole where the memory was supposed to be. I reached back and touched just above my ear. The tip of my finger came away dark and sticky.

  A voice solved the mystery for me. “I’m sorry that my people overreacted. If you want to press charges, I’ve instructed Gratiana and Alix to surrender to the police.”

  It came back to me then. It always does. McDonald’s. Big Alix. A long handshake. That would make this a church. I sat up. When the world stopped spinning, I saw a vast marble altar awash in light with a crucifix the size of a Cessna hanging behind it.

  “I hope you’re not in too much pain, Miss Hardaway.” The voice came from the pew behind me. A fortyish woman in a black suit and a Roman collar was on the kneeler. She was wearing a large silver ring on the fourth finger of her left hand.

  “I’ve felt worse.”

  “That’s too bad. Do you make a habit of getting into trouble?” She looked concerned that I might be making some bad life choices. She had soft eyes and a kindly face. Her short hair was the color of ashes. She was someone I could tell my guilty secrets to, so I could sleep at night. She would speak to Christ the Man himself on my behalf, book me into the penthouse suite in heaven.

  “Am I in trouble?”

  She nodded gravely. “We all are. The devils are destroying us, Miss Hardaway. They plant their seed not only in our bodies, but our minds and our souls.”

  “Please, call me Fay. I’m sure we’re going to be just the very best of friends.” I leaned toward her. “I’m sorry, I can’t read your name tag.”

  “I’m not wearing one.” She smiled. “I’m Father Elaine Horváth.”

  We looked at each other.

  “Have you ever considered suicide, Fay?” said Father Elaine.

  “Not really. It’s usually a bad career move.”

  “Very good. But you must know that since the devils came and changed everything, almost a billion women have despaired and taken their lives.”

  “You know, I think I did hear something about that. Come on, lady, what’s this about?”

  “It is the tragedy of our times that there are any number of good reasons to kill oneself. It takes courage to go on living with the world the way it is. Rashmi Jones was a troubled young woman. She lacked that courage. That doesn’t make her a bad person, just a dead one.”

  I patted my pocket, looking for my sidekick. Still there. I pulled it out and pressed record. I didn’t ask for permission. “So I should mind my own business?”

  “That would be a bad career move in your profession. How old are you, Fay?”

  “Thirty-three.”

  “Then you were born of a virgin.” She leaned back, slid off the kneeler and onto the pew. “Seeded by the devils. I’m old enough to have had a father, Fay. I actually remember him a little. A very little.”

  “Don’t start.” I spun out of the pew into the aisle. I hated cock nostalgia. This granny had me chewing aluminum foil; I would have spat it at Christ himself if he had dared come down off his cross. “You want to know one reason why my generation jumps out of windows and sucks on cyanide? It’s because twists like you make us feel guilty about how we came to be. You want to call me devil’s spawn, go ahead. Enjoy yourself. Live it up. Because we’re just waiting for you old bitches to die off. Someday this foolish church is going to dry up and blow away and you know what? We’ll go dancing that night, because we’ll be a hell of a lot happier without you to remind us of what you lost and who we can never be.”

  She seemed perversely pleased by my show of emotion. “You’re an angry woman, Fay.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “but I’m kind to children and small animals.”

  “What is that anger doing to your soul? Many young people find solace in Christ.”

  “Like Alix and Gratiana?”

  She folded her hands; the silver ring shone dully. “As I said, they have offered to turn themselves . . .”

  “Keep them. I’m done with them.” I was cooling off fast. I paused, considering my next move. Then I sat down on the pew next to Father Elaine, showed her my sidekick and made sure she saw me pause the recording. Our eyes met. We understood each other. “Did you marry Kate Vermeil and Rashmi Jones yesterday?”

  She didn’t hesitate. “I performed the ceremony. I never filed the documents.”

  “Do you know why Rashmi killed herself?”

  “Not exactly.” She held my gaze. “I understand she left a note.”

  “Yeah, the note. I found it on her sidekick. She wrote, ‘Life is too hard to handle and I can’t handle it so I’ve got to go now. I love you Mom, sorry.’ A little generic for a would-be writer, wouldn’t you say? And the thing is there’s nothing in the note about Kate. I didn’t even know she existed until this morning. Now I have a problem with that. The cops would have the same problem if I gave it to them.”

  “But you haven’t.”

  “Not yet.”

  She thought about that for a while.

  “My understanding,” said Father Elaine at last, “is that Kate and Rashmi had a disagreement shortly after t
he ceremony.” She was tiptoeing around words as if one of them might wake up and start screaming. “I don’t know exactly what it was about. Rashmi left, Kate stayed here. Someone was with her all yesterday afternoon and all last night.”

  “Because you thought she might need an alibi?”

  She let that pass. “Kate was upset when she heard the news. She blames herself, although I am certain she is without blame.”

  “She’s here now?”

  “No.” Father Elaine shrugged. “I sent her away when I learned you were looking for her.”

  “And you want me to stop.”

  “You are being needlessly cruel, you know. The poor girl is grieving.”

  “Another poor girl is dead.” I reached into my pocket for my penlight. “Can I see your ring?”

  That puzzled her. She extended her left hand and I shone the light on it. Her skin was freckled but soft, the nails flawless. She would not be getting them done at a dump like the Adagio Spa.

  “What do these letters mean?” I asked. “IHS?”

  “In hoc signo vinces. ‘In this sign you will conquer.’ The emperor Constantine had a vision of a cross in the sky with those words written in fire on it. This was just before a major battle. He had his soldiers paint the cross on their shields and then he won the day against a superior force.”

  “Cute.” I snapped the light off. “What’s it mean to you?”

  “The Bride of God herself gave this to me.” Her face lit up, as if she were listening to an angelic chorus chant her name. “In recognition of my special vocation. You see, Fay, our Church has no intention of drying up and blowing away. Long after my generation is gone, believers will continue to gather in Christ’s name. And someday they’ll finish the work we have begun. Someday they will exorcise the devils.”

  If she knew how loopy that sounded, she didn’t show it. “Okay, here’s the way it is,” I said. “Forget Kate Vermeil. I only wanted to find her so she could lead me to you. A devil named Seeren hired me to look for a certain party wearing a ring like yours. It wants a meeting.”

  “With me?” Father Elaine went pale. “What for?”

  “I just find them.” I enjoyed watching her squirm. “I don’t ask why.”

  She folded her hands as if to pray, then leaned her head against them and closed her eyes. She sat like that for almost a minute. I decided to let her brood, not that I had much choice. The fiery pit of hell could’ve opened up and she wouldn’t have noticed.

  Finally, she shivered and sat up. “I have to find out how much they know.” She gazed up at the enormous crucifix. “I’ll see this devil, but on one condition: you guarantee my safety.”

  “Sure.” I couldn’t help myself; I laughed. The sound echoed, profaning the silence. “Just how am I supposed to do that? They disappeared half the population of Earth without breaking a sweat.”

  “You have their confidence,” she said. “And mine.”

  A vast and absurd peace had settled over her; she was seeing the world through the gauze of faith. She was a fool if she thought I could go up against the devils. Maybe she believed Christ the Man would swoop down from heaven to protect her, but then he hadn’t been seen around the old neighborhood much of late. Or maybe she had projected herself into the mind of the martyrs who would embrace the sword, kiss the ax that would take their heads. I reminded myself that her delusions were none of my business.

  Besides, I needed the money. And suddenly I just had to get out of that big, empty church.

  “My office is at 35 Market,” I said. “Third floor. I’ll try to set something up for six tonight.” I stood. “Look, if they want to take you, you’re probably gone. But I’ll record everything and squawk as loud as I can.”

  “I believe you will,” she said, her face aglow.

  5.

  I didn’t go to my office after I locked my bike to the rack on Market Street. Instead I went to find George. He was stripping varnish from the bead-board wainscoting in Donna Belasco’s old office on the fifth floor. Donna’s office had been vacant since last fall, when she had closed her law practice and gone south to count waves at Daytona Beach. At least, that’s what I hoped she was doing; the last I’d heard from her was a Christmas card. I missed Donna; she was one of the few grannies who tried to understand what it was like to grow up the way we did. And she had been generous about steering work my way.

  “Hey George,” I said. “You can tell your boss that I found the ring.”

  “This one offers the congratulations.” The arm holding the brush froze over the can of stripper as he swiveled his head to face me. “You have proved true superiority, Fay.” George had done a good job maintaining our building since coming to us a year ago, although he had something against wood grain. We had to stop him from painting over the mahogany paneling in the foyer.

  I hated to close the door, but this conversation needed some privacy. “So I’ve set up a meeting.” The stink of the varnish stripper was barbed wire up my nose. “Father Elaine Horváth will be here at six.”

  George said nothing. Trying to read a bot is like trying to read a refrigerator. I assumed that he was relaying this information to Seeren. Would the devil be displeased that I had booked its meeting into my office?

  “Seeren is impressed by your speedy accomplishment,” George said at last. “Credit has been allotted to this one for suggesting it task you.”

  “Great, take ten bucks a month off my rent. Just so you know, I promised Father Elaine she’d be safe here. Seeren is not going to make a liar out of me, is it?”

  “Seeren rejects violence. It’s a regrettable technique.”

  “Yeah, but if Seeren disappears her to wherever, does that count?” George’s head swiveled back toward the wainscoting. “Father Elaine Horváth will be invited to leave freely, if such is her intention.” The brush dipped into the can. “Was Kate Vermeil also found?”

  “No,” I said. “I looked, but then Father Elaine found me. By the way, she didn’t live at 465 12th Avenue.”

  “Seeren had otherwise information.” The old varnish bubbled and sagged where George had applied stripper. “Such error makes a curiosity.”

  It was a little thing, but it pricked at me as I walked down to the third floor. Was I pleased to discover that the devils were neither omnipotent nor infallible? Not particularly. For all their crimes against humanity, the devils and their bots were pretty much running our world now. It had been a small if bitter comfort to imagine that they knew exactly what they were doing.

  I passed crazy Martha’s door, which was open, on the way to my office. “Yaga combany wading,” she called.

  I backtracked. My neighbor was at her desk, wearing her Technopro gas mask, which she claimed protected her from chlorine, hydrogen sulfide, sulfur dioxide, ammonia, bacteria, viruses, dust, pollen, cat dander, mold spores, nuclear fallout, and sexual harassment. Unfortunately, it also made her almost unintelligible.

  “Try that again,” I said.

  “You’ve. Got. Company. Waiting.”

  “Who is it?”

  She shook the mask and shrugged. The light of her desktop was reflected in the faceplate. I could see numbers swarming like black ants across the rows and columns of a spreadsheet.

  “What’s with the mask?”

  “We. Had. A. Devil. In. The. Building.”

  “Really?” I said. “When?”

  “Morning.”

  There was no reason why a devil shouldn’t come into our building, no law against having one for a client. But there was an accusation in Martha’s look that I couldn’t deny. Had I betrayed us all by taking the case? She said, “Hate. Devils.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Me too.”

  I opened my door and saw that it was Sharifa who was waiting for me. She was trying on a smile that didn’t fit. “Hi Fay,” she said. She looked as elegant as always and as weary as I had ever seen her. She was wearing a peppered black linen dress and black dress sandals with thin crossover straps. Those w
eren’t doctor shoes—they were pull down the shades and turn up the music shoes. They made me very sad.

  As I turned to close the door, she must have spotted the patch of blood that had dried in my hair. “You’re hurt!” I had almost forgotten about it— there was no percentage in remembering that I was in pain. She shot out of her chair. “What happened?”

  “I slipped in the shower,” I said.

  “Let me look.”

  I tilted my head toward her and she probed the lump gently. “You could have a concussion.”

  “PIs don’t get concussions. Says so right on the license.”

  “Sit,” she said. “Let me clean this up. I’ll just run to the bathroom for some water.”

  I sat and watched her go. I thought about locking the door behind her but I deserved whatever I had coming. I opened the bottom drawer of the desk, slipped two plastic cups off the stack and brought Johnnie Walker in for a consultation.

  Sharifa bustled through the doorway with a cup of water in one hand and a fistful of paper towels in the other but caught herself when she saw the bottle. “When did this start?”

  “Just now.” I picked up my cup and slugged two fingers of Black Label Scotch. “Want some?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Are we having fun or are we self-medicating?”

  I let that pass. She dabbed at the lump with a damp paper towel. I could smell her perfume, lemon blossoms on a summer breeze and just the smallest bead of sweat. Her scent got along nicely with the liquid smoke of the scotch. She brushed against me and I could feel her body beneath her dress. At that moment I wanted her more than I wanted to breathe.

  “Sit down,” I said.

  “I’m not done yet,” she said.

  I pointed at a chair. “Sit, damn it.”

  She dropped the paper towel in my trash as she went by.