“Pata, check on her.” That rasp again.
“Right, boss.”
A thump in front of her face startled Wynny into opening her eyes. There was a backpack there. Then a man her father’s age knelt next to it.
“Mrs. Landry, can you hear me?”
“Uh.” She tried to think of something better to say.
“I’m Pata. I’ll be taking care of you. You’re safe now.”
“Who?”
Pata, whoever he was, started running his fingers over her arms and legs. “I’m a friend of a friend. I’m sorry we didn’t get here sooner.”
The boss voice said, “Go get the dolly. We’re ready to load them up.”
Wynny placed the raspy voice. That was Mr. Anonymous from the escalator conversation. She’d never seen him.
“Wait, you’re with him?” She tried to sit up. She couldn’t, but Pata kept her from falling back to the concrete.
“Hello, Wynny. Sorry to be seeing you like this.” Mr. Anonymous squatted beside Pata. His looks were bland. Homely face with no distinguishing features. Hair boring brown. Average height with a little pudge.
The only memorable thing about him was the crew of subordinates taping the wrists, ankles, and mouths of the men who’d assaulted her.
“Hi.” On the second try she made it upright with help from Pata.
“Drink this.” He held a bottle to her lips. She took a sip, found it delicious, and swallowed it all.
She held the empty in her hand and read the label. ‘Traum-ade. Pain relief, shock treatment, clotting support, bone regrowth.’ Followed by an ingredients list in print her eyes couldn’t focus on.
“Lean forward.” Pata felt around her scalp. There was a sting as he pressed something down, hardly noticeable among all the other pain.
“Okay, that’s stopped the bleeding. Does it hurt when you breathe?”
“Everything hurts,” said Wynny.
“Does it hurt more when you breathe in or out?”
She held her breath for a moment then took a couple to check. “It’s all the same.”
“No broken ribs then. I may want to put your left arm in a sling. No concussion. She’s in a lot better shape than I hoped, sir.”
The last comment was to Mr. Anonymous.
“That’s good news,” said Detective Glain. She sat on the other side of Pata.
Wynny’s rattled brain finally fit enough pieces together to have an idea. “You hung me out as bait. That was your plan?”
Glain looked ashamed. Mr. Anonymous’ expression didn’t change at all. “Nobody else had a plan,” he said.
“You didn’t ask me.”
“No. If you want to borrow the detective’s shock stick and whack me a few times I won’t duck.”
He looked sincere. Glain looked alarmed enough she thought he was sincere too.
“I’ll think about it.”
Someone had brought up a float dolly. More of the men started loading prisoners on to it. They had to make two layers.
Glain said, “Since this is no longer a crime in progress I should go.”
Mr. Anonymous nodded.
She turned to Wynny. “I’ll check on you soon.”
Wynny gave her a weak wave. The detective walked off into the dark, not bothering with a flashlight.
“Can you stand?” asked Pata.
“I think so.” With both men holding her arms Wynny made it to her feet. Pata stayed next to her, an arm out for her to lean on.
“Want to ride on the dolly?” A couple of men were pushing on the handle of the floating dolly to take it to a cross-corridor.
The prisoners were twisting and wiggling. There was no empty spot big enough to sit on without touching one.
“I’ll walk,” said Wynny.
With Pata’s help she could. The medicine was helping. As the pain faded she walked almost normally.
“Something I’m worried about,” said the medic. “For the next couple of days, every time you pee, check for anything that looks odd. If you see red or brown, please see a doctor immediately.”
“I promise,” she said.
By the time they caught up with the dolly the prisoners were unloaded. They were sitting against the wall of a piping conduit, still taped up.
Wynny blinked at the new addition to the scene. Two men were unfolding some canvas into a kiddie wading pool. The big kind, too deep to be safe for toddlers. They slid it to the pipe on the other side of the conduit, thicker than they were tall. One opened an inspection valve. A narrow stream of water fell into the canvas tub.
She sniffed. Salt. That water was coming straight from the ocean.
Mr. Anonymous walked down the line of prisoners yanking off the tape over each one’s mouth. One spasmed enough to fall over. He was lifted back to sitting. The guy with a moustache kept moaning after his tape was yanked off.
“You can scream if you like,” said Mr. Anonymous. “No one’s going to hear you down here.”
The prisoners didn’t scream. They didn’t say anything. All eight looked scared except for Mr. Angry, who was furious.
The splashing of water into the tub grew softer when the water was deep enough for the stream to not hit the bottom. Everyone waited quietly while the tub filled.
After a while Mr. Anonymous walked over to the tub and looked in. Then he turned to the line of prisoners. “Some of you might think we’re not going to hurt you. That we don’t dare kill you. I assure, you we will do whatever it takes to find out what you know about Caenam Meurig’s murder. If that means putting each one of you under water until the air stops coming up, I’ll do it.”
Wynny shivered. She had no doubt he was serious. The anger filled Mr. Anonymous’s raspy voice.
“Maybe you think I’m bluffing. Say so. I’ll put you in the tub first. Just don’t volunteer if you know something about the murder. I’d hate to miss out on some evidence by killing the guy who knows it just to make a point.”
He paused. “Anyone?”
Mr. Angry said, “Don’t listen to him. They don’t dare. It would start a clan feud.”
Mr. Anonymous squatted in front of him. “There’s already a clan feud. The only thing that will stop it is Clan Meurig receiving the bloodprice they’re owed. Or the blood of the murderers.”
“It’s Fiera’s fault,” snapped Mr. Angry.
“Fierans didn’t kick Caenam to death. Blaming them is just a convenience, because you can’t demand bloodprice from an unknown. We needed to have the law involved, or all the Booker churches would take their revenge on the Haroldites.”
That caused a stir among the other prisoners.
Mr. Anonymous pivoted to face them. “Oh? You didn’t see that coming? Men swinging pipes bursting into your prayer service, beating everyone until they feel they’ve had revenge for Caenam? And then every victim’s clan would want revenge? That’s what bloodprice is for, you ignorant children, to stop it before the city’s on fire and the Censorate unleashes its dragoons.”
Mr. Angry demanded, “What bloodprice will you pay for assaulting and torturing us?”
Wynny studied Mr. Angry. She noticed his boots were brand new. Not a scuff on them. No wear on the soles.
“None,” said Mr. Anonymous with a cheerful lilt to his raspy voice. “Hurting someone while stopping a crime is allowed by clan law. Besides, you don’t know who we are. We have your pictures and thumbprints, so we can find out who you are. Every one of your clans will receive proof of the assault you committed.”
He paused, but Mr. Angry didn’t have anything to say.
“Your clans will probably demand to be reimbursed by your church for leading you astray. They won’t have any trouble finding it. For a secret society, the followers of the Sacrificed God are terrible at keeping secrets.”
There was no rebuttal to that, either.
“It’s full, boss.” The man turned off the valve filling the tub.
For a moment no one said anything. The end of the splashing wate
r left the conduit eerily silent. They could hear the buzz of the distillation plant in the distance.
Mr. Anonymous put a new piece of tape over Angry’s mouth. Then he stood up. “It’s time to see how long someone can hold his breath.”
The prisoners believed the threat. A couple were as defiant as Mr. Angry. Most looked scared. The youngest—Wynny guessed he was seventeen—was on the verge of tears.
That was the one Mr. Anonymous pointed to. “That one. Dunk him.”
Two men grabbed the prisoner by his bound arms and hauled him over, his legs dragging on the concrete.
“No! No! Please! I’ll talk! I’ll talk!” He was crying now.
The leader held up a hand. They stopped a few feet from the tub. “So talk.”
“I will. Um . . . what do you want to know?”
“I don’t know. What should you tell me?”
The kid babbled, “I don’t know anything about the murder. He just said the death creditor was a danger to the church and we had to stop her.”
“Who said?”
“The loudmouth.” With his hands taped behind his back the kid couldn’t point. He aimed his face at Mr. Angry.
Wynny thought Angry must be one of the murderers. Why spend his measly clan allowance on new boots unless the old ones were bloodstained? The old ones must be in the ocean.
Or were they? Trash was carefully sorted by type for recycling. Organics went to hydroponics or the meat vats. Anything not recycled or sent down a drain had to be carried to some place that would deal with it.
And boots . . . even the most worn out boots would be worth something to workers on the industrial islands. If Mr. Angry threw a pair of boots away someone in his clan would notice.
“What’s his name?” asked Mr. Anonymous.
Mr. Angry made loud grunts through his tape.
The kid was more intimidated by the unbound men. He answered, “He’s Mantock of Clan Meurig.”
“You killed your own kin?” blurted Wynny.
Mr. Anonymous and his crew looked disgusted.
“I don’t know if he killed Caenam,” said the kid. “He just said we had to protect the church from her.”
One of Mr. Anonymous’s men was scrolling through pictures on a tablet. He stopped on one and held it up to Mr. Angry’s face. “Yep, it’s him.”
Mr. Anonymous pulled the tape off Mantock’s mouth. “So, Mr. Meurig. Are you a kinslayer?”
“Drown you all.” He aimed spittle at the older man but missed.
Mr. Anonymous pressed the tape back on. He looked at Wynny.
“I’ll take him to his clan elders,” she said. “The rest I just have a personal complaint against, unless they were part of Caenam’s murder. I’m open to suggestions.”
The prisoners looked at each other to see if anyone had a suggestion.
“You’re all guilty of attempted murder,” said Mr. Anonymous. “But proving that would require public testimony from all of us. Your clans would wind up suing Meurig for instigation. Messy. Time consuming.”
They’d cringed at the thought of paying bloodprice for attempted murder—half of Wynny’s full bloodprice. Which was currently inflated by the value of a death creditor.
“You could go to your elders and confess to assault drawing blood. They can pay that to Clan Fiera privately. If everyone except Mr. Meurig does that we can keep this whole unpleasantness to ourselves and spare your clans the shame of having a criminal among them. Assuming this is acceptable to Mrs. Landry.”
“It is. Payment must be in a week.” She tried to remember how much the price for drawing blood was—a twentieth or a tenth?
One after another the prisoners gave their name and clan and agreed to pay. They ignored the grunts, glares, and thrashing from Mantock. The man with the tablet recorded the promises.
The seven were then unbound and turned loose. They walked off slowly, looking back at Mantock and the filled tub.
“Have any questions for him, ma’am?” asked Mr. Anonymous.
Wynny laughed. “I don’t think he’ll answer me.”
He pointed at the tub.
She shuddered. “No, thank you. I think it’s his elders’ turn to ask questions.”
“As ma’am wishes.”
Three men heaved Mantock onto the dolly. Another dumped out the tub. Wynny stepped onto the dolly to keep her shoes dry.
Another man she hadn’t noticed before came up. “Sorry, it’s the best I could do.” He handed her the fedora, no longer flat. It was creased and stained. Part of a boot print was visible on the brim. But it was a hat.
Wynny put it on her head. It felt fine.
“Now that’s a Rag Duffy hat,” said Mr. Anonymous.
***
Detective Glain met Wynny at the top of the escalator from the sublevels. She grabbed the handle of the dolly to help push it onto the sidewalk.
Wynny appreciated the help. Mantock Meurig was muscular enough to be twice her weight. The dolly was built to support loads of over a ton and outweighed him. Keeping it going in a straight line was no work at all. Going around a corner was shoulder-straining effort even for the two of them.
Usually when Wynny dealt with heavy work some man would offer to help. Not this time. Whether intimidated by her detective hat or wary of the bound man taped to the bed of the dolly, men looked, then stepped back.
The Meurig clanhome was in a second level ardal. The teenager answering the door boggled at them.
“The death creditor to see the elders,” said Wynny.
The teen gulped. “Please enter. I will summon them.”
Wynny and Glain were served tea in the great hall while they waited. The elders were gathering in another room until they could enter as one group. Wynny didn’t mind. Pata’s medical drink was starting to wear off. The tea helped her fight the twinges of pain and shock.
Younger members of the clan were filling up the hall. There didn’t seem to be any order directing it. They just wanted to see. Nobody sat near the dolly.
They kept their chatter quiet. Wynny couldn’t make out any words. The exception was when new arrivals were filled in. They’d exclaim “Mantock!” in tones of fear or anger. Never surprise, she noted.
The elders paraded in led by the white-haired woman who’d represented the clan at Trilith Park. She looked at Mantock’s bound figure, nodded in confirmation of what she’d been told. “I am Myfi, the Eldest of Clan Meurig,” she said. “What brings the death creditor to us?”
“I have questions of fact,” said Wynny. “This member of your clan is wearing new boots. Did he dispose of his old ones, and when?”
Myfi turned to address her clan. “Did anyone see Mantock throw away a pair of boots?”
The younger members who rotated through trash duty agreed that none of them had seen a boot go by. Mantock’s supervisor at the clan factory polled his co-workers. There’d been no extra boot sightings there either.
“It seems they were not discarded,” said the Speaker.
“Then they may still be here,” said Wynny. “They are evidence. Please bring them to me.”
Myfi turned to the clan again. “Whoever finds Mantock’s old boots will be exempted from garbage duty for one month.”
That started a stampede. They jammed into each other at the door to the bachelor men’s dormitory. Those who realized they couldn’t get to his room first ran off to inspect other possible hiding places.
Mantock had managed to wiggle himself to sitting upright. He sat on the edge of the dolly. His angry eyes glared at the proceedings over his taped mouth.
A child too young for garbage duty brought them more tea. Wynny sipped it gratefully. They could be in for a long wait.
To her surprise Wynny hadn’t finished her cup when the stampede swept back. In the lead was a twelve year old waving a boot in each hand. “They were under his mattress,” proclaimed the winner.
“Thank you, Redry,” said Myfi. “Please use your free time wisely.”
&nbs
p; The boots looked to match one of the models on Glain’s crime scene report. It was hard to be sure because the appearance had been altered. A blade had scraped away the surface of the whole boot. On the toes pieces had been sliced off. The soles showed equal abuse. The tops of the lugs had been cut off. Curling bits of plastic showed they hadn’t been walked on since the knifework.
Wynny leaned down for a closer look. The point of the knife had dug through the grooves of the tread and creases of the uppers. But there were gaps. She held out a hand to Glain.
The police officer produced a scanner from her thigh pocket and handed it over.
Running the scanner over the boots produced red lights on its display. Wynny showed it to Mantock. “There’s dried blood on these boots.”
A shiver went through the clanfolk. They were standing close now, wanting to see the details.
Wynny pulled the tape off Mantock’s mouth. His skin was red where it had been burned by the adhesive and multiple yanks. She held up a boot. “If I take this to the police laboratory, whose blood will they tell me is on this boot?”
Mantock looked side to side, scanning the crowd for support.
Wynny turned to check what he was seeing. Anger. Grief. Shock. Hope that he might somehow disprove what they feared.
“Answer,” said Myfi.
Mantock licked his lips. “It’s . . . it’s Caenam’s blood.”
A middle-aged woman burst into tears and ran out. Others followed her. A man shook his fist. Exclamations became exchanges. The roar of outrage threatened to deafen everyone in the hall.
“Silence,” said Myfi. The clan obeyed.
Another elder stepped forward. “Grandson, how could you?”
Mantock met the man’s eye. “He kept lying. Lying about the Word. Lying about that devil-created book. He wouldn’t shut up. He kept lying.”
“Who were the other murderers?” asked Wynny. “Were they also in Clan Meurig?”
Mantock pressed his lips together. A woman slapped his face. “Answer! You’ve caused enough trouble!”
“Yes, Mother,” said Mantock. She’d left a red handprint on his cheek. “No one else from our clan. Just from our church. Other men who were angry at those liars.”
Between Home and Ruin (Fall of the Censor Book 2) Page 12
