by Dan Stout
She was having a beer and sandwich with her new partner, a small-framed Mollenkampi named Andre. He was a nebbishy type, with bright red suspenders and a pair of armless glasses pinched on the bridge of his nose. I clapped him on the shoulder and led with my usual charm.
“Fuck off for a while, would ya, pal?”
Andre pulled himself up to his maximum height, mandibles spasming in anger. Hemingway put a hand on his arm.
“It’s okay,” she said.
I pulled out some cash and placed it on the table. “Get yourself and your partner another round. My treat.”
He shot me a look full of nails and broken glass, but he went. Once I was alone with Hemingway, I started in on my pitch.
“I know exactly how you feel,” I said. Her frown deepened, and it was downhill from there. She sat silently, eyes narrowed, sipping her beer as I gave reason after reason why I was sorry. But when I said I was hurt that she was angry with me—
“Oh, no.” She put her drink down hard enough to slop some foam onto the table. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to play the victim.”
“I’m not,” I insisted. “I understand why . . .” I bit my lip. “You’re right to hate me. Hells, sometimes I hate me.”
“Uh-uh,” she said, squaring her shoulders. “Let’s get this straight. I don’t hate you, I don’t pity you, and I sure as Hells don’t need to make you feel better about yourself.”
I raised my hands. “Okay.”
Hemingway’s lips pulled back. “Myris is dead. She was a great cop, and my friend, and she’s dead. And you know what?” She pointed at me. “If she were here, and you asked her to go back into that death trap again, she would. She’d do it every time, even knowing that she wouldn’t walk out. Because that’s what we do.” She grabbed the sandwich in front of her, hard enough to squeeze pink dressing out its side and over her fingers. “We keep people alive. But that doesn’t mean I gotta like it. And that doesn’t mean I don’t miss her. When I see you, I remember. And when I remember, it hurts. So pardon the Hells out of me if I don’t want to hurt.”
I was silent. One hand on the back of her partner’s empty barstool, the other shoved uselessly into a pocket.
Hemingway tore off a bite and dropped the rest of her sandwich back on the plate. “Do you need me to go over that again?”
“No.” I might have been a needy bastard, but Hemingway wasn’t obliged to heal on my terms.
She wiped her hands and I stood there a moment longer, wanting to say something else and knowing I should simply shut my mouth and go. Which is when the crashing and shouting started.
Hemingway’s head snapped up, scanning the room. I turned and looked out the front windows of the bar. There were shapes visible on the street, figures pushing and shoving, screams of anger and then screams of fear.
I broke into a run, throwing open the door with my shoulder and failing to thank the Titan for his warmth as I passed the vent. I hit the street and paused, assessing the scene. Two soldiers in uniform were ringed by a crowd, facing down four times their number. In the street was an overturned Therreau wagon, the tibron beetle that had pulled it sprawled on its side, powerful legs kicking the air, each capped with tarsal hooks that could easily disembowel an unobservant passerby. With pale faces and frightened eyes, a Therreau family struggled to get clear of the wreckage.
Hemingway was past me in a flash, wading into the chaos, pulling back gawkers and raising her voice to call for order. She was a good cop. Better than me. I didn’t intend to let her down again.
I plunged into the crowd. The men around the soldiers were swaying on their feet. Faces flushed, dopey grins on two of them. Clearly drunk. The soldiers were likely on leave, but their faces were drawn, serious. Not drunk, or at least not enough to lose their faculties.
There was no obstacle in the road by the overturned cart. There wasn’t another vehicle in contact with it or showing damage. What had it hit? I stepped in, dodging the legs of the tibron beetle as it tried to right itself, and guided one of the Therreau women away from the crash. She hustled away with me, a child clinging to the fabric of her long dress. The other woman still scrambled in the shadow of the cart.
“Jameson!” she screamed.
The crowd roared as one of the drunks swung at a soldier. The soldier was smaller, but she was faster and better trained than her attacker. The drunk was suddenly on his ass, clutching his nose with a self-pitying moan.
“Jameson!” The woman’s voice cracked as she scrambled along the cart, unable to get past the flailing legs of the beetle as it attempted to regain its footing. Tibron beetles never cease moving, working their legs from the moment they crawl from their egg sacs to the day they die. Their frenzy always made Therreau cart crashes dangerous. And this one’s desperation to return to the road was threatening to tear the cart to pieces.
I joined the woman, grabbed her by the shoulder. She broke free, surprisingly strong, still screaming “Jameson!” Then I saw who she was calling to.
Beneath the cart a middle-aged man was pinned to the cobblestones. The buckboard of the cart lay across his upper legs, and each sway of the beetle’s body turned the cart’s frame, grinding it into the ground and coming closer to tearing the man open. The man’s eyes were wide, and bloody foam speckled his lips. Even if I could free him, there was almost no chance he’d live.
Almost was better than nothing.
I slammed my shoulder into the heavy wood frame. The cart barely budged. How drunk had those bastards been to flip this thing? I tried again, this time with my head over the edge. The woman had stopped screaming and joined me in pushing at the wooden bulk. Another group of soldiers streamed out of the bar, joining their friends. Across the street the other bars were emptying as well, drunk and rowdy revelers taking sides in the fight, joining in or cheering on the chaos. Several were dressed as imps, emboldened by their anonymity. Hemingway appeared for a moment, badge in hand, ordering people back. Then she was gone, lost in the press of the crowd.
I left the Therreau woman’s side, ignoring her screams as she called me a coward, and ran toward the struggling beetle. Rather than trying to heft an impossible weight, I dodged between the beetle’s madly swinging legs and scrabbled for the leather straps that tied it to the cart. Around me the screaming had grown louder. Sirens wailed in the distance, headed my way but still too far. I pressed closer to the beetle, safe from its legs in the space behind its back. Up close I could see the many-colored flecks decorating the deep matte blue of its shell, and I could smell the bug shit that had tumbled out of the waste sling in its struggles.
I dug my fingers into the straps around the beetle’s carapace. They were far too strong to tear, but they also hadn’t been designed to hold the weight of a suspended tibron beetle. I focused on the weak spot: the stitching that held the straps taut against the draglines. I fumbled into my pocket, pulling out my pencil and jamming it between the two pieces of leather. I pulled, adding my weight to the dragline as I used the pencil as a lever against the almost-broken stitching. The leather gave, but before it popped free the pencil shattered in my hand before the job was done. Desperate, I searched for a replacement, finding what I needed on the ground—one wheel had shattered when the cart toppled, sending debris across the street. I bent, scooped up a slender piece of metal, and tried the draglines again. This time the stitching ripped free and the straps gave way.
I threw myself to the side, rolling onto my back, avoiding the beetle as its full weight hit the ground with a heavy crack. The dragline I’d torn free flapped on the cobblestones, but the other held fast, and the beetle latched on to it with two legs, using it and the girth strap around its front to pull itself upright. Never ceasing its movement, the beetle surged forward, pulled to the right by the remaining dragline. My breathing space evaporated and I pressed tight against the cart, then climbed on top of it to avoid being crush
ed between the beetle and the heavy wooden frame.
The wagon didn’t right itself, but it pivoted long enough for the woman and a pair of passersby to pull Jameson’s shattered body out from underneath the sideboard. The beetle’s clockwise path pulled the cart in a tight circle, turning on the flat of one wheel, screeching and keening as wood and metal scraped against the street.
Balancing on the buckboard, ignoring the blood on the seat, I stared out over the crowd. They didn’t press close—even the most drunk and foolhardy fell back before the onslaught of several hundred pounds of wooden cart and angry beetle. All eyes were on me. I had the briefest of windows to stop this stupidity before it got any worse.
I raised my mangled hand high, letting everyone get a look at it. Letting everyone know it was that damn fool cop they’d seen on TV. It had the effect I’d hoped—everyone moved back, staying out of the big bug’s way.
“That’s right!” I yelled. “Calm down and back away.” The sirens were closer now, the crimson shirts of the patrol coming to restore order. But other vehicles were already on scene. Men and women piled out of labeled vans in pairs. Some wore sweatshirts and held cameras, others had perfect hair and held microphones. News folk.
“Go home!” I told the crowd. “Anyone who stays and fights is going to jail.”
I stayed on the cart, drawn round and round in tight circles, each orbit accompanied by the screech of metal and wood against stone. I stared down at the belligerents, and one by one they dropped their eyes. Hemingway and Andre stood side by side, facing the crowd, ready to protect each other’s backs if things got ugly again. Andre had taken a solid blow to his face; his cheek was swollen and blood dribbled down his shirt.
I wondered if this was really what it took to keep people from dividing into tribes and killing each other. A figurehead on a destroyed wagon, a night of violent rage.
My anger flared—if that was the secret to keeping the peace, that’s what they were going to get.
“Get the Hells out of here and go on with your lives! Deal with the new world, because it’s the only one you’ve got.” I scanned the crowd from the back of the cart as I was dragged past their upturned faces like a bug on a turntable. Their expressions ranged from anger, to shock and resentment, to the thrill of an adrenaline rush. It brought home what I should have already realized: that even if a problem is real, even if the strike occupation was hurting the city and everyone in it, there was no excuse for making any group stand as scapegoats.
I stared into the cameras, knowing full well my face would be on the television, that the city would see me. That the fools in imp costumes and clenched fist logos would have to listen to my voice. That the CaCuris would hear what I had to say.
“Titanshade,” I drawled, “you should be ashamed of yourself.”
Police vehicles had finally arrived, and patrol cops streamed out. Someone yelled, “Redbacks!” and the crowd fell back. The crimson-clad patrol formed a cordon down the middle of the crowd, reaching the center and spanning out. They circled the wagon, giving me breathing room. I stepped down from the cart, escaping the glare of the news lights and finding refuge behind a wall of patrol cops.
I didn’t know if I’d done the right thing, but I hoped that for once I’d made a difference.
14
I IGNORED MY ALARM THE next morning. And when my pager started buzzing, I ignored that as well. Partly because I was exhausted from a late night of paperwork and giving statements, partly because I knew that when I showed up at the Bunker I was in for a speech. Maybe more than one, depending on how many of Bryyh’s superiors decided to come down to personally scold me for making a fool of myself in public.
But when I got there, the shit didn’t come from the brass. It came from the other cops in the Bullpen.
Sitting in a place of pride on my desk was a toilet plunger, painted gold and decorated with glitter. A bow had been made out of the Union Record article that showed me at the CaCuri rally, and a card taped to the plunger’s handle proclaimed me Official Cart Inspector. The press might have decided that declaring me a hero was the best way to sell papers, but my peers remained unconvinced.
“Great,” I said into the roomful of smirks and chuckles. “Screw you all very much.”
I set the plunger aside and took my seat across from Ajax as he swilled his morning caffeine.
“Eventful night?” he asked.
I started dialing a number on the desk phone. “Got a lead on Jane.”
He perked up, and stopped riffling the stack of papers on his desk. But I put him off as my call went through.
Dungan picked up the other end of the line. When he recognized my voice, he broke into a howl of laughter.
“I thought you were supposed to be low profile,” he managed to get out between guffaws. “You think TV coverage fits that description?”
“It’ll be fine,” I said, keeping an eye out for Bryyh’s scowling face. “You get that footage from the alleyway security camera?”
Dungan cleared his throat and there was a rustling noise, as if he’d pulled the receiver in closer to the shoulder of his windbreaker.
“No-go on that,” he said. “I talked to the super, but there’s nothing useful I can pass on to you.”
“What does that mean?” I said. “Let me see it and I’ll decide if it’s useful or not.”
Dungan sighed. “Sorry, pal. The camera was hooked to a recorder set to loop. It’d already been taped over by the time I got to him.”
I spoke through clenched teeth, doing my best to keep my volume under control. “This is bullshit! We met your damn CI like you asked.”
“I know you did,” he said. “Which is why I asked for the video. But there’s nothing to give you.” He sighed. “If I find something that’ll help you out, I’ll let you know.”
Across from me, Ajax leaned forward, arms crossed on his desk, head shaking as he listened in.
I tried again. “Our deal was—”
“That you’d talk to my CI and I’d let you keep your Jane Doe,” said Dungan. “You held up your end, and I’ll hold up mine. So you can keep the JD, but the tape’s something else entirely. Now listen, I gotta go. Next time I see you in Hammer Head’s, I’ll buy a round. Later, Carter.”
The line cut off, leaving a ghostly static crackle whispering in my ear. I cradled the receiver and looked at my partner.
“You believe him?” he said. The resigned disappointment on Jax’s face made Dungan’s reversal even more painful.
“I don’t know. It seems . . .” I leaned back, trying to ward off a tension headache by stretching the knotted muscles at the base of my neck.
“You said you had a lead on Jane.” Jax changed the subject, giving me some mental breathing room. “Tell me about that.”
So I filled him in on Napier and the mystery artist. When I finished the end of my story, he sat silently, absorbing everything I’d said, watching me with wide eyes.
“So . . .” He took a deep breath. “You went on a date with Gellica?”
“No,” I said. “We went to an art show hearing. Happening. Whatever it’s called.”
“Because it sounds like a date.”
“It wasn’t a—”
“Did you have dinner, too?”
I rubbed my temples. “The point is that as soon as we have contact info on the artist, we talk to her. And in the meantime we check out Napier. Have any other would-be artists disappeared? Does he have a history of violence?” I raised my voice as my desk phone began to ring. “We finally have something to do, and that doesn’t include worrying about who I spend my social time with.” I snatched up the receiver and barked a hello.
When I heard the voice on the line, I checked my tone to be far more friendly. “Oh, good morning, Susan!”
It always paid to be polite to Doc Mumphrey’s assistant. After a few words w
ith Susan I hung up and turned my attention back to Jax. “Good news. We’re going to the body stacks, kid.”
* * *
Over time, any detective worth a damn builds a network of experts to turn to for help and advice. In my years on the force I’d come to rely on an extensive list of specialists and eccentrics. People like Big Mike, the pawn-shop owner on Gaius Street who could identify any kind of weapon or antique imaginable; or Lori Tompkins, who specialized in psychotic disorders and was willing to exchange consulting work for making her traffic violations evaporate. And then there was Doc Mumphrey, the senior staff pathologist for the Titanshade PD.
Mumphrey was an institution at the Bunker. Whether you needed to find out what route a body had taken before being stashed or just needed someone to sit in on a hand of poker, Mumphrey was your guy. He had an encyclopedia’s worth of knowledge squeezed into his head, and he loved gnawing on new puzzles.
We found him in the ME’s offices, in a back examination room, conducting an autopsy on an elderly human. With a red-handed wave he shooed us into the small office in back. I glanced at Jax, and found him standing stock-still and wide-eyed. Detectives are frequently confronted with death, but we rarely see medical pathologists at work. And while seeing a corpse is one thing, watching someone root around inside of it is another. So it was a relief to retreat to Mumphrey’s office; the examination room was all stainless steel and bone saws, but back in the doc’s little spot of sanity it was earth tones and books. Of course it still stank like formaldehyde. That was one smell you didn’t escape quite so easily.
This was Jax’s first visit to this part of the Bunker. He’d been on desk duty as long as I had, and our earlier work hadn’t brought us into direct contact with the ME’s office. He peered at the samples and historic medical instruments that Mumphrey collected as decorations. With strange shapes and obscure uses, the tools ranged from cringe-inducing to downright malevolent. The collection may have been part of the reason why most detectives preferred to read the medical examiner’s reports rather than pay a personal visit to the body stacks.
