by Peter Hartog
I attended the parochial school at the church, thanks to my grandfather’s job as its janitor. My dad showed little interest in me after my mother’s murder, so Harry took it upon himself to handle my education, among other things. Harry made a deal with Father Jack, and to the Holy Redeemer I went.
My grandfather’s devotion to his Jewish faith ran deep, and he worried the school’s heavy religious slant would rub off on me. So, he filled me up with as much Jewish pragmatism as I could stomach. Some days I listened, and others, I tuned him out, along with Father Jack and everyone else. The result was muddy, like a fruity cocktail with too much juice and not enough booze.
To say I’d experienced all the guilt two major religions could offer, and none of the fun parts, would be an understatement.
Thankfully, Father Jack had always been good to me.
He was a tall man, rail thin, with a pronounced widow’s peak at both temples and salty gray hair. But his brown eyes were shrewd and full of a good-natured humor that had served him well over the years.
Today, they reflected concern for my sanity.
“I need you to bless the bullets,” I repeated for the third time.
“So that you can battle the forces of evil?” Jack was dubious, giving me a sidelong glance. “Genuine evil. As part of your investigation into the murder of that poor young girl I saw on the feeds the other day?”
We were in the small breakroom down the hall from the nave. A coffee maker percolated happily on the counter next to a double sink and a large holo-frame cycling between hundreds of images of various church-goers and their families. It was a warm, inviting place, with soft lighting and two windows along one wall overlooking an old, familiar playground.
Besim remained in the vestibule. Father Jack was content to leave her there.
“That’s right,” I nodded with vigor.
A warm coffee mug beckoned to me, but I refrained. Its twin sat across from the pastor, also untouched.
“And you’ve already encountered one of these—what did you call them?” he asked, folding his arms across his chest as he leaned back in the chair.
“A fetch,” I supplied with a hopeful smile.
“Yes, fetch,” he chewed on the word with a frown. “And let me make sure I have this right, a Protector from the Church of the Tribulation, a religion, I might add, that considers every other faith heretical, informed you they can only be killed by consecrated weapons?”
“Yes, his name is Deacon Kole,” I replied, then added quickly. “He’s a good man, really rough around the edges, but he means well.”
“I’m sure he is.” Jack licked his lips, blinking in rapid succession. “And why is this important, out of curiosity?”
“There’s a man out there, Rumpelstiltskin, the goldjoy drug lord. He performed illegal genetic experimentation on the murdered girl, as well as her twin and who knows how many other victims. I’m this close to catching him. Today. As soon as I can get you to bless my bullets, or the gun, or both, whichever you think would work best. But I need them in case there are any more vampires or other, well, things like the fetch protecting him.”
“Vampires?” Jack’s eyebrows shot up in alarm. “I thought that was something the media invented to generate interest. You’re saying an actual vampire murdered that girl?”
“Well, yes and no.” I shifted in my seat discomfited. “The vampire that killed her wasn’t a vampire. Well, he was, and he wasn’t. I mean, he stole her blood, but he was an android, and not some honest-to-goodness Nosferatu or anything like that.”
“I see,” he said, staring past my shoulder as he absorbed everything I said.
“I know how this all sounds, Father Jack,” I spread my hands wide with a deprecating smile. “But I’m not crazy. The shit…err…stuff I’ve seen over the past few days, well, I don’t know what to think anymore.”
He rose from his seat and moved to stand at my side, placing a hand on my shoulder. A troubled frown creased his worn face.
“Tommy, when was the last time you talked to someone?”
“I’m not using again,” I snapped, and brushed his hand roughly away.
I reached for the coffee, hesitated, then stood up.
“And I’ve got nothing to confess to you, or anyone else. I need your help to bring a supernatural murderer to justice. Jesus Christ, after everything we’ve been through, and you still don’t trust me?”
We stood there, facing one another, a vast gulf of emotions separating us by mere inches.
“Tommy Holliday, I have known you since you were in diapers,” he said, regarding me with a fond melancholy. “Your father and I grew up together, were close friends for a very long time, even after he, well, yes, that.”
He hesitated, and I saw his eyes cloud over with regret.
“And your mother was a lovely woman, God rest her soul. You’ve always possessed a vivid imagination, and it healed my heart to see how well you’ve recovered. But this is a bit much, even for you. What you ask, I cannot do. To bless a weapon, any weapon, purposed to kill is not something I can condone, regardless of the reasons. I’m sorry, but there must be another way.”
“I wish there were,” I muttered, glaring at him. “Thanks for nothing.”
He took a step back, clasping his hands behind him as he’d done so often when addressing his congregation.
“Tommy, sometimes when we lose our way, a cold splash of water to the face can help clear up any confusion or doubts,” he chided in his pastor’s voice. “I want to help you, I truly do, but not in this way. Through Christ, anything is possible so long as you possess the faith in your heart and your mind to try. I urge you, find another way.”
“Maybe for you,” I said, storming from the breakroom before he could respond. “But not for me.”
I found Besim by one of the massive, polished stone support pillars outside the nave. The silence was an obtrusive companion, poking its nose into everything without apology or excuse. Thick shadows surrounded her, as the dozens of holo-candles set in their brackets several feet above her head had yet to be lit for the morning. Tall, intricately stained-glass windows reached to the heavens along the upper walls, capturing the essence of the divine for those worshipping beneath them. A carved font with a headstone containing the likeness of Jesus rested on a simple pedestal next to her. Besim traced her long fingers around the lip of the font, gazing in quiet contemplation at the architecture.
“He would not bless your weapon,” she said without turning.
“No,” I groused, chafed by how the conversation with Father Jack had ended. I shoved my hands in my pockets. “I shouldn’t be surprised. Hell, I would’ve said no too.”
“Then why did you come here?”
“I don’t really know,” I admitted, removing my hands from my pockets to grip the sides of the font. “I guess I feel exposed without Deacon here to back me up.”
I peered into the clear water. My face was reflected on its surface by the dim light of the morning. Worn, tired eyes blinked back at me. Threadbare lines streaked the corners, and I worried not for the first time that I resembled my father more than my mother.
“If Rumpelstiltskin is a fetch, or something worse, how am I going to deal with that? How am I going to protect any of you?”
“Your inadequacy is an illusion,” Besim spoke quietly. Her voice resonated, the words palpable and telling. “It is a tool of the enemy you chase, to drag you down and subvert your strength. Instead, draw courage from your conviction. Your sense of self will protect and guide you. The events of the past few days have been more than a mere investigation into the murder of Vanessa Mallery. They have been your rite of passage. Whether you accept that you are Empire City’s Guardian or not, you have proven your resolve and resourcefulness over Rumpelstiltskin. It is through your intervention his minions were slain and the goldjoy laboratory uncovered. You are now on the cusp of apprehending him. Do not let the fear of the unknown cripple you. Instead, find your strength inside
yourself. That is why you came here. You chose a place with faith steeped in the very bedrock of its foundation, its identity unquestioned, and its compassion endless. Whether you believe in that effigy over there, or in something else entirely, what you need now is to draw upon all of your past experiences, all of your training, and do what is right.”
I bowed my head.
“There are no tricks in plain and simple faith,” I whispered, immersed within Besim’s voice, buoyed by whatever power it held. “But hollow men, like horses hot at hand, make gallant show and promise of their mettle. But when they should endure the bloody spur, they fall their crests and, like deceitful jades, sink in the trail.”
The candles flickered to life above us, bathing the sanctuary and vestibule in golden illumination. I wiped my hands on my pant legs, then put them back in my pockets.
“Boldness be my friend,” I stated with finality. “Let’s go.”
Already, a thin flow of people was filing in, drenched from the constant rain outside. Besim nodded, and together we left the church. A brisk walk down the block brought us back to the pod. We were underway a moment later.
After collapsing into one of the command chairs, I checked in with Leyla.
“So now we’re headed to Wrigley-Boes’ corporate office,” I finished. “How’s Uncle Mortie?”
“Your people arrived just in time, Besim,” she replied. “He was rushed into surgery but should pull through. Myrna’s still a wreck though.”
I exhaled sharply.
“That’s good news,” I replied with relief. “Thanks, kiddo. What else is going on?”
“Not much,” Leyla said. “Patricia hasn’t left her room. I’ve tried talking with her, but I think she’s still in shock, so I’ve left her alone. And Deacon’s been a real pain in the ass. He won’t rest like he’s supposed to, he refuses to take his medicine, and he’s been ordering everyone around!”
“Sounds like he’s feeling better,” I chuckled.
“‘It’s just a broken elbow,’” Leyla said, impersonating Deacon’s voice. “‘Quit treatin’ me like I’m some fuckin’ baby!’” She laughed. “If Mamika hadn’t isolated the elevator controls, he would’ve already left to find you.”
“Mamika has been given explicit instructions that Deacon is to convalesce,” Besim’s said sternly. “No one is allowed into or out of the suite without my express permission.”
“That’s like telling the sun not to shine,” I responded with a smile. “Glad you’re there to keep an eye on things, kiddo.”
“Yeah, but I’d rather be with you,” Leyla said, her voice filled with worry. “You need me, Doc.”
“I know,” I replied. “But you need to rest too. If Rumpel sees us all descend on Wrigley-Boes, he’ll go to ground before you can say ‘once upon a time.’ Rumpel’s made a living feeding off insider information, using it to stay three steps ahead of the authorities. He’s been under everyone’s noses, hiding in plain sight. Now, his operation is in disarray, his allies are scattered, and his network has crumbled. He knows we’re coming, but he won’t know when or how, so we have the element of surprise on our side for once.”
“Well, what will you do if he’s one of those things, like Crain?” Leyla pointed out.
I exchanged a glance with Besim.
“I’ll improvise,” I said grimly, then changed the subject. “Were you able to hack into Wrigley-Boes?”
“I sure did,” she snickered. “Their encryption is, like, so ten years ago. Anyway, I sent their personnel directory to your box. Just those people that fit the description you were after. You think Rumpelstiltskin is one of them?”
“I do,” I replied. “If he’s an old R&D guy, he’s had access to all the company’s toys, their laboratories, materials, and resources. With the other Wrigley-Boes locations shut down and up for sale, the corporate office might be his one safe harbor. He’s there. I can feel it.”
“I hope you’re right, Doc,” Leyla said.
“Me too,” I said, sighing. “I promise to call when it’s all over, okay?”
“You better,” she admonished in a scathing tone. “And try not to get killed.”
“Gee, thanks Mom,” I said with a wry smile, and hung up.
The SMART gun was fully charged. I set the last bullet inside the transparent clip, reloaded the weapon, and returned it to my shoulder rig. Settling myself more comfortably in the chair, I leaned back and stared out the rain-streaked window as Empire City rushed along in a blur of white and grey.
“You haven’t told me what you uncovered after examining Patricia Sullinger,” I said.
Besim regarded me, head tilted to the side.
“I am uncertain of your meaning, Detective.”
“Don’t play coy with me,” I countered, folding my hands behind my head. “You know exactly what I mean.”
“She is in perfect health, if that is what you are wondering. Aside from the trauma inflicted upon her by the golem, of course. Miss Sullinger and I spoke at great length about her life, upbringing, family, and medical history. As was the case with Vanessa Mallery, she too had never experienced any instances requiring medical attention. That is, until yesterday’s encounter.”
“That’s all well and good,” I acknowledged, eyes narrowing. “But you’ve had ample opportunity to run a battery of tests, including her blood work. And I’m sure you’ve already compared it to Vanessa’s tissue samples. Tell me what you know.”
Besim closed her eyes, and for a second there, I thought she stopped breathing.
When she regarded me, I saw uncertainty reflected in them.
“Patricia Sullinger is not entirely human.”
“Explain.”
“What do you know of genetic resequencing and engineering?” Besim asked.
“About as much as the next guy,” I replied. “Meaning, nothing.”
“Resequencing is a key step in detecting mutations associated with a wide variety of human congenital diseases,” the consultant explained. “Engineering is a deliberate modification of the characteristics of any organism through the manipulation of its genetic material. Without boring you with the finer details, suffice it to say Miss Sullinger’s DNA was tampered with at a very early stage of her life. A new enzyme was introduced into her system, something manufactured, of a kind I have never encountered before. Her extensive good health, the lack of any blemish on her skin, no scarring, no history of illness or broken bones, could be one result of this substance.”
“We’ve presumed the experimentation could’ve been an attempt to create some kind of new super health pill,” I said. “Both Wrigely-Boes and Orpheus would reap the massive financial windfall by claiming a monopoly on the finished product.”
Besim hesitated, then said, “This is troubling to me, Detective. I do not believe that is its intent.”
“What does that mean, exactly?” I asked.
“It suggests whatever Rumpelstiltskin has done to these women is not something I can readily identify or duplicate,” she replied. “Something external was introduced into Miss Sullinger’s system to replenish it and maintain whatever levels necessary to ensure a continuous chemical reaction catalyzed by that enzyme.”
“That’s what’s in the wine,” I snapped my fingers as the thought hit me. “Orpheus mentioned something about this too. That’s why those bottles were replaced. The wine contains both elements of goldjoy and the genetic milkshake you’re missing. What’s your theory?”
“I do not have one,” she replied, her frustration evident. “Its application eludes me. However, when I discovered this, I was already too late. The substances degraded before I could properly isolate them. Miss Sullinger had been without her infusion long enough that the enzymes evaporated from her bloodstream.”
“That I can understand. It’s like going without medication that regulates blood pressure for several days, right?”
She nodded, but a sudden premonition made me shudder.
“How does that make
her not entirely human?”
“It is my belief Miss Sullinger’s DNA was intermingled with another’s whose genetic sequence is similar in scope.” Besim regarded me with such sadness, I felt my throat constrict in response.
As she spoke, the case took form in my mind, each clue we’d uncovered sliding into place one piece at a time. Even the smallest details, from her height and build, down to the vibrant color and luxuriant texture of Vanessa’s hair. It all came together, as fine a picture as one of the murdered girl’s own seascapes, painstakingly clear and real.
“She’s Vellan,” I breathed in awe. “How is that possible? Humans and Vellans can’t breed.”
“I do not know,” Besim replied. “Yet, Rumpelstiltskin has devised a means of combining both human and Vellan DNA to create a hybrid, presumably containing the best of both species. The only plausible explanation is he employed magic to accomplish this feat. As with the cloaked signal Leyla has been tracking, to create something possible from the impossible, only magic has the power to do such a thing. However, I fear there is something far worse.”
“What’s that?” I asked, dreading the answer.
“Patricia Sullinger is dying,” Besim said, tears in her eyes. “And there is nothing I can do to prevent it.”
Chapter 37
The Wrigley-Boes Tower was located along Wall Street in one of the mammoth skyscrapers dominating the skyline of New Manhattan. Like all mega-corporations with more credits than sense, their philosophy of “bigger is better” was taken to the extreme. Most of the buildings on the block vied to top the other in height, style, and complexity. The result was a mishmash of bridges, towers, odd color schemes, and the occasional murderer’s row of concrete gargoyles. Our destination was covered with glossy reflective glass all the way to its zenith at the 101st floor. Their holo-techies had installed dozens of projectors along its length. The odds were good you could see Wrigley-Boes advertisements from the moon.
