by DD Barant
“Yeah? You have some kind of valve under that fedora, or do you stick a funnel in your heel and stand on your head?”
“Something like that. What’s the plan once we hit Tokyo?”
I get up, rummage in a cupboard until I find the bottle of sake I noticed earlier. “Well, I’m planning on nursing a hangover. Any pire biting me between here and there better be able to hold his liquor. You want some?”
“I don’t drink. Anything, I mean. Or eat, for that matter.”
“Yeah, you’re perfection on two legs. Too bad you have to hang around and put your plastic neck on the line for a mere human, huh?” My voice is a little more angry than I intend.
“Without my neck you’d be dead right now.” His own voice is flat and uninflected. The fact that he’s absolutely right makes me want to smash the bottle over his head.
“Yeah? Well, if you were in my world, you’d be a big plastic bag full of nine-millimeter holes by now, and Mr. Pointy-face would be showing off his tattoos to the rest of the losers in genpop.” The logic there didn’t exactly parse, but I never let sense get in the way of a good rant. “I took care of myself just fine in the FBI, and I don’t need an oversize Glad bag stuffed with dirt to pull my ass out of the fire here, got it?” By the end of the sentence I’m yelling.
“Got it,” is all he says.
I didn’t know it was so hard to slam a door on a train. Maybe it’s just the Japanese ones.
Okay, so drinking in the middle of a case isn’t exactly smart. In my defense, I was frustrated, stressed, stranded in a parallel universe, and suffering from RDT. I was also extremely pissed off that Charlie had saved my life; irrational and ungrateful, I know, but I had spent my whole career proving I could take care of myself and now I had to start all over again. A little alcohol therapy is a time-honored tradition in my profession, and I’m not going to climb into the bottle, anyway—I’ve got too much work to do. I just plan on knocking back a few while I’m doing it.
One of the cars is a sort of lounge area, with a kitchenette and a row of small tables alongside a long couch. I locate a corkscrew, a glass, and my laptop and settle in. I’m deep into the files on the Free Human Resistance and halfway through my second drink when Tanaka enters the car.
“I have alerted my superiors to Isamu’s actions,” he says. “He will shortly be too busy to entertain any immediate thoughts of retribution.”
“Too bad. I was really looking forward to a raid on the train by vampire ninjas in hang gliders.”
“It is a much more serious issue than perhaps you understand. You have destroyed a valuable asset of—”
“Look, I get it, okay? A guy that survives for five hundred years in his business is a serious badass, and we just took out what I hope to God was his top enforcer. He’s well-connected, he’s smart, and he can afford to be patient when it comes to revenge—about all I have going for me is the fact that I plan to be in another universe before he gets around to paying me back.”
“Ah. My apologies. I feel responsible for negotiations going as badly as they did.”
“Don’t. We gained some valuable information—we’ll worry about the price later. I initially thought he was just trying to get us to take care of a problem for him, but that detail about the shape-shifter makes me think he was telling the truth.” I lift the bottle of sake and wiggle it at Tanaka. “Want some?”
He hesitates, then says, “Yes, thank you.” He gets up and finds a small ceramic cup for himself, and I fill it. He knocks it back more like a shot of whisky than wine, and I fill it up again. He nods in thanks, and for just a second I don’t feel like a stranger in a strange land, surrounded by monsters; I’m just a cop, sharing a drink and a tough case with another cop.
“The information about the FHR is interesting,” Tanaka says. “We had not foreseen their involvement.”
“What can you tell me about them? You have any personal experience?”
“A little. They are a political group dedicated to securing the rights and safety of human beings. The organization is global in scope, but chapters vary widely in their methods. In Japan, they take mainly a political stance—in other places, they commit acts of destruction or personal attacks. Even murder.”
I’d already gotten that from the files. “Yeah, but have you had any dealings with them yourself?”
He drinks some sake before answering. “Only once. They staged a demonstration in front of the Chinese consulate in Tokyo to protest their immigration policies—humans are not permitted to leave the country. The group was not large, perhaps forty people. The ones I dealt with were vocal but neither irrational nor violent. They dispersed peacefully when instructed to do so.”
Like good little blood banks I wanted to say, but didn’t. Bad enough I’d taken out my frustration on Charlie; I didn’t want to add another future apology to my list. “I take it this Impaler wasn’t among them.”
“If he was, I was unaware of his presence. The Impaler is something of a legend; some say he does not exist at all, that he is merely propaganda created by the FHR, a symbol of human resistance.”
“An underground hero? That might explain the lack of information on him in this file. It practically calls him an urban myth. Says ‘no firm evidence of his existence has been produced, though several unsolved killings in widely distributed locations have been attributed to him.’ ”
Tanaka shakes his head. “And yet he never publicly claims credit for his victims—odd behavior for one who is supposedly a symbol.”
“Maybe he was waiting for a bigger audience.”
“Such as the one he commands now? Then why has he still not identified himself?”
I frown and pour myself another drink. “Yeah, it’s strange. You think he’d be shouting it from the rooftops, letting everyone know he’s striking a blow for humankind.”
“Perhaps he’s waiting for something else.”
We kick some ideas around for a while, but there isn’t much more to say. Eventually I notice I haven’t had any Urthbone tea in a while, and I pull out my flask. That leads to a discussion of what it is and why I’m taking it, and then to Japanese tea and its many merits and history.
Then more sake.
The constant, almost subliminal movement of the train has become a soothing, rhythmic backbeat to the buzz in my head, and the more I relax into my surroundings the more aware I become of Tanaka. The effects of Urthbone, it seems, are heightened by alcohol, a fact Dr. Pete neglected to mention. And the more aware I become of Tanaka, the more aware I become of just how aware he is of me. I wonder out loud just how sensitive his sense of smell actually is, and just what it can tell him.
He lets me know.
A rice wine and Urthbone hangover is not an experience I would recommend to anyone. But then, neither is waking up next to someone you don’t really remember going to bed with.
And yeah, there he is right next to me. A naked and thankfully nonhairy Tanaka, snoring away on the narrow futon we’re both wedged into, in a small compartment with a single bed and a shuttered window. We’re still on the train, but something’s different.
We’re no longer moving. Which means we’re either in Tokyo or under attack, and either way I really can’t be caught in bed with—
Oh my God. I slept with a werewolf.
I don’t know if it’s shame, some primal anti-bestiality instinct or just last night’s overindulgence, but I leap out of bed and bolt for the bathroom, a tiny cubicle I dimly recall using last night. Which brings back a few other memories, and then I’m getting rid of the sushi I had for a late-night snack.
By the time I’m finished, Tanaka is up and miraculously dressed. He asks if I’m all right and I mumble something in the affirmative. He tells me we’ve arrived in Tokyo and that he has to meet our local contact. I tell him to go, and try not to make it sound like an order.
And then I get myself cleaned up, put on yesterday’s clothing, and try to think of the most devastating retort I can use wh
en Charlie opens his mouth. It depends on what he says, of course, so I run through a few preliminary predictions: Well, you’ve really screwed the pooch now. Hey, Grandma, I thought you’d been eaten by the Big Bad Wolf. ’Scuse me, Boss, I think you’ve got some fur stuck between your teeth.
And let’s not forget the whole health issue. I have a sudden thought, rip all my clothing off again, and make a thorough search for bites, claw marks, or hickeys. None. The contents of the wastepaper basket beside the bed confirm that we weren’t so wasted we didn’t take precautions—three times, apparently—and the total absence of shedding on the sheets gives me hope that I wasn’t quite as adventurous as I can be.
I get dressed again. Okay. Now all I have to worry about is the personal and professional fallout from sleeping with a colleague I just met, and the inevitable mocking of my peers. Sure. Just another day at the office, which is currently a bullet train parked in a vampire-populated Tokyo. I sigh, and stop mentally beating my head against a wall. Cut yourself a little slack, girl. Considering the circumstances, you’re doing a hell of a lot better than many others would. I know it’s true, but it doesn’t improve my mood much.
I head for the dining lounge, hoping I can at least find coffee before the ordeal begins. No such luck. Both Charlie and Tanaka are there, Tanaka digging into what looks like a rice omelette, Charlie sitting across from and staring impassively out the window. It’s daytime, but the light is cold and gray.
“Morning,” I say.
“Good morning,” they say simultaneously. Charlie ignores the coincidence, Tanaka immediately looks embarrassed. I walk past them and start looking for coffee. Can’t find any. I finally settle for tea, plugging in an electric kettle.
“Isamu’s compound was raided this morning,” Tanaka says. “There was no one there.”
“He’s not stupid,” I say, leaning against the counter and crossing my arms. “I’m sure he has lots of places to go to ground.”
“Eisfanger finished his workup of the tox screen of Keiko Miyagi,” Charlie says. “Found something call quinaxalone. Powerful sedative. Says it was magicked up to work on pires.”
I give him a hard look, but he’s playing it close to the vest. Waiting for the right moment, I’m sure; after all, he’s a hybrid of mineral and lizard. He could probably give lessons in patience to Ryuu, if the ninja still had a head.
“Okay, so she was drugged. Let’s follow that up, see if it takes us anywhere.”
“I already have,” Tanaka says. “Charlie and I were just discussing it. Quinaxalone is currently only available in the U.S.”
“Which gives further credit to an international outfit like the FHR being involved. The question is, where are they going to strike next?”
“If this Impaler is the one we’re after,” says Charlie, “we’d have better luck hunting him on our home turf. The Free Human Resistance started in the States, and that’s where their power base is. I know a few guys could maybe help us out.”
Tanaka looks relieved. “Yes, that is an excellent idea. Considering the killer has struck on several different continents, it’s almost certain he’s no longer in Japan—”
I cut Tanaka off coldly. “So I guess I should just leave the country, huh?”
Silence hangs in the air. Charlie goes back to looking out the window, while Tanaka seems to be considering jumping out it.
“Charlie, you mind if I talk to Tanaka alone for a few secs?” My choice of phrasing is deliberate.
Charlie doesn’t take the bait. “Sure, boss.” He gets up and leaves the car without another word.
I stare levelly at my one-night stand. Nicely done, Valchek. Only been on the planet a few days and you’re already racking ’em up.
Shut up, brain.
“Look, Tanaka—what happened last night was a mistake.”
“I’m sorry you think so.”
Not really the response I’d expected. “I’m—well, I’m flattered, but this is not really normal behavior for me, you know? I don’t just— I mean, okay, sometimes I do, but not with . . . with—”
“Members of another race?”
Ouch. “I was going to say ‘professional colleagues.’ But it’s not my fault, all right? It was that damn tea.”
“Excuse me?”
“The Urthbone. I told you, it increases empathy—what I’m feeling isn’t really what I’m feeling. And then the booze loosened up both our inhibitions, and . . . well, no offense, Tanaka, but from what I can remember you feel things pretty strongly.”
Now he looks irritated, though he tries not to show it. “You are saying I am not in control of my emotions, is that it?”
“No, no. It’s my fault, not yours. You were just . . . just being you—”
“I see. And I can’t help what I am.” His voice is cold.
I shake my head. I can tell anything else I say will just make things worse. “I’m sorry, Tanaka. Let’s just pretend this didn’t happen and go back to work, all right?”
“Very well.”
Twelve hours later I’m back in the U.S. Tanaka doesn’t come with us.
I’ve learned all I really can in Japan, and the longer I’m there the bigger the bull’s-eye on my back gets. Tanaka stays behind because he’s more useful there—it’s possible he might learn something on his own he couldn’t while I’m around.
I’m not running away. That’s just what it feels like.
And Charlie, damn his featureless eyes, doesn’t say a thing about me and Tanaka. Neither does Eisfanger, though I think that’s because he has no idea.
I decide to stop taking the Urthbone. Maybe what happened with Tanaka won’t happen again, but I can’t take the chance. Investigators have to rely on their instincts, and I can’t trust mine if my hormones go into overdrive every time I’m around someone who finds me attractive. I could stop brushing my teeth and hair and dress in baggy sweatsuits, but then I’ll just be emotionally overwhelmed by disrespect with a touch of pity. Besides, I don’t need the tea to keep me grounded—the case will do that just fine. Once I get my teeth into one, it kind of consumes me; if that kind of total immersion doesn’t bind me to this world, nothing will.
I spend the flight going over data with Eisfanger, avoiding Charlie entirely. He doesn’t seem to mind. I know I’m just putting off the inevitable; I finally grit my teeth and broach the subject just before the plane touches down on American soil. Eisfanger’s at the other end of the cabin, playing with his rat skull; Charlie’s reading a newspaper. I sit down across from him and say, “Hey. We should talk.”
He doesn’t put the paper down. “What about?”
“You deserve an apology.”
“I deserve a lot of things, but I still drive a secondhand Ford. Write me up an IOU.”
“Not gonna make this easy, are you?”
“I’m not really an easy kind of guy.”
I wait, but the punch line never shows. I groan. “Jesus, you’re either a real sadist or have a blind spot the size of Cuba. Look, I’m sorry I reamed you out for saving my sorry, promiscuous ass. You did exactly what you were supposed to and you did it really damn well. I can be a real jackass at times and you better get used to it. That’s about all I got. Okay?”
He puts down the paper and looks at me. “Okay. No sweat. You don’t have to make a big, hairy deal out of it.”
“All right, then.”
“Unless, you know . . . you have a thing for big, hairy deals.”
Ah.
“There was no deal, it wasn’t that big, and it certainly wasn’t hairy,” I say, and grab his newspaper so I can try to hide my smile.
The three of us debrief Cassius in his office. Gretchen gives me a warm smile from where she’s perched on the sofa when we enter and sit down.
“The Impaler,” Cassius says. He doesn’t look happy. He makes a fist with one hand and taps it lightly on the desk as if he’s considering smashing it in two. “That’s . . . unexpected.”
“So he’s real?” I ask.
“Oh, yes. Very good at staying out of sight, though—no photograph of him is known to exist, and I’ve had varying reports of his physical description: young, old, short, tall. Some people even claim he’s a vampire or a lycanthrope, though I’m sure that’s not true. But I also heard he was dead.”
“According to Isamu, he nearly was. The rest of his cell wasn’t so lucky.”
“Hmm. Well, this alters our investigation considerably. The Impaler has access to resources and contacts worldwide, from crime families to arms dealers. He’s a dangerous opponent. Only—”
“Only he’s not crazy. He’s a well-known international terrorist that’s smart enough to not get caught. And what he’s doing makes perfect sense from a terrorist POV: he’s using the media to create an atmosphere of uncertainty and increasing fear. So here’s the question: what the hell am I doing here?”
“You’re here because our killer is insane,” Cassius says.
“How do you know that? Because so far, despite a definite pattern of sociopathic behavior, I’m not seeing a lot of signs of out-and-out psychosis—hell, from a military point of view, what he’s doing almost makes sense. Sow fear and confusion in the enemy, pick your kills for maximum social impact—”
“No. If he truly wanted to terrify, he’d hit targets in heavily populated centers, not isolated areas. And the killings would be less elaborate and more brutal; in the case of the silver maiden, the death wasn’t even visible.”
I sigh. “Okay, those are good points. There’s a certain artistic quality to the murders that doesn’t make much sense. But that just points to a different motive, not necessarily mental illness.”
Gretchen clears her throat. “I’d like to point out that you’ve discovered more in two days than our investigators have in two weeks, Jace. That suggests to me that your approach and expertise are exactly what we need, despite your misgivings.”
“Absolutely,” Cassius adds. “Don’t underestimate yourself. Insight that seems obvious to you is not to us; you come from a culture that has madness so firmly entrenched that you take it for granted. I could give you a list of terms our researchers discovered, apparently commonplace to you but meaningless to us.” He shuffles a few papers on his desk and pulls out a single sheet. “ ‘Nut job.’ ‘Rubber room.’ ‘Off his rocker’?”
