Department 18 [02] Night Souls

by Maynard Sims

  “John Holly is a player on the world stage. His company is a global success and when he’s not taking up space on the financial pages, he’s the darling of the world’s gossip writers and scandal sheets. If he’s one of these…these breathers, and he can reach such heights, I see no reason why some of our lowly politicians might not be all they seem.”

  Michael Dylan stared at Miranda Payne in admiration. She knew how to ruffle feathers. He liked that. He glanced across at Liskard. He could see the pompous little prick was bridling and about to refute her argument again, when the door to the conference room opened and Trudy, Crozier’s secretary, slipped in. She went straight over to her boss and whispered in his ear.

  “Right,” Crozier responded. “Show them through.”

  A few seconds later the door opened again and two men walked into the room.

  The first man through the door was tall and black, in his fifties with a shaven head. He was heavily muscled but lithe, and although he seemed to saunter into the room, Dylan could see the muscles of his shoulders bunching. The man was a tightly coiled spring.

  His companion was smaller, but probably no less than six feet, early forties with cropped black hair and a neatly trimmed beard. The brown eyes looked tired and troubled, and they were set in a face that seemed to contain all the sadness of the world.

  Crozier rose to greet them, shaking their hands. “Mr. Pike, we meet at last. Please take a seat and I’ll make the introductions.”

  Once they were seated, Crozier said, “Okay, clockwise, from the right. Alan Liskard, from the Home Office; next to him, Dr. Miranda Payne, a new recruit to the department. Miranda is one of our leading psychologists. Across the table, Michael Dylan, one of our top investigators, and next to him…”

  “Harry Bailey,” Pike said, grinning and stretching out his hand to Bailey. “Good to see you again. It’s been a long time.”

  Bailey took the hand and shook it warmly. “I’m surprised you remembered.”

  “I’m hardly likely to forget after our last encounter. I heard you’d retired.”

  “I am retired. I’m just helping out here.”

  “Well, it’s going to be a pleasure working alongside you.”

  “Shouldn’t Daniel Milton be here as well?” Crozier said.

  “That was the plan,” Pike said. “But as yet I haven’t been able to trace him.”

  Simon Crozier frowned. “A problem?”

  “A serious one, I think,” Pike said. “I can’t reach him on his cell, and the way he lives his life, his cell phone is his lifeline. He’s never without it, and no matter how dire his living conditions, he always finds a way to keep the phone charged.”

  Crozier shook his head. “I don’t like the sound of that,” he said, then turned suddenly to Pike’s companion. “I’m sorry; I don’t know who you are.”

  “This is Jacek Czerwinski,” Pike said. “I brought him with me from Poland. His aims are common with our own, and he’s had dealings with the vermin in the past. I can vouch for him.”

  Jacek looked at the faces around the table, feeling out of his depth but determined not to let it show.

  “And does Mr. Czerwinski speak English, or should we hire an interpreter?” Liskard said acidly. Nobody had mentioned Czerwinski’s inclusion to him, and he was furious that protocol had been sidestepped yet again. He turned to Crozier. “Really, Simon, this is too much. Why don’t you sell tickets?”

  Crozier smiled at him blandly, then turned to Jacek. “Do you speak English, Mr. Czerwinski?”

  “I do,” Jacek said.

  “There you are, Alan. He does. And if Mr. Pike thinks Mr. Czerwinski has a contribution to make, then that’s good enough for me.”

  “The proper channels in future, Simon. The proper channels,” Liskard said with barely contained anger. “Now, may we get on? I have a housing committee meeting scheduled, and I’m late for it already.”

  “Housing committee…or the future of the human race,” Dylan said, making a balancing gesture with his hands. “Tough choice. I can see someone like you would have problems prioritizing.”

  “That’s enough,” Crozier said. “Let’s get on.”

  Chapter Thirty-three

  For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun? And what is it to cease breathing but to free the breath from its restless tides, that it may rise and expand and seek God unencumbered?

  —Kkahlil Ggibran

  Clerkenwell, London, England

  At the same time that Simon Crozier was chairing the meeting at Department 18’s headquarters in Whitehall, rats found Daniel Milton in the abandoned office building, two miles away in Clerkenwell.

  He was running a high fever and was lost in a deep delirium, so he didn’t feel them as they first nibbled, then gnawed and finally tore at the material of his combats, exposing the flesh of his legs. His broken spine ensured that he felt no pain as sharp teeth ripped at his pale skin.

  As his blood started to flow and pool underneath him, the rats became more excitable, more daring. There were only four of them, but they snapped at each other if one encroached on another’s feeding ground. Eventually one of them broke away from the group and started exploring Daniel’s body above the waist. It jumped up onto Daniel’s chest and began poking its sharp, pointed nose into the gap where the zipper of his jacket had split in the fall. It could smell flesh beneath the thin material of his sports shirt and scrabbled at the cotton with its claws, all the while sniffing, whiskers twitching.

  The first bite broke through Daniel’s delirium; a searing pain burning into the flesh of his chest like a white-hot nail. His body convulsed and the rat scurried off, pausing two feet away, watching him cautiously.

  Seconds later it was back, joined this time by one of the others. They climbed up onto his body again, making for the fresh wound. As the first rat soaked its snout in the warm blood, the second ventured farther, licking delicately at the small pool of sweat gathered in the hollow of Daniel’s throat.

  He could feel them squirming over his body, getting closer and closer to his face. My eyes, he thought in a lucid moment. Have to protect my eyes.

  Gathering all his strength he lifted his arm from the floor, and in a Herculean effort swung it over his face. The pain was beyond belief and he cried out, the scream echoing from the bare concrete walls like a ghost wail as the broken bones in his body ground against each other. Why can’t I just die?

  That had been the plan, to kill himself; to put himself out of their reach forever. So why had the plan failed? He wasn’t religious. He hadn’t prayed for salvation. He didn’t really believe in the concept of God in any of its forms. But he was considering now that if there was a God then he had certainly pissed Him off.

  Daniel had considered his own death in the past, picturing different scenarios. But even in his wildest imaginings, he’d never conjured a scenario like this. Lying on the cold hard floor of an abandoned office building, paralyzed from the waist down, unable to defend himself, and eaten alive by rats.

  In his increasingly diminishing lucid moments he had been thinking about Alice Spur. They had been soul mates, though she was always headstrong. Their only argument had been when she took the personal assistant job at Holly Industries. Daniel knew instinctively that Abe Holly was bad news, and after Alice disappeared and Daniel came up against the son, he recognized that John Holly was even worse.

  Daniel had wanted to spend the rest of his life with Alice, but now he guessed he had no life left.

  He had only one hope, and it was a hope so slim, so…ridiculous, he could barely bring himself to do it. He had tried it once before and it didn’t work, but, as he felt the rats creeping up his body again, he tried it anyway.

  Concentrating furiously, he focused his mind, feeling his thoughts coalesce into one, building to a thrumming pulse in the center of his frontal lobe. When the pressure became almost unbearable, he released the thought, letting it fly. He could almost feel it lea
ve his body, exploding into the air, into the unseen distance.

  JASON! HELP ME!

  And then, the effort of sending the message having drained him, he sank into oblivion while the rats fed.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Department 18 Headquarters, Whitehall, London, England

  Jason Pike suddenly covered his face with his hands and groaned. It felt as though an express train was barreling through his mind. He steadied his breathing, then took his hands away and stared at the faces around the table.

  “Where’s Clerkenwell?” he said to no one in particular.

  Crozier paused midsentence. “Clerkenwell?” he said as Pike got to his feet.

  “Daniel’s made contact. He’s in trouble. Serious trouble. In Clerkenwell. I have to go.”

  “I know where it is,” Michael Dylan said. “Anything to escape this red-tape boredom. I’ll take you. A pool car, Simon?”

  “Speak to Trudy on your way out. There’ll be a car waiting for you downstairs.”

  Harry Bailey was also getting to his feet.

  “Are you going too?” Crozier said.

  “Oh yes, I think so,” Bailey said. “You know me, Simon. Straight into the thick of the action.”

  Liskard was watching all this with confusion in his eyes. He couldn’t work out what had just happened. “Would somebody mind telling me what the hell’s going on?”

  Everyone ignored him.

  “Jacek?” Pike said.

  Czerwinski nodded and joined them at the door.

  Miranda Payne pushed her glasses back up to the bridge of her nose, slipped her notepad back into her briefcase, and edged her chair away from her desk. “Do you mind if I observe?”

  “Tell Trudy to make it a minivan,” Crozier said with a wry smile.

  “Simon?” Liskard said, absolute outrage channeled into one word.

  “Sorry, Alan,” Crozier said. “I’m afraid I shall have to conclude this meeting.”

  “But what’s happening? Where are they all going?”

  “Clerkenwell, apparently.”

  “But we haven’t decided upon a plan of action yet.” Liskard could barely contain himself. He silently cursed the minister for landing him with this bunch. They ignored protocol, barely paid lip service to his presence and looked, for all intents and purposes, to be totally unmanageable.

  “The plan of action has been thrust upon us, Alan. As Sherlock Holmes once said, ‘the game’s afoot.’” He smiled and then he too left the conference room, leaving Alan Liskard to sulkily gather his paperwork together. “Is it always like this?” he said to Martin Impey, who was busy taking down the projection screen.

  “More or less,” Martin said. “Always something going off somewhere.” He smiled. “You get used to it after a while.”

  Liskard shut his briefcase and got to his feet. As he walked to the door he said, “Tell Simon to keep me in the loop.”

  Martin didn’t bother to look round at him. He’d seen many officers of government come and go over the years. He gave Liskard eighteen months. Tops.

  “Did you hear me?” Liskard said impatiently.

  “The loop. Yes. He’s to keep you in the loop.” Martin finally looked round and beamed at him. “Wilco. Roger and out.”

  Alan Liskard mumbled something obscene under his breath and stalked from the room.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Whenever I feel blue, I start breathing again.

  —L. Frank Baum

  Embankment, River Thames, London, England

  “So do we have an address in Clerkenwell?” Michael Dylan said as they turned onto the Embankment.

  Pike shook his head. “No. But the message he sent was strong. I’m still picking up residual energy from it. I’ll know for sure when we get there.”

  There was silence in the car as they drove down Ludgate Hill, then cut across the traffic lights onto Farringdon Road.

  Pike was in the front passenger seat. Dylan was driving, but he could see Pike out of the corner of his eye. The big man was sitting with his eyes tightly closed, fingers drumming on the dashboard. There was a sense of containment about him, as if all his energy was being held inside, channeled, focused.

  “Take the next left.”

  “That brings us onto Clerkenwell Road.”

  Pike nodded.

  Dylan flicked the indicator. The traffic lights ahead switched to green, and he swung the Citroen Picasso’s wheel.

  “We’re very close,” Pike said, and then his eyes opened and he pointed to a large derelict building on the left-hand side of the road. It was surrounded by a rusting chain-link fence, its windows boarded with thick sheets of plywood. “There!” he said, “Daniel’s in there.”

  Dylan didn’t bother to ask him whether he was sure; there was such certainty in the man’s voice.

  In the back of the Picasso, Harry Bailey, Miranda Payne, and Jacek Czerwinski exchanged glances. None had said a word on the journey, all of them totally carried along on Pike’s wave of intensity. Dylan pulled out his cell phone and hit speed dial.

  In his office, Martin Impey picked up his phone, checked the caller display, and said, “Yes, Dylan, what can I do for you?”

  “We’re outside a building at 115 Clerkenwell Road. It’s derelict and boarded up. Can you find a schematic for it?”

  “I’m on it,” Martin said, his fingers already flying over the keys of his computer. “Give me a couple of minutes. I’ll call you when I have something.”

  Pike opened the car door.

  “Wait!” Dylan said. “Let Martin do his job. We’re not going in there blind.”

  “But Daniel—”

  “Won’t thank us if we fuck it up now, will he? Let’s wait for Martin. He’s very good, you know.”

  Pike sighed but relented and sank back into his seat, eyeing the building apprehensively.

  A few moments later, Dylan’s cell buzzed.

  “We’re in luck. A developer’s got his hands on it. He’s posted the original plans along with the new ones. I’ll send the originals through to your PDA. Sending now.”

  “Thank you, Martin. Remind me to buy you a drink next time we meet up.”

  Martin Impey laughed. “Dylan, you say that every time I help you out. So far I haven’t had so much as a beer off you.”

  “I mean it this time,” Dylan said, the insincerity heavy in his voice.

  “Sure. Good luck.”

  Dylan rang off and slipped the phone into his pocket. At the same time he took out his PDA and checked the floor plans of the building.

  “Okay. Let’s move.”

  The doors of the Picasso opened and the team poured out onto the street.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Clerkenwell, London, England

  Daniel Milton didn’t realize it, but he was close to death. Exposure, the loss of blood, and the toxins from the rat bites already running rampant in his body were conspiring to kill him. He was vaguely aware of noises coming from the floors below and resigned himself to the fact that John Holly and some of his confederates had come back to finish him off. So be it, he thought, and lapsed into unconsciousness.

  “Any idea where we should start looking?” Dylan asked Pike as they pushed aside the corrugated iron covering the doorway. The iron sheet offered very little in the way of security, and it was obvious that many feet had passed this way recently.

  “Up, I think,” Pike said. “It’s difficult. I’m picking up nothing now.”

  “Which means?” Bailey said, pushing past them to stand in what was once the foyer of the building.

  “We could be too late,” Pike said grimly.

  Miranda Payne followed Jacek Czerwinski through into the building, picking her way over rubble and assorted debris in her slightly-too-high-heeled shoes. “The place stinks,” she said, wrinkling her nose in disgust.

  “It smells like the apartment building where I live,” Jacek said. “People use that as a toilet too.”

  “Charmin
g,” Miranda said. “And you’re happy to live there?”

  “I’ve resigned myself to it,” Jacek said with a rueful smile.

  They reached Dylan and the others. Dylan was checking his PDA, scrolling through the screens. “The stairs are this way,” he said, pointing to a doorway to his left. “I think it’s safe to assume the elevator won’t be working.”

  “Best check each floor as we go up,” Bailey said, marching toward the door. He was feeling good, invigorated. He hadn’t realized it until now, but he missed this. Hiding himself away in the peaceful environs of Dublin might have been good for his health, but it did nothing for his spiritual wellbeing. He missed the game too much.

  He pulled the heavy fire door open and ushered the others through into the stairwell.

  Pike stood at the bottom of the stairs and called out. “Daniel!” His voice was deep and booming, and bounced off the concrete walls. He called again, listening intently.

  Nothing.

  His deepest fears seemed to be edging closer to reality. He remembered the loss of so many others. Their deaths could have happened yesterday, and the pain he felt from them was acute, exacerbated by the fact that he blamed himself for putting their lives on the line.

  He’d pulled them into his own private war, as he had with others in the past. And now there were still more people involved. He looked around at their faces. All eager, committed, with perhaps the exception of Miranda Payne, who was looking distinctly uncomfortable and out of her depth. How many of these people would survive the battle with Holly and his kind? He shuddered inwardly and forced his mind to focus on the task in hand—finding Daniel Milton.

  As Pike and the others climbed the stairs and started searching, more bodies were pushing their way silently through the corrugated-iron-covered doorway. The ones who possessed a modicum of psychic ability were searching the place with their minds; others sniffed the air hungrily. One of them, a man, stood apart, speaking quietly into a cell phone. “Yes,” he said. “Pike and Czerwinski are here. But they’re not alone.”