Bad Faith bkamc-24

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  Knight was still thinking about that night as he and his two escorts approached a vaguely familiar intersection of tunnels. He had not recognized much of the route they’d taken, though he knew from experience that the Mole People rarely took the same way back to their homes. As Grale had explained to him that first night, they had many enemies. “Some are criminals and violent men who seek revenge on some of us or think we’d be ‘easy’ targets,” he’d said. “But some are officers of the law, even federal agents, looking for some of us.”

  Grale had laughed. “It might alarm you to know that if I was caught, I’d be arrested and tried for multiple counts of murder,” he said. “But I can assure you I’ve never killed anyone who didn’t deserve it.”

  There was one other group whose presence made the Mole People take the security of their home seriously. “We call them the Others,” Grale explained. “They live beneath the streets, too. Vicious, deranged killers who have formed their own communities ruled by whoever is the most violent and evil. They are demons who have taken over the bodies of human beings. As called upon by God, we hunt them, but they in turn hunt us, especially if we wander the dark paths alone and unarmed. You must always be on guard against them.”

  Having started to relax around Grale, Knight was taken aback by the comments about demons. He really is quite deranged himself, he’d thought at the time, though I have to admit there is something else about him that makes me feel safe.

  Now, passing through one sewer tunnel with Dirty Warren and Booger, Knight noticed large, elaborate, and quite well-done paintings on a wall. “I don’t remember this,” he said.

  “It’s the … whoop oh boy ass … latest thing in the underground art scene,” Dirty Warren explained. “They’re the creme de la creme of graffiti artists, who sneak down and paint on sewer walls and subway tunnels. Some are actually pretty famous in the art world; I’ve even seen some photos of their art in the magazines I sell at my newsstand. Unfortunately … piss tits … we sometimes have to chase them off-contributing of course to urban myths about bogeymen who live beneath the streets. They’re harmless, and I think a lot of their stuff is pretty good and … whoop whoop ohhhhboy oh boy … livens up the place, but we don’t want anybody accidentally stumbling on the kingdom and giving us away to the police or our enemies.”

  As they approached the familiar-looking intersection, Dirty Warren called out, “I’m looking for the … piss damn whoop … entrance to the kingdom of heaven.”

  “And how do you gain entrance?” a voice shouted back.

  “The love of … whoop … Christ.”

  Knight looked amused. “You haven’t changed the password in four years?”

  Dirty Warren shrugged. “David doesn’t see the … oh boy crap … need. Let’s keep moving, David’s a bit more … uh whoop whoop … temperamental than maybe the last time you saw him.”

  “Temperamental?” Knight said.

  “Yeah, and it’s getting … oh boy … worse,” Dirty Warren replied.

  Knight caught the scowl on his guide’s face and the worried tone in his voice. So the madness continues, he thought, again harkening back to his introduction to the Mole People.

  After telling his story to Grale that first night, he’d been given a hot meal and a cot to sleep on. The next morning, he stood before his benefactor again.

  “I trust you slept well, brother,” Grale had said, stroking his long beard as he sat on his leather throne. “At least it had to be better than a concrete floor in a subway tunnel.”

  “Much,” Knight replied. “I’m very grateful.”

  Grale nodded. “As I said to you last night, I believe there is more at work here than mere chance or dumb luck. What that may be we shall learn in God’s own time. Meanwhile, I’d like to make you an offer. You are welcome to join us. You’ll be given a place to stay and share in our meals. You’ll be expected to join one of our work parties-everybody who is able does-but nothing too onerous.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” Knight replied, thinking that at least for the winter, having someplace warm with food was an attractive option, even if it was underground.

  “Good,” Grale said, smiling, then he frowned. “However, we do have rules here, starting with no alcohol or drugs, which, along with any criminal activities or acts that place my people or our home in danger, will be cause to have you expelled. And in the case of traitors, the punishment is much worse. Do you understand?”

  Gathering what Grale had just implied, Knight could only nod. He wondered if he could do without the alcohol-craving a drink even then-though he saw a glimmer of hope that enforced abstinence might free him from its influence. He had no intention of doing any other sort of criminal activity, or of being a traitor, so he knew he was safe in that regard and tried not to think what the punishment might entail.

  Grale looked long and hard at him before nodding. “One more thing: you are welcome to leave us at any time. However, for the first few months-before you’ve proved yourself and know your way around-you will always be led outside by escorts who will confuse the way back to the kingdom. If you choose to leave us, you can’t come back without an escort. And finally, a word of caution: if you try to leave on your own, or return on your own, we will deal with you harshly. However, we will probably not need to; if the Others find you wandering the labyrinth, there will be no helping you.”

  Grale’s lecture had sent chills up his spine, but having nowhere else to turn, he’d opted to remain with the Mole People. And he soon learned to like most of the kingdom’s inhabitants and their king.

  As Grale noted during one of their many conversations, the Mole People society was based on early Christian communities where everyone worked for the common good, sharing the successes and hardships of their lives together. Those who could not work-including women with small children, the infirm, and those too ill-were taken care of by the community. Those who could work were divided into various parties. Some begged on the streets, others scoured Dumpsters and alleys throughout the city for food and anything that might be useful or sold at a secondhand store. Some even worked menial jobs, bringing their wages back to put in the community pot.

  Grale oversaw all of it. Although he delegated some authority and day-to-day functions to trusted lieutenants, he was every bit the warrior-king who ruled on disagreements; presided over social events, including officiating at marriages; ruled on matters of the community’s laws; and meted out punishments. While he could be imperious and harsh, he was also gentle and loving, spending long hours walking among his people offering words of encouragement and tending to the sick. Most called him “Father,” though he took no offense when some simply referred to him as David. Nor was there a requirement that his people believe in any particular religious credo, so in addition to Christians, there was a sprinkling of residents of other faiths, as well as agnostics and atheists.

  There was another side to Grale, however. His people referred to his “dark moods,” when he would sit on his throne for hours, even days, hardly moving, or even talking, except to himself or to lash out over small or imagined issues. Often during these periods, he would roam his subterranean world, or the streets above at night, killing-murdering, Knight reminded himself-men and even women he believed were evil and inhabited by demons.

  The vigilante killings rankled Knight as a man and as a defense attorney. He had a hard time stomaching Grale’s self-appointed position as judge, jury, and lord high executioner, but he said nothing, knowing it would do no good. Although Grale seemed to enjoy his conversations with Knight and they’d spent hours discussing philosophy, the law, and world events, he didn’t come to him for advice on how to rule his dark world.

  Indeed, the only man who seemed to have the king’s ear was Brother James, a small, gnomish man who had apparently once been an electrical engineer and was responsible for many of the “civilized” attributes of the kingdom. He had once had a family and a good job, but something-no one knew quite what-had cau
sed him to lose both, and he’d found his way to the Mole People, among whom his technical abilities, despite his bitter personality, had made him welcome.

  When Grale was in one of his moods, James would often be seen standing behind the throne, bent over and talking in a low voice, a smirk on his face. Whatever it was he said, it often seemed to push Grale farther into the dark recesses of his mind, and only a “hunting trip” would bring him out of it.

  The little man had few friends and he didn’t bother to hide his dislike for Knight, whom he seemed to see as a competitor for Grale’s favor. The women in the community were known to avoid him and his leering face and searching eyes. But Grale seemed not to notice and did nothing when others complained about him, other than to point out that they owed their light and heat to James.

  Despite his distaste for Grale’s vigilante efforts, Knight generally liked the man and felt a great debt to him. In all he spent six months with the Mole People, six months that sobered him up to the point where he no longer wanted a drink. He’d been assigned to the “Dumpster diving” crews, something that before meeting Grale would have appalled him. Yet it gave him a sense of purpose to bring something of value back to the odd community that had taken him in. He felt at home.

  So he had been dismayed when one night, Grale summoned him to his throne and announced, “My brother, it is time for you to leave us.”

  “Why? Have I done something wrong?” Knight asked.

  Smiling, Grale shook his head. “No, my brother, but it is time. Some of these people will never leave; they are incapable of dealing with the outside world. But others, like our friend Warren Bennett, who runs the newsstand in front of the courts building and lives in a small apartment, and you-now that you’ve rid your body of the poisons you poured into it and have discovered what it means to be part of a community-have a life on the outside they need to follow. And, in truth, I have another reason.”

  Grale explained that he wanted Knight to resume his law practice. “From time to time, my people need the services of an attorney, and it would be very helpful if I could count on you.”

  Although the idea frightened him, Knight also felt something awaken in him. He knew that Grale was right. His life was on the outside, and if he could repay his friend by resuming his career, he would do it.

  Grale had even given him enough money to rent his small office on the Lower East Side, as well as a tiny apartment. Knight was humbled by the gesture, knowing how hard the Mole People worked to come up with that kind of money, and from the day he hung his shingle again, he’d refused to take any more funds from them.

  It hadn’t been easy. A one-man law office didn’t bring in much to spare, and there’d been days when he’d vaguely contemplated going out for a drink, especially when his former receptionist, Danielle, had suggested it one night. But he recalled that night four years earlier when he’d thought about jumping in front of a subway train and the thought of alcohol made him nauseous.

  As he and his two escorts now approached Grale’s lair, he was experiencing trepidation in light of what he was planning to do. This was more than getting one of the Mole People out of jail or representing them for some petty crime like vagrancy or trespassing.

  When his former employer told him his new client’s name was Nadya Malovo, it only vaguely rang a bell, and not in the context of Grale. When he read her file and the affadavits placed there by the New York DAO, he assumed he’d heard her name in news accounts of her alleged criminal activities. None of which would have caused him to contact Dirty Warren at his newsstand in front of the Criminal Courts Building.

  No, Knight’s visit to Dirty Warren was inspired by Malovo herself, when she mentioned having worked for Andrew Kane, the former mayoral candidate who’d somehow been embroiled in criminal plots and terrorism. Once the darling of his party and the media, both of which had seen him as presidential material, Kane was apparently more of a Lex Luthor, a criminal mastermind, than a John F. Kennedy.

  When Knight lived among the Mole People, it was well-known that Grale considered Kane to be a mortal enemy and a demon of the first degree. He had devoted himself to tracking the man, waiting for an opportunity to strike. And although Knight had not seen Grale in several years, the Mole People grapevine-mostly in the form of Dirty Warren-had informed him that his friend had indeed captured Kane and kept him a prisoner, though to what end, no one seemed to know.

  Knight didn’t know if it would be important to Grale that his client, a vicious terrorist who was now working with the feds in the hope of being placed in the witness protection program, had talked to him about working for Kane. But he thought it was worth telling Dirty Warren and was only a little surprised when the news vendor called on him at his office and said that Grale wanted to talk to him in person.

  On his way to meet his guides, Knight had wrestled with what he was doing. One issue was the fifty-thousand-dollar retainer check he’d been handed to take on Malovo’s case. He’d immediately paid his bills and rehired Danielle, even paying her for the times when she’d volunteered. The money was a godsend and he wished he could keep it. But he figured he was now going to have to give it back, maybe even repay what he’d spent except for the few hours he’d worked on the case, and then tell his employer that he needed to retain another lawyer.

  But more than that troubled him. By talking to Grale about his work for Malovo and the conversations he had with her, he was betraying the attorney-client privilege and his oath as a defense attorney. It didn’t matter that she was without a doubt a cold-blooded killer; she had the absolute right to legal representation.

  He argued with himself that there was no reason to discuss her with Grale. She merely mentioned that she regretted working for Kane. Maybe she was trying to turn over a new leaf and was just an attractive woman who had been used by men all of her life for their own evil ends. The same ethics that had caused him to give up his practice in the first place now nagged at him.

  Still, he felt compelled to let Grale know that he was working for her. He owed it to the man who had given him his life back. He would find a way to assuage his conscience later.

  As he had once before, Knight felt, rather than saw, the moment he stepped into the inner sanctum of the Mole People. “Welcome … fuck you oh boy … home,” Dirty Warren said, patting him on the back. “We’re to take you straightaway to David. … One word of caution: he is edgy these days and his moods are darker and last longer. He’s also got a bad cough but won’t go see a doctor; maybe you can talk him into it.”

  Approaching Grale’s platform, Knight could see his friend slumped in his chair, but someone else was missing. “Where’s Brother James?” he whispered.

  “Gone,” Dirty Warren spat. “He was caught stealing from the treasury, and there’s always been … whoop whoop … his leering at the women. David kicked him out and told him never to return on penalty of death.”

  “Good riddance,” Knight said. “I never did like that guy.”

  “No one did,” Dirty Warren said. “Bastard.”

  Drawing closer to Grale, Knight could see that the years had not been kind. His long hair was streaked with gray and the lines in his ashen face were deeper. The sleeves of his robe had been pulled up, revealing how thin he was, the muscles standing out against the pallid skin like ropes. He coughed into his hand, a deep, wet bark, as they walked up.

  “You should get that cough checked out,” Knight said.

  Grale turned his head slowly to look at him. “God is my physician.”

  “Which medical school?” Knight shot back. He heard Dirty Warren suck in his breath in shock.

  But Grale laughed. “I see you haven’t lost your sense of humor, brother. That is good. We could do with a little more laughter around here, couldn’t we, Warren?”

  “Hell … whoop whoop … yeah,” the news vendor replied. “I’ll leave you two alone until … oh boy my ass … you need me to take Bruce home.”

  “Thank you, Warren, we won
’t be long,” Grale replied, and then turned to Knight. “I hear you have a new client?”

  Knight nodded. “Yes, Nadya Malovo. She is-”

  Grale held up a hand. “I know all about that evil woman. It is fortunate that you were picked to be her attorney.”

  “Dumb luck, I guess,” Knight replied.

  Grale’s eyes blazed angrily for a moment, but then he nodded. “As I told you once, it wasn’t dumb luck but divine intervention. I had heard that she was in town again.”

  “She’s working for the feds to root out some terrorist sleeper cells,” Knight said, surprised at how easy it was to betray his client.

  “So she says,” Grale said scathingly. “I believe there is more to it than that. But come, tell us everything she said and did.”

  Knight recounted what he’d seen in her files, as well as what she told him in their interview. When he got to her request for him to meet with her cousin, Grale laughed.

  “Boris Kazanov is no cousin of Nadya Malovo,” he said. “He’s a brutal killer, including of women and children, who he particularly likes to torture first. A dangerous demon I have been trying to find for years. Have you arranged this meeting?”

  “Yes, two nights from now,” Knight replied. “On the boardwalk at Coney Island. Should I not go?”

  “Oh, no,” Grale said. “You should definitely go. But I will be there, too.”

  Knight swallowed hard. He didn’t like the sound of Grale’s voice. He almost forgot to tell him what Malovo had said about working with Kane, but then remembered.

  At the mention of Kane, Grale reached down and picked up the end of a dog leash, which he yanked hard. There was a yelp and a man-at least he seemed to be a man, though he crawled on all fours and simpered like a whipped cur-appeared from the other side of Grale’s throne. His clothes were in tatters, his long blond hair matted and filthy; the leash was attached to a collar around his neck. But the true horror was that when he looked up, his face was a mass of scar tissue through which two blue eyes burned with madness and hatred.