by James Knapp
I watched as a pair of gloved hands stuck the card to the window of the door; then the figure turned to look around, and I could see it was a young woman. She looked back at the card to make sure it was still there, then climbed back down the stairs and moved out of frame.
She come back?
No. Friend of yours?
Never seen her before. Who is she?
Some third. Father died in an industrial accident. She’s living off the settlement, if you could call it that.
The smell near the truck was starting to get to me. I took a look at the revivor lying on the ground, now under a wool blanket. The components inside looked a little better than the others, but they didn’t survive either.
Bring her in, Noakes said.
Sean got tasked with the autopsy of the dock revivor, but it had been a long time since he worked on one. Revivors were kept on ice when they were in the country, in case of public emergency, to round out National Guard numbers. They were only shipped out of the country, never in, except by black marketers like Tai. Finding useful information about them was going to mean going to the source: Heinlein Industries, the company that developed and built them. Since they were the country’s largest government contractor and highly political, that was going to make a lot of people nervous, but it couldn’t be helped. Smuggling a revivor into the country was not an easy thing to do, and someone who was able to manage it needed a lot of underworld contacts that put him at huge personal risk. That kind of service was expensive; no one spent that kind of money for nothing. Revivors and guns equaled one thing.
Someone out there meant to stir up some trouble.
3
Sub Rosa
Faye Dasalia—Shopping District
When I arrived at the scene, the car had been taped off and the driver’s-side door was hanging open. The sun had started to melt some of the snow that was covering the windshield, and I could see the woman’s stark white face through the gap. Shanks was standing by the car, holding two paper cups with steam coming off them.
“You’ve got something on you,” he said, pointing to my sleeve. I looked down and saw a series of reddish-black splotches smeared near my cuff; blood from the revivor. It had taken some scrubbing to get it off my hands, and I still couldn’t get rid of that tar smell.
“Footage of the truck fire is streaming everywhere,” he said, handing me one of the cups. “That was a hell of a thing.”
“Yeah.”
“You actually touched one, huh?” he asked.
“What was left of it.”
“What was it like?”
I wasn’t sure how to answer that, mostly because I wasn’t exactly sure how the whole thing had made me feel. I didn’t want to think about the revivor. I didn’t want to think about the fire or the call I made. Wachalowski hadn’t been there. They said he was in the field and wouldn’t forward the call. I had to settle for his office voice mail, leaving the information and asking him to call me. Now I wished I could take the last part back.
“Are you okay?” Shanks asked.
“It’s not our problem,” I said. “I called the FBI; they can handle it. I’ll probably just have to make a statement.”
“Lucky you.”
FBI always meant first tier, and government-employed, first-tier citizens were pretty much golden boys. Wachalowski had served not just his minimum tour, but for years after that. When he’d left me behind, he’d done so in more ways than one.
“Yeah, lucky me.”
I approached the vehicle and looked inside. It was the same as the other crime scenes; Mae Zhu had a single puncture wound to the chest that drove right into the heart. Death was almost instantaneous.
The woman had been in the car for hours and she was starting to freeze up, her white blouse stained almost completely red. She was a small woman, with pale skin and tiny hands. Her head lolled forward and her eyes were just barely open, still staring almost wistfully at the hole beneath her chin.
I crouched down, leaning in for a closer look. Her seat belt was unfastened. Her keys were lying on the floor near her feet, as if they had fallen there from her hand. Her purse sat on the divider between the driver’s and passenger’s seats, and an expensive leather wallet lay open on the dashboard. The driver’s license was there, along with a few top-shelf credit cards.
“Mae Zhu,” I said, reading off the license. “Do we know who she is?”
“First tier, but never served.”
I nodded. So far, that was the one thing the victims all shared in common. None of them shipped off, and none of them were wired for reanimation, but they were all first tier. That didn’t happen unless you had special skills or connections, but I hadn’t been able to determine what either of those might be.
I looked down the street at the people moving past the barricade. They all wore expensive clothes. The cars on the street were all like Mae Zhu’s vehicle: high- end, and built for luxury. The building faces were all glass and marble, towering to impressive heights. There were security cameras everywhere.
“A lot of people have money and connections,” I said. “What’s he going to do? Kill all of them?”
There was a faint depression in the leather of the backseat where someone heavy had sat for a significant period of time. The person sat in one spot and didn’t move. He would have been visible in the rearview mirror when she got in, so he attacked right away. The mirror hadn’t been flipped, so the victim arrived during the day and was killed before she adjusted it.
I looked at the wound. In all the cases so far, the wound to the chest was always the cause of death and it was always the same: a single penetration through the sternum and into the heart. The blade struck with enough force that it always went clean through on the first shot. It penetrated without fracturing, so it was also very sharp. The fact that there was never any bruising around the wound implied that the hilt never impacted, and so it was also fairly long. No metal traces were ever left in the wound, so it was most likely made of some kind of superhard plastic.
None of that narrowed it down much. A lot of blades fit that description, but the exact weapon was just another mystery in a case that was full of them. The dimensions of the wound didn’t seem strange at first, but I had been so far unable to match them to anything, and that was unusual. The weapon was significant to the killer, most likely. Something he may have crafted himself, or that wasn’t commonly available.
What now?
What Dr. Pyznar called my voice and what I called my intuition seemed to get more talkative the more tired I got. I still believed it was just that internal self we all spoke to at one time or another, that entity we consulted when we wondered if we were doing the right thing, or when we were alone and talked to ourselves. Mine was just louder than most.
Now we look for clues, I answered.
I looked at the rearview mirror; she would have seen him there after he grabbed her from behind. With her head pinned, she would have seen his face in that mirror as he leaned forward, bringing the knife around.
“CSI has to have picked up something,” I muttered to the dead woman.
He doesn’t leave hair, sweat, or skin flakes. Is that even possible?
Apparently.
Nothing obvious was missing from the wallet, and the glove box hadn’t been tampered with. He never took anything, and he never left anything.
There’s something unique about him, my inner voice said. He’s not like other people. That’s why you draw such a blank with him.
That was true; a blank was exactly what I was drawing. It was truer than I would ever admit out loud, even to Shanks. Killers were usually passionate if nothing else, and the passion of their crimes, whatever they happened to be, were imprinted on their victims and their families forever. They left trails, even when they weren’t physical ones. Even when they thought they planned well, they left trails, and every killer, no matter how far out there, had a reason for killing.
If I could just understand why
, I thought, that would connect them. It doesn’t matter if the reason is typical or completely insane, but I can’t figure it out.
That scares you, doesn’t it?
A little.
Let me do what I need to do, he had said. He had a reason.
You can understand why someone might want to kill a first tier, can’t you? Especially one who never had to crawl through a trench to get it. You can feel that, can’t you?
Yes.
People killed for jealousy all the time. They killed out of resentment, out of a sense of injustice, all the time. People who didn’t have things resented people who did, even if it was only secretly. Sometimes they hated them. Sometimes it drove them to violence. Every one of the victims so far would most likely have looked down on me in life, so I could understand how the thing that seemed to connect them all might drive someone to kill.
I also knew that wasn’t it.
It’s because he’s different, the voice said.
Well, if you know something, then clue me in.
Maybe I will, but not yet.
Backing out of the car suddenly, I had to grab the door to keep from slipping on the ice. The scene shifted in front of me like I was going to nod off right there, and I shook my head to clear it. Feeling a little dizzy, I took a deep breath and stood there for a moment, trying to focus.
“This is crazy,” I said under my breath. Maybe Pyznar was right; maybe I was pushing it too hard. It was one thing to bounce ideas off yourself; it was another thing to suspect your inner voice of withholding information from you.
When I looked back at the crowd, no one seemed to have noticed, but everyone was filming. Every move from every angle was being streamed live and would replay on the news channels for the rest of the night or until something better came along. A crime scene was no place to start exhibiting strange behavior.
“You getting anything?” Shanks asked. He was hanging back by the curb, giving me room.
“There’s a lot more to this story,” I said.
“Drink it before it gets cold,” he said, nodding at the paper cup. I took a gulp of the hot, bitter liquid.
“Something else is still bothering you,” he added.
“That call this morning.”
“He wants to rattle you.”
Whoever it was, he was smart; the trace had failed to find the source of the call, and even the voice analysis had been a bust. He was using some kind of electronic filter that not only altered his voice to mask any accent or even any clue as to his age or ethnicity, but even canceled out all background noise. The techs couldn’t get anything, not even traces of breathing or heartbeat. He was very careful before placing his call. He wanted to tell me something.
Shanks watched me, his eyes a little concerned.
“Never mind,” I said. “It’s just been a hell of a morning, you know?”
“I know.”
I signaled to the coroner that it was okay to move the body.
What about Wachalowski? the voice wanted to know. What are you going to say when you see him?
I’m not sure.
What made you decide to call him? Who is he to you?
He can help.
How do you know?
I felt my head nod again and pinched the skin on my arm, twisting it until it hurt. I breathed in the cold air and focused, inwardly coaxing my body like it was an old car threatening to stall. On the one hand, I did wonder why I thought that, but on the other hand, I was sure that he could. I didn’t even know how or why, but I felt sure of it.
That was going to have to be enough.
Zoe Ott—Pleasantview Apartments, Apartment 713
“It got split,” the dead woman said, holding out the heart. I was back in the green concrete room, sitting at a folding table that was set near one end. She walked over to the switch on the wall and pushed it into the up position.
A single light snapped on at the far end of the room, shining down on a figure standing there. This time it was a man with leathery brown skin, dressed in an Army soldier’s uniform. He looked part Asian, maybe in his thirties or so, but it was hard to tell. His hair and even his eyebrows had been shaved off, and his eyes were pale and silvery, glowing faintly in the dim light.
“A revivor?” I asked. The dead woman didn’t answer; she just watched as I got up and moved closer to the figure under the light.
“Do you know who he is?” she asked.
“No.”
His jaw looked like it had been wired shut, and even under his brown skin I could see black veins standing out. It was definitely a revivor. Leaning closer I looked at the name patch on his chest.
ZHANG
“He’s dead,” I said. “Who was he?”
“A piece of history few will ever know.”
Looking away from the man, I turned my attention back to the dead woman to find her staring at him intensely.
“Why are you showing him to me?” I asked.
Just then a phone rang, startling me. The dead woman turned to the wall next to her and touched her fingers to a metal panel that I’d seen before but never paid any attention to. She pushed it and it swiveled outward, revealing a handset inside. The call light on the handset flickered as it rang again.
“Answer it,” she said, and I woke up.
Cracking my eyes open, I found myself in stuffy darkness, and realized I was in my bed, under a pile of blankets. When I heard the ring, I thought it was a remnant from my dream.
A second later, I heard the ringing again. I thought it might actually be my cell phone.
Groping around under the covers, I felt it under there with me and rolled over, twisting myself into the blankets. In my hand the little call light flashed. Was this another dream?
Answer it, she had said. My hands trembled in front of my face like they did usually in the morning as the light kept flashing. I pried it open and answered it.
“Hello?”
There was a pause, and a man answered.
“Zoe Ott?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Who is—”
Usually I forgot chunks of the previous night; that wasn’t that strange. More often than not the memories never came back to me, and the only reason I knew they happened was because I’d left some kind of evidence behind. Sometimes, though, they’d come back to me in a flash.
“Shit.”
“Excuse me?”
All at once I remembered the bitter cold, the monorail ride, and the snow banks bordering the sidewalk. The lights and the sounds all came rushing back to me.
I hadn’t just left the apartment; I went all the way across town. I went all the way to . . .
“Is this Agent Wachalowski?” I asked weakly. I waited, hoping I was wrong.
“Yes, it is,” the voice said. “How did you know?”
I had actually done it. I had actually gone and really done it. At some point during the night, after I thought I had safely passed out, I had gotten back up, found the FBI building, and left a note. No, not a note—a card. I left a little card.
My ears were burning. He must have thought I was a complete idiot.
“Ms. Ott?” he prompted.
“Yes?”
“I got your card. I’d like you to come in so I can talk with you. Is that okay?”
“You want me to come in?”
“Yes.”
I needed a shower, and I couldn’t remember the last time I shaved my legs or my pits. I hadn’t done any laundry in as long as I could remember, and even washed I probably looked like a train wreck. My mouth tasted like sour puke, and when I held up my hand to check it, my fingers were shaking. I tried to concentrate on them, but I couldn’t make them stop.
“Ms. Ott, is that okay?”
When he calls, go to him.
“When?”
“Can you come down now?” he asked. “I promise I won’t keep you long.”
“Am I in trouble?”
“No, ma’am, you’re not in any trouble. I’d just
like to speak with you.”
“Why?”
“Because you indicated on your card that you could help me,” he said, “and I’m hoping that’s true.”
My mind was racing and I felt like getting out of bed was going to be difficult, never mind getting across town. A million reasons why I shouldn’t go came at me in a blur, and I answered before one of them could take root.
“Sure. I’ll come.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Just give me an hour.”
“I look forward to meeting you.”
Folding the phone shut, I struggled out of the blankets and jumped onto the floor, which was freezing. I pulled off my nightshirt and threw it away in a pile, trying to get it together. On the bed next to the pile of blankets was an overturned glass in the middle of a big sticky stain, an open spiral notebook, a crumpled cardboard box, and a ton of sugar cookie crumbs. He couldn’t see me like I was.
I took a shower so hot the bathroom filled with steam, then gargled and brushed the life out of my teeth. I washed my hair three times and started to shave my legs, but ended up nicking myself so many times I just gave up and put on pants instead.
I scrubbed my face, my hands, and combed my hair until it was completely straight, which it hadn’t been in a long time. Pulling some clothes out of one of the unopened dry cleaning bags, I got dressed, drank a few shots until my hands stopped shaking, then gargled and brushed my teeth again.
A little over an hour later, I was standing on the sidewalk, facing the steps leading up to a big building and feeling self-conscious. I sort of remembered standing there the night before, but barely. The steps and the area extending out toward the sidewalk in front of them were polished marble, and the building itself looked big and imposing. The whole front of the place looked like black glass divided into panels, and in the center were two doors made of the same glass. It was pretty much the most unwelcoming building I had ever seen.
