Blood Avatar

by Ilsa J. Bick

  “You said two agents,” Ramsey interjected. “Who’s the other one, the one you lost contact with? Is he dead, too?”

  “I believe,” Kodza said, “not quite yet.”

  52

  Tuesday, 17 April 3136

  0345 hours

  They agreed on only one thing: sleep. The case was taking weird twists and turns, and they were beat. Come morning, they’d meet with Kodza’s agent, whoever he was. Privately, Ramsey thought Kodza wanted time to brief her agent. Nothing to do about it.

  Troy and Noah were in ICU, with deputies standing guard, and probably as safe as they were going to be. Ketchum checked the duty roster and found that Boaz had clocked out late, at twenty-one hundred, because he’d had paper to catch up on.

  “So, as far as we know, both men are still in town. But if this keeps up, I can’t make it work,” Ketchum said. “Either we get on the horn to New Bonn or DBI and get some extra people, or something’s got to break, and soon.”

  “Give it twenty-four hours. Things really are starting to pop.” Ramsey reached for the nearly-empty coffeepot, thought better of it, and leaned back in his chair. Kodza was gone, shuttled back to her hotel by a deputy, and Amanda was rearranging her schedule for the next morning. “Our guy’s going to try for Troy again, and probably Noah. Either that or he goes underground and bides his time.” Ramsey hooked a thumb toward Kodza’s empty chair. “What’d you think?”

  “Of her sudden candor, or that semicontradictory load of tarise crap?”

  “Both.”

  Ketchum shrugged kinks from his neck. “I don’t know. Parts about the Blakists almost make sense. But I have a hard time with the Clans. Yeah, yeah, Limyanovich’s got some strange stuff in his DNA, that doesn’t mean there’s Clan involved.”

  “I agree. But what about Isaiah Schroeder?”

  Ketchum made an inarticulate sound, something between a groan and an mmmm. Said: “Isaiah was a good man. So could he have worked for the government, maybe volunteered or got himself killed trying to do the right thing? I can believe that.”

  “What about Doc? Boaz?”

  “Heck, I don’t know.” Ketchum scrubbed his face with his hands. “I just don’t know. Whatever, I’m gonna get Bobby on the horn, have him watch Doc, then maybe we can see Doc round about noon after we meet our secret agent. When you getting Kodza?”

  “Around nine,” Ramsey said. “We’ll go to Ida’s and meet you there.”

  * * *

  Ramsey found Amanda in admissions. She’d pinned up her hair, but it was coming down, giving her a frayed look. “Hi,” she said, and yawned, stood, and stretched like a cat. “You know, between our bumps and bruises, people are gonna start talking about just what goes on when we get together.” While he was figuring out how to reply to that, she said, “I’m so tired, I’m thinking of crashing in an on-call room. So, how’s the hand?”

  “It’s okay. Sore.”

  “Mmmm.” She sauntered over, slid her arms around his waist, tilted up her chin and said, “Wanna sack out in an on-call room? Maybe . . . show me your gun?”

  “Why . . . Doctor.”

  * * *

  In the end, he didn’t stay. He needed sleep, and he needed a car. So he said good-night, chastely kissed her forehead and left to meet Ketchum in the ER lobby.

  Ketchum was waiting on dispatch to put him through to a last call. “I’m getting old. Muscles feel like banjo strings,” he said, palming the back of his neck. “Just one more, and we’re gone and . . . he . . . hello, Bobby? Hank Ketchum. Sorry to roust you at this hour but something’s come up and . . .”

  * * *

  “. . . absolutely no problem. But one thing, Hank: let Doc go to noon Mass. If you don’t let him get his praying in . . . yeah . . . yeah, I thought you’d see it that way . . . Now get some sleep, Hank, and don’t you worry,” Gabriel said, and smiled. “I’ll take care of everything.”

  53

  Tuesday, 17 April 3136

  0900 hours

  Change of shift was at seven, and by nine, Hannah Schroeder smelled warm scrambled eggs and fresh coffee wafting through the ICU doors as an orderly clattered by with a cart loaded with breakfast trays for patients down the hall.

  Noah was still unconscious, tubes and needles sticking in and out every which way, and monitors going, the hiss of the ventilator a weird counterpoint to the high-pitched beep-beep-beep that was Noah’s heart. Dr. Slade said that Noah was young and this was in his favor. But one look at Noah’s poor, ravaged face and her chest clenched with a bad, black feeling, like the fingers of an icy fist, the same feeling she’d gotten the night Isaiah hadn’t come home.

  Scott. If only he’d come home instead of shacking up with that slut, none of this would’ve happened. Grace was the real problem. If Grace would just go away, then Scott would come home, and there would be a man around the house. If only Grace would just go away.

  Hannah stood, bent and picked up her handbag: so light, suddenly, as if the weight had transferred to her heart. Then, a slight touch at her elbow, and Hannah flinched, whipped round, her eyes wide.

  “Oh!” A nurse: young, blond, and taken aback. “I didn’t mean to startle you. It’s just that . . . wouldn’t you like to lie down? Or maybe something to eat, you haven’t eaten anything since yesterday morning.”

  The woman’s kindness made Hannah’s eyes fill. “No, no, I’m all right. I just remembered. There’s something I have to do.”

  * * *

  She didn’t remember leaving the hospital, but suddenly she was outside. Heat splashed her face but did nothing to thaw the ice in her chest. She was numb all over as if she’d pushed into a blackness darker than night: black upon black.

  She urged her car north along a road that the sun transformed into a gleaming silver-black ribbon. She slowed as she went through town. The familiar storefronts slid past the way she remembered those painted scenes on a merry-go-round spooled by, there and gone. She saw everything clearly. People out now, neighbors and folks she knew, and every one a stranger.

  Then she was through the town, heading north, the road opening out like vast, black space void of stars. The town receded the way a planet shrinks beneath a ship hurtling at escape velocity—and then the town was gone, and she was free.

  Like the release of gravity and with it, all the rules.

  * * *

  Ketchum walked into Ida’s as Kodza ate breakfast and Ramsey sucked down coffee. Sighing, Ketchum dropped into a chair, raised a finger to signal for coffee, and palmed his sheriff’s hat from his head. He waited until the waitress—a new girl—splashed coffee into his mug, gave Ramsey and Kodza refills, and then walked away before he said, “Talked to Lottie this morning. They’re all just fine. Brett was up the whole night, said it was quiet.”

  “You send up another deputy?” Ramsey asked.

  “Yeah,” Ketchum replied. He raised his mug to his lips, blew on his coffee, swallowed back a mouthful. “I already fielded three calls from a couple of parents worried about their kids in school, and one call from Doc’s priest, Father Gillis.”

  “Don’t tell me Summers went to confession.”

  Ketchum gave Ramsey a bleary look. “I’m sure he did. Gillis was calling because he was concerned. Says Doc’s under a lot of stress and pretty angry. They sat together most of yesterday and half the night, talking.”

  “At least, we know Summers is still around, and he’s pissed.”

  “And how is that good?” Ketchum rasped.

  Ramsey stared at Ketchum for a long moment. Finally, he said, “Hank, how much investigative work have you really done?”

  Ketchum sat back and hooked his thumbs into his belt loops. “Some. Not much. After Isaiah”—his blue eyes flicked to Kodza and then back to Ramsey—“not hardly any. Some drug cases, that’s about it.”

  “Then try not to take this the wrong way. The more stress you put on a system—town, person, whatever—the better your chance of getting something to crack. People get s
tressed, they make mistakes, and then you’ve got them.”

  “Okay,” Ketchum said. “But here’s the thing. When this is over and you’re gone, who picks up the pieces of all those things that didn’t need fixing in the first place?”

  * * *

  They took Ramsey’s unmarked, figuring there was no need to advertise. Then Kodza told them where they were going, and the two men did a double-take.

  “You’re kidding,” Ramsey said.

  “Of course not.” Kodza wore pants: no-nonsense black trousers and a tapered black jacket with a creamy white shell. “Where better to pick up gossip?”

  On the way, Ramsey punched up Garibaldi’s private channel. The agent was not pleased. “Damn it, Ramsey. The Bureau knew something wasn’t right with the legate’s office and now this! Blakists. Clans!”

  “They’re just theories, Garibaldi. Not everything hangs together.”

  “It’s my job to decide that, not yours. If the legate’s involved, this is treason and that’s our jurisdiction. I can’t authorize you and Ketchum to continue.”

  “Oh, cut the crap,” Ramsey said. “I’m investigating a murder, and two other attempted murders, and probably a third. If not for us, you wouldn’t have this much.”

  “Well . . . at the very least, I should send up some agents.”

  It was on the tip of Ramsey’s tongue to observe that Bureau-types knew dick about homicide investigation, but he said, instead, “Sure. We could use help with surveillance.”

  “I can have agents in place by the end of the day. Until then, you’re to do nothing. As for Kodza, you’re to hold her. Don’t let that woman out of your sight.”

  “Okay.” Ramsey punched out then craned his head over his shoulder. “I’m not supposed to let you out of my sight.”

  Kodza was bland. “Better not blink.”

  “Mmmm.” To Ketchum: “You’ll be happy to know we’re not supposed to do anything until the cavalry comes to rescue our collective asses.”

  “Yeah, I’ll keep that in mind,” Ketchum said, then angled his chin left. “Here’s Charlie’s.”

  The bar was closed. There were two cars in the back lot: a junker of indeterminate lineage, and another that Ramsey could’ve sworn he’d seen before. “I know that car,” he said, as they got out.

  “Hannah Schroeder.” Ketchum put his hand on the hood. “Still pretty warm. Hannah must’ve just got here.”

  Kodza looked up at Ramsey. “If she is here, this is not good.”

  “Why not?” Ramsey asked. But Kodza was already moving, heading for the fire escape, and then Ramsey saw why she wore the jacket because Kodza reached around to the small of her back and pulled a laser-pistol from its holster.

  “Hank, go after her!” Ramsey raced back to the unmarked, popped the glove box, grabbed his Raptor, jacked a shell into the chamber, and flipped off the safety.

  Kodza was on the fire escape now, threading her way to the third floor landing. “Hold it, hold up!” Ramsey hissed, racing up the steps two at a time. He crowded in just as Ketchum grabbed Kodza’s elbow six steps shy of the landing. “What’s going . . . ?” But now he heard voices: angry shouts behind the closed door. And then the roaring BOOM of a very big gun.

  “Oh, shit.” Ramsey and Ketchum pushed past Kodza then flattened against the wall, Ramsey left and Ketchum peeling off right, with Kodza bringing up the rear.

  Ketchum shouted, “Hannah? Scott? It’s Hank Ketchum. Open up the door, Scott, we just want to talk, son.”

  Silence. Ketchum jerked his head toward the door, and Ramsey held up three fingers, counted down then whirled around, cop-kicked the door: once, twice. The door deformed on the first kick, banged open on the second, and then Ramsey was through the door, his Raptor sweeping the room, with Ketchum a step behind, and Kodza bringing up the rear.

  The air was thick with the smell of burnt cordite, cigarette ash, and fresh blood. Hannah Schroeder sat at a rickety card table, her hands cradling a blocky gun. Milk drizzled from an overturned carton, pooling along the body of a woman: on her back, eyes wide open; a bloody crater in her belly. The milk began to turn a sludgy pink where it mixed with blood.

  “Oh, my Lord,” Ketchum said. He eased the gun from Hannah’s nerveless fingers. “Where’s Scott, Hannah?”

  “Gone,” Hannah said. Her face was dry, and her eyes vacant. “She’s gone now, Hank, she’s gone.”

  “Mrs. Schroeder,” Ramsey pressed, “where’s your son?”

  “Gone,” Hannah repeated. “Just gone.”

  Ramsey turned as Kodza, expressionless, hunkered beside the dead woman. “That yours?” he asked.

  Kodza looked up. “She was.”

  54

  Tuesday, 17 April 3136

  1430 hours

  Father Gillis said Summers should go home because it was a blessedly fine day and God would see all this trouble as so much water under the bridge. The priest was so chipper, Doc Summers wanted to yank out the man’s tongue by the roots. Oh, Summers was grateful, but the world was grinding him down, and God seemed a little deaf, or maybe just didn’t give a damn.

  He wanted a drink. He wanted a smoke, maybe a whole pack. Maybe he could just smoke himself to death. Be a sight more pleasant than the rumors killing him.

  Gillis said to tell Ketchum everything. But Summers couldn’t. That would ruin him. But if he didn’t tell, all they had to do was check the hospital pharmacy records. After that, they’d never trust him again, and no matter what happened with whatever homicidal maniac was out there, people would always wonder.

  “Oh, Emma.” Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. Things had been bad in the past, what with always having to worry about Adam. As long as he had Emma and his work, he’d pulled through. Now he didn’t have anything.

  He spotted the patrol car in his driveway and lights on in his house. Fear lurched in his chest. Oh, God, had they . . . had Adam . . . ? He had an insane moment when he thought maybe he’d just keep going, heading south, and then hook a right and go west toward open county. But he was too old to run.

  He knew there was something very wrong as soon as he walked into the house. The cat didn’t meet him at the door, and the house felt empty. But he smelled fresh coffee. Strange. He’d emptied the pot before he left early yesterday morning. Put out food and water for the cat, and left. So what . . . ?

  It was then that he smelled something else. A bad, rotted smell, like maybe the toilet had stopped up, or the garbage had tipped over. He crossed into the kitchen, caught something—a man?—out of the corner of his right eye, turned—and froze, dead in his tracks.

  There was a neat round red hole drilled above the bridge of the deputy’s nose, like a third eye. A ribbon of coagulated blood was glued along the right side of the deputy’s nose, as if Bobby’s new eye had cried fat blood tears. Bobby’s eyes were open and buggy but clouding because Bobby had been dead a long time. Still, as horrified as he was, Bobby wasn’t what make Doc Summers begin to cry.

  What made him cry was his cat. His cat lay on its side in a pool of green-and-black vomit and overturned milk. The cat’s eyes bulged and its darkly purple tongue lolled like a fat worm. The cat’s bowels and bladder emptied as it died, leaving feces and cat pee mingling with dried milk splattered over the cabinetry

  Stunned, weeping uncontrollably, Summers dropped to his knees. “Why?” He pressed the heels of his hands to his streaming eyes. “What kind of monster does this?”

  A man’s voice, one he recognized: “That’s what they’re gonna say.”

  Summers wheeled round on his heels then gawked in disbelief. “What are you doing here? Why did you do this?”

  “You know, that’s just what people are gonna say. Why’d Doc do that? They’ll figure you went nuts. They’ll say Old Doc didn’t see there was any way out, so he killed that deputy and then killed his cat and then . . .” The man shrugged and waggled the gun in his hand. “Whaddaya say we have a nice, hot cup of coffee, Doc, and talk it over?”

>   And then Gabriel’s lips parted in a beatific smile: one suited to an angel that was fallen.

  55

  1530 hours

  Scott Schroeder was gone.

  “He and Mom had a fight,” Sarah said. Her eyes were so puffy from weeping they’d narrowed to blue slits. Her aunt, a stocky woman who’d arrived the day before, hugged her closer.

  “Where would your mom get a gun?” Ramsey asked. “Did your father have a couple?”

  “More than a couple,” Sarah said.

  Fifteen minutes later, Ramsey, Ketchum, and Kodza—along with Sarah and her aunt—were in the attic. Ramsey squatted next to the only open box, marked Militia in black marker, and used a pen to ease aside a flap. “Was this full?” he asked Sarah.

  “Sure. Mom packed everything right up to the top.”

  “Did your mom keep a list of things she put away?”

  “Probably. She’s kind of that way, a place for everything and . . .” Sarah’s lips wobbled as fat tears rolled down her cheeks. “When I can see my mom?”

  The ER doc had taken one look at Hannah Schroeder and arranged for a med-evac to New Bonn. Ketchum said, “She’s shook up pretty bad, Sarah. For now we got to find Scott. You know where he is?”

  Sarah didn’t know, and she let her aunt take her back downstairs. Ramsey stepped over to the gun safe. “Digital lock, but I think it’s already open.” He shrugged his jacket over his hand then cranked down on the handle. Ramsey whistled. “Ho-boy, he liked guns.” He found the empty Raptor case, half-filled ammo box, and then, another case, its hasps open. “Empty.”

  Ketchum sidled in, looked at the cut foam. “Might be Isaiah’s service weapon.” He squinted at Kodza. “Scott was part of this cell?”

  “Not completely,” Kodza said. She’d been relatively quiet since Charlie’s. “Isaiah felt that the boy would be a good cover. If he brought his son in, the others would trust him. After his father’s death, Scott disappeared. We eventually tracked him and asked for his help.”