Jericho Iteration

by Allen Steele

  I started to ask another question, but Huygens beat me to it. “We did our best to keep Kim’s murder out of the press. There was only a small item in the next morning’s Post-Dispatch about it, but we managed to get their reporters to believe that Po had been killed during a robbery attempt … but Beryl obviously found out the truth and decided to go to your paper instead.”

  “That’s another reason why we suspect Payson-Smith,” the colonel said. “He was one of the few people who could have learned of her plans to meet Tiernan at the bar tonight.”

  McLaughlin raised a hand. “Before you ask why Payson-Smith didn’t kill them both when he had the chance … according to my people, this laser rifle apparently consumes a lot of power. It would have to be run off an independent current, so it takes about a minute for its battery to recharge before each shot.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “So Hinckley suspected that Payson-Smith was the guy behind Kim’s murder and went to John to tell him the story.”

  Barris and McLaughlin both nodded their heads, and that was the second time my bullshit detector went off.

  They didn’t know it, but I had seen Hinckley and Payson-Smith talking to each other during the reception. For a woman who suspected her boss of having gone psycho and killing one of her friends with a home-built laser, she had not appeared apprehensive about being in his company. Nor had Payson-Smith struck me as the homicidal maniac type. Yeah, maybe you never know for sure. When some nut with a machine gun goes on a rampage in a shopping mall, his neighbors invariably describe him as a nice, quiet person who always minded his own business. Yet my guts told me that Payson-Smith just seemed the wrong guy to be carrying this sort of rap.

  And then there were other implausibilities. Even if Payson-Smith was the sociopathic killer these guys made him out to be, how could he have known where Hinckley would be tonight? After all, she had been the one who had told me to pass the message to John. I had not disclosed this to anyone else. So how could Payson-Smith have known where these two people would be meeting each other?

  For that matter, why were these guys so certain it was Beryl Hinckley who had met Tiernan at Clancy’s? “Middle-aged black lady” was a description that could fit a few hundred thousand people in St. Louis, but that was how Farrentino had described Hinckley to me when I had been summoned to the murder scene.

  And why, on the basis of such circumstantial evidence, were McLaughlin and Huygens here at all, putting the blame on one of Tiptree’s own scientists?

  The bullshit detector was sounding five alarms now; fire engines were leaving the station, and the dalmatians were howling like mad. Yet I continued to play the dummy; I stretched back in my chair, resting my feet against the bottom of Barris’s desk. “Okay,” I said. “So you’ve got a mad scientist on the loose. Why are you telling me this?”

  Barris didn’t like my boots touching his desk. He stared at me until I dropped them back to the floor, then he went on. “When you took Tiernan’s PT, there was the possibility that you might have found some evidence that could conclusively link Payson-Smith to Kim’s murder. We needed to get that back at all costs, and that’s why you were brought in.”

  “I can understand that,” I said. “But why the rest of the—”

  Barris raised a finger, a silent admonition for me to shut up. “There’s also the possibility that Dr. Hinckley may try to contact you, now that Mr. Tiernan is dead. We haven’t been able to locate her since the shooting, and we suspect that she has gone underground to avoid being killed. So has the other member of the Ruby Fulcrum team, Dr. Morgan.”

  He put down the glass ball and leaned forward across the desk. “Mr. Rosen, I realize that there is little reason for you to trust us,” he said. “ERA has a bad reputation in this city, and as easy as it may be for me to put all the blame on the media, I know that my men haven’t always … well, behaved themselves. But this once, we need your cooperation. We’re trying to track down a killer, and we’re also trying to save the lives of two valuable people.”

  “Uh-huh.” The bullshit was getting so thick in there, I thought I was going to need a shovel just to get to the door.

  “If you hear from either Dr. Hinckley or Dr. Morgan, we need to hear from you at once,” Barris went on. He pulled a calling card from a box on his desk and handed it to me. “That’s how you can reach me personally, any time of the day or night.”

  I glanced at the card. No phone number was printed on it, only Barris’s name and the ERA logo. The codestrip on the back would connect with his extension if I passed it in front of a phonescanner. I nodded my head as I tucked the card into my shirt pocket.

  “Here’s something else you may need,” he went on, and that’s when he passed me the plastic card and explained how it could be used to get me through ERA blockades.

  “We also need you to keep quiet about this matter until it’s resolved,” he went on. “When that happens, you’ll have the complete story from us … and you’ll have helped to bring your friend’s killer to justice. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” I replied. “I hope I can be of service.”

  What should I have said? No, sir, this place reeks like a barnyard and you can take me down to the basement now?

  Barris nodded, then he stood up from his desk. So did McLaughlin; once more, he extended his hand to me. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Rosen,” he said as I shook his hand again. “I’m glad to have you on our side.”

  Farrentino pushed back his chair and stood up. Huygens gave me a perfunctory nod. Barris glanced at Farrentino. “Now, Lieutenant, if you will kindly escort Mr. Rosen to the street …?”

  I was free to go—but I was certainly not free. There were too many secrets, too many lies.

  Too much bullshit.

  13

  (Friday, 1:07 A.M.)

  “WHICH EXIT DO I take?” Farrentino asked.

  The light rain had become a steady downpour, but through the darkness and drizzle I could make out the familiar landmarks of Webster Groves from the interstate. The sign for the Shrewsbury Avenue exit was coming up. “This one will do,” I said.

  The detective nodded as he swerved into the right lane. “I take it your ex isn’t expecting you,” he said, following the long curve of the ramp as it led up the street overpass. “Are you sure it’s okay for me to be dropping you off?”

  “I guess it’s okay,” I replied as I pointed toward the left; he waited until a street cleaner ’bot rumbled through the intersection, then turned onto Shrewsbury. “She’ll let me in, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “That’s what I’m asking.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Worst thing a cop can do is get caught in the middle of a domestic quarrel. Y’know that when cops get injured in the line of duty, it’s most often while breaking up a household fight? I damn near got my left ear sliced off with a vegetable knife that way, back when I drove a cruiser.”

  The intersection of Big Bend was coming up, and I pointed to the left again. “That’s not going to happen here,” I said. “For one thing, she’s not really my ex. I just call her that.”

  “Separation?” He lighted his cigarette while making the turn, catching the green light just as it was turning yellow. A blue-and-white passed him in the opposite lane; he flashed his brights at it, and the officer driving the cruiser gave him a brief wave. It was the only other vehicle on the street, despite the fact that Webster was one of the few neighborhoods in the city that wasn’t under dusk-to-dawn curfew. “Sometimes it’s better that way,” he went on. “Why did you guys get separated?”

  “You ask a lot of questions.”

  “It’s my job. Besides, I’m just asking …”

  His voice trailed off as if anticipating a reply, but I didn’t answer immediately. It had been a few months since I had last visited this neighborhood, and I wanted to look around. Webster Groves had ridden out the quake pretty well, at least in comparison to the parts of St. Louis that had been built on
sandy loam or had been undermined by the tunnels of lost clay mines. Some homes had collapsed, a couple of strip malls had fallen down, but overall this quaint old ’burb of midwestern-style frame houses hadn’t been significantly damaged. I didn’t even see any ERA patrols.

  “Go a few more blocks, then turn right on Oakwood,” I said.

  “Okay.” Farrentino was quiet for a few moments. “Not going to talk about it, are you?”

  “Talk about what?”

  He shook his head. “You’re going to have to trust somebody sooner or later, Gerry,” he murmured. “I shouldn’t have to tell you that you’ve got your hand stuck in a hornet’s nest. Either you talk to me, or you talk to the colonel or McLaughlin, but eventually you’re going to have to talk to somebody.”

  It was true; he knew it, and I knew it. I was treading on hot coals now, and there were damned few people I could count on to get me through this firewalk. Before I could commit myself either way, though, there were a few questions that still had to be cleared up in my own mind. Stopping by for a visit with Marianne, even in the middle of the night, was the first step.

  “I’ll let you know, Mike,” I said as he took the turn onto Oakwood. “Right now, all I want to do is get home.”

  Home was an old, three-story Victorian on a quiet residential street, a one-hundred-twenty-year-old former farmhouse that had been renovated at least three or four times since the beginning of the last century. Marianne and I had bought the place shortly after we had moved back to St. Louis; if I had known the city was going to get socked by a quake, I might not have signed the mortgage papers, but to my surprise the house had only swayed during New Madrid. The house next door, which was only half as old, had fallen flat, but by some quirk of nature our place had survived, suffering only the loss of the carport and an oak tree in the front yard.

  In that respect alone, we had been lucky. The house had made it through the quake; it was the family living inside that had been destroyed.

  After Mike Farrentino dropped me off at the curb, I trudged up the walk and climbed the stairs to the front porch. A downstairs light was on, but the upper floors were darkened. Security lamps hidden beneath the porch eaves came on as soon as I approached the door; I still had a key, but I figured it would be polite if I touched the doorplate instead.

  “Mari, it’s me,” I said. “Will you get up and come let me in?”

  There was a long pause. I turned my face toward the concealed lens of the security camera and smiled as best I could, knowing that she was rolling over in bed to check the screen on the night table. Probably half-asleep, maybe knocking away the paperback thriller she had been reading just before she turned off the light. Unshaven, haggard, hair matted with rain, and wearing drenched clothes, I realized that I must resemble the bad guy in her latest novel.

  “Gerry …?” Her voice sounded fuzzy with sleep. “Gerry, what the hell are you doing here?”

  “It’s a long story, babe.” I ran a hand through my hair, brushing it away from my face. “I’m sorry I woke you up, but—”

  “Are you drunk again?” Her voice, no longer quite so sleepy, was tinged with irritation. “I swear to God, if you’ve been drinking, you can—”

  “I’m not drunk, Mari, I promise you. It’s just …” I sighed, half-closing my eyes. “Look, I’m really tired. I’ve just had a helluva night and I can’t go back to my place, so just please let me in, okay?”

  Again, another pause, a little longer this time. For the first time since I had asked Farrentino for a lift out here, a disturbing notion crossed my mind: perhaps she was not alone tonight. I hadn’t shacked up with any other women since the beginning of our separation, as tempted as I had been from time to time. The thought had never seriously occurred to me, nor had Marianne told me about any new men in her life. Yet things could have changed; she might have some young bohunk in bed right now, a little lost puppy she had picked up at one of the nearby Webster University hangouts.

  I stepped away from the camera to check the end of the driveway next to the house. Only her car was parked there, a power cable running from its battery port to the side of the house. Of course, that alone meant nothing. Postmen walk by every day, and so do joggers in tight nylon shorts.

  I heard locks being buzzed open, then the door opened a few inches. “Gerry?” I heard her say. “Are you out there?”

  “Right here.” I quickly stepped away from the porch railing. Even when she was practically somnambulant, with her shoulder-length hair in knots and wearing a ragged terrycloth robe, Marianne was one of the most beautiful women I have ever met. Husbands are usually blind to the imperfections of their wives, of course, but that wasn’t the case with Mari; my eyes didn’t lie, and she was still good looking. Thirty years of ofttimes hard living had treated her well; she still looked much the same as she did when I had met her in college. She had regained her figure not long after Jamie’s birth, and even though there were the first hints of gray in her dark hair, she could have passed for twenty-four.

  Not that she was in any mood for compliments. “Gerry, what are you doing here?” she repeated. “For chrissakes, I just went to bed … and what are you looking at the driveway for?”

  “Just seeing how the car’s holding up,” I said quickly. “You renewed your plates, didn’t you?”

  Her expression became puzzled. “You didn’t come all the way out here to check my renewal sticker,” she said. “What’s going on, Gerard?”

  She called me Gerard. When she used my full first name, it usually meant she was pissed off. No wonder; for Marianne, getting a full night’s sleep was a serious business, and woe be to the friend, relative, or former spouse who woke her out of bed after eleven o’clock. “I’m sorry if I caught you at a bad time, babe,” I said, “but I need three things from you.”

  She let out an exasperated sigh and sagged against the door frame. “Let me guess,” she said. “One of them is money, and the second is sex. What’s the third? The car?”

  It might have been funny if it wasn’t true. When we had agreed that a separation was probably the best thing for both of us, after I had moved to a motel and before I had found a new job, those were the three favors I most commonly called to ask of her: wheels to get around in, a ten or twenty to tide me over till the next paycheck, and a quick roll in the hay because I was so damn lonely and because I still believed sex would heal all the wounds. All three she had agreed to, at one time or another, until she hardened her heart and told me that I was on my own. Hell, the only reason why we still hadn’t become officially divorced was because neither of us could afford lawyer bills right now.

  “Hey, if you want to have sex with me and give me some bucks and the car in return—” I began, and she started to slam the door in my face until I pushed my hand against the knob. “Wait, I’m just kidding. Seriously …”

  Again the sigh as she opened the door again. “Seriously what?”

  Now was no time to bullshit my wife, even if she hated my guts. “I need a place to crash,” I said. “Just for tonight, I swear … and I need to use the computer.”

  “Uh-huh.” She gazed at me indifferently. “A bed and the computer. Yeah. What else?”

  “Hey, I can sleep on the couch—”

  “Damn straight you’re going to sleep on the couch,” she replied. “What’s the third thing, Gerard?”

  I hesitated; this was probably the biggest favor of all. “The third thing is no questions asked.” I took a deep breath. “I’m in trouble, kiddo. Big trouble.”

  “Oh, Christ.” She sighed as her eyes rolled upward. “You’re running from the cops, aren’t you?”

  I almost broke down laughing. “Babe, a cop gave me a lift out here—”

  “Uh, huh. Sure …”

  I raised my hands. “Believe me, Marianne, if this was going to get you in any trouble, I wouldn’t be here right now. I’m not in trouble with the cops.” Not technically, anyway, I thought. “All I need is the couch,” I went on, “and
to use the office computer for an hour or so. I don’t want your money, I don’t want to sleep with you, and I’ll call a cab bright and early tomorrow morning. Okay?”

  She sighed again, closing her eyes as if she was carrying the burdens of the world on her shoulders. “Jeez, Gerry, why can’t you go bug John for this?”

  Because John is dead, I almost blurted out, but I held my tongue. Telling her would only have prompted all the questions I wanted to avoid, and it was far safer for her to remain ignorant. I was lucky that she obviously hadn’t seen the late news on one of the local TV stations or hadn’t yet received a call from Sandy Tiernan.

  “Please,” I said. “Just do it for me, okay?”

  She gazed at me for another moment, then she pushed the door open a little wider and stepped aside. “All right,” she said. “But remember … you’re sleeping on the couch.”

  The house was a little cleaner than it had usually been before I moved out, yet otherwise everything was much the same. She hadn’t changed the living room furniture or taken any of the prints from the walls; although she had removed our wedding photos, there were still baby and toddler pictures of Jamie on the fireplace mantel. Marianne let me grab a Diet Dr. Pepper from the fridge, then went upstairs to gather some sheets and a spare pillow from the linen cabinet while I retreated to her home office.

  The office was located in the rear of the ground floor, in what had been a den before we had put in floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Before the quake hit, we had shared that space; she had used it during the day to telecommute to her insurance company’s home office in Kansas City, and when she was through at five o’clock it became my study for the writing of the Great American Unreadable Novel. I noticed that she had removed my books and mementos from the shelves, but I didn’t want to make an issue of it. Right now, I was interested in only one thing.