Chapter Nine: It’s Tradition
The first thing Paddington saw in the interview room was the pile of clothes stacked on the otherwise-empty table. The second thing Paddington saw were the two empty chairs, one on either side of the table. The third thing Paddington saw was Lisa, huddled in the corner of the room, arms wrapped around her knees, naked.
“Oh God, Lisa, what did they do?” Paddington rushed toward her, but stopped dead as she balled herself tighter. He’d brought her to this.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry.” This time he approached slowly: kneeling, touching her hair, her jaw, tracing familiar lines now swollen and bruised. “What happened?”
He never saw her fist move, but he felt the wooden table on the way down and the concrete floor on landing.
“Exactly what you fucking wanted!” Scrunched paper fell from her hand as she flexed it to rub her knuckles. Paddington remembered writing the note yesterday after reporting her missing and placing it on her bed.
Lisa, I came looking for you. Are you all right? Call me as soon as you get home. Love, James.
Why was Lisa still carrying it? Why shed her clothes but not that? Because she wanted it to be true, or to remind herself never to trust him again?
“I didn’t want this,” he said, rising. “I—”
“What, Jim!” She shot to her feet, then realised she was naked and moved to cover herself, but thought better of it. Instead, she spread her hands at waist height, inviting him to look. This was what he had done to her: ignored her rights, desecrated her privacy, reduced her to an object for examination. Her exposed skin was covered with bruises, cuts, the bullet wound: all the evidence that although she was a wolf, he was the real monster.
“You wouldn’t have called them?” she asked. “We would have been rosy?” A tear streaked down her cheek as she advanced. “Or are you glad? Is this justice?” She held up her left arm and its freshly-changed bandage.
Paddington felt the table at his back and groped its surface for her clothes, which he brought forward as a peace offering. She didn’t take them.
“I’ll get you some food,” he said, “and something to keep you entertained.” As soon as it was past his lips, Paddington regretted the sentence.
Lisa eyed him bitterly. “Treats?” she asked. He couldn’t think of anything to say, so they remained like statues, Lisa flaunting her pain and Paddington offering only to hide it.
What else could he do? He couldn’t take it back. All they could do was move forward, hopefully together but probably not.
“I found Dominic,” he said eventually.
With a slow nod, Lisa put her jumper on, flinching as it slid over her wrist, then stepped into her jeans. Her legs were hairy; strange, she always shaved them.
“And?” Lisa asked, startling him out of thought.
“I think you’re right. He’s a werewolf.”
Her lips set in a self-satisfied smile. “Great. Mystery solved. You can go now.”
Paddington’s mouth flapped and closed. How could he tell her? “No, I can’t,” he said, then circled the table and sat. “I need you.”
“You think I’ll trust you?” Lisa snarled.
“No,” he said. “I shouldn’t have called Mitchell, or turned you in, or left you with them. I should have let it go a month ago. I am so sorry and nothing will ever make up for what I’ve done. But I’m here now.”
He waited for a reaction. Lisa watched him right back, unreadable blue orbs slicing into him over and over, anger and disappointment spreading across her face. “Get out,” she said quietly.
He nodded into his hands. What had he expected? Forgiveness? Understanding?
“Now!” she yelled.
His instinct was to rush out of the room, but he sat his ground long enough to say, “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
Lisa banged a hand on the table, then leaned across it and whispered with breath that smelled of yesterday’s sheep, “And just how are you going to stop them?”
He met her gaze.
“With every breath in my body,” he said.
Lisa blinked, surprised, then stepped away and nodded at the door. Paddington went.
Outside the interview room, the Team went about its business. The doctor/scientist, McGregor, tinkered with the radio; the leader, Mitchell, rested his heels on Paddington’s desk; the American, Truman, stood at attention by the interview room door; the woman, Skylar, stood at ease on the other side; and the mutes – Clarkson, Peterson, Normson, and Thompson – were scattered around the room, mostly staring into space.
Oh, and his mother, Andrea, sat by the front door, apparently engaged in paperwork but probably writing down their every word.
“Your radio isn’t getting through to London,” Mitchell said.
“Not my fault,” McGregor said through the wrench in his teeth. “This equipment was old forty years ago.”
Paddington wiped his face. He’d love to think that this was the final problem of the day, but his luck wasn’t that good.
That was mostly his fault.
“And your phones aren’t connected to the international grid,” Mitchell said. “How else can we get a message off-island?”
“You can’t,” Paddington said. “The duke’s kind of paranoid about the outside world.”
“Then let’s see him, bust up his happy little commune.”
See the duke? “No one sees the duke. I might be able to arrange a meeting with the mayor.”
“Let’s go then. The sooner we contact London, the sooner we get reinforcements to hunt down the other werewolf.”
Paddington sucked air through his teeth. “I doubt the mayor would want anyone else coming here.”
Mitchell nodded, perhaps trying to portray a friendly demeanour, but he looked too much like a vulture: long nose, beady eyes always calculating, high forehead and thinning hair. His smile was a victorious sneer, not a warm reassurance. “We are here under Her Majesty’s authority, detective, and I am ordering you to take us to the mayor, now.”
“No.”
“Pardon?” Mitchell asked. Behind him, the four mutes rose as one.
“He’s not there,” Paddington clarified.
“It’s the middle of the day,” Mitchell said. “Politicians don’t do much, but they do it in the comfort of their offices.”
“His office doesn’t even open until sunset.”
“It’s true,” Andrea said without looking up or turning around. “This way you don’t need to take time off work to see him.”
“That makes sense here, does it?” Mitchell asked.
“Everywhere has its quirky little traditions, captain,” she said. “Ours are just more practical.”
Mitchell snorted and glanced at McGregor. “Any hope here, doctor?”
“None,” McGregor said, replacing the radio’s cover. “Nothing past Archi’s border.”
Mitchell glared from McGregor to Paddington to Andrea, thinking. Paddington waited, worried. What if Mitchell demanded to see the mayor right now? But… that was impossible. You didn’t see the mayor during the daytime. You just didn’t.
“Detective Paddington,” Mitchell said, “find us somewhere to set up an H.Q. so McGregor can analyse his samples. Thompson, Peterson, guard the prisoner. Everyone else, with me.”
There were people outside the station. Not a crowd, exactly, just citizens slowing as they passed in case there was an opportunity to scowl at the Mainlanders. Paddington led the Team through the backstreets, down winding cobble lanes, past mismatched stone walls and carts full of produce. Occasionally a car putted past them and one of the Team would snigger. Even away from the main roads, the air sizzled with whispers and people waited at every intersection – arms crossed over knitted jumpers, chins high, feet planted far apart – but none followed them and none bore flaming torches. For now they were content simply to disapprove.
After fifteen minutes, Paddington found a cottage with a For Sale sign out the f
ront whose auction wasn’t for another week. “Here we are,” he said, opening the door.
“Won’t people be coming to inspect it?” Mitchell asked
“Why should they?” Paddington asked. “Everyone knows what it looks like.”
It smelled of dust and stillness, but the lights worked and it was fully-furnished. The large front room had a dining table in its centre, where McGregor started unpacking his luggage.
“You should be safe here,” Paddington said.
Mitchell laid his rifle on the table. “We will be,” he said. “Detective, dismissed. McGregor, do your tests. Everyone else, pair up. Let’s find the werewolf that bit Miss Tanner.”
Paddington lingered by the door as the Team loaded the pockets of their black flak jackets with various items from their bags: ammo clips, grenades, flares, food. McGregor assembled an alembic on the table. Mitchell pulled a phone and laptop out of his satchel.
“What’s that?” Paddington asked. He couldn’t help himself. This room contained more modern technology than the rest of Archi combined.
“A satellite phone… with no reception.” He opened the laptop. “And an unplugged cable?”
Paddington frowned. The laptop didn’t even have cables. Lisa’s had never had trouble connecting. Had something happened to Archi’s satellite dish, or was someone keeping the Team offline?
“I’d better be off,” Paddington said.
“Buh-bye,” Mitchell said, mock-brightly.
Paddington returned to the station and found that Thompson and Peterson had moved Lisa to the station’s only cell. He delivered her a lunch and left immediately, pretending she was just another citizen and not his girlfriend: if Lisa escaped, he didn’t want Mitchell suspecting him. He really didn’t want Mitchell as an enemy.
He was worried enough having him as an ally.
The rest of the day was filled with routine patrols, paperwork relating to the Team’s visit, and any other task Andrea could find to keep him away from Lisa and remind him he was still an Archian policeman.
When his work day ended, Paddington collected Lisa’s laptop from her house and took it back to his. It had no trouble connecting, so he spent ninety minutes learning about werewolves, starting with how unreliable and contradictory their history was. For instance, he doubted Lisa was a werewolf because she’d drunk out of a werewolf’s footprint, or had leaned her head against the same pillar as a werewolf, and she certainly wasn’t the seventh son of a seventh son. She also wasn’t like the internet’s pictures and she didn’t change on the full moon. Did the Mainland have a different breed of werewolves? Or had these tales been wildly distorted over the centuries?
Farther back in history, werewolves weren’t regarded as mindless evils that fed on human flesh. Some were protectors, able to change form at will, though this was apparently just an exaggeration of the hunting practice of wearing a wolf’s pelt hoping to channel its speed, strength, and pack coordination.
When night fell, Paddington drove the police van to the Team’s headquarters. In the eight intervening hours, the Mainlanders had gained nothing from their investigations but sore feet. Was that good or bad? If they found Dominic, would they spare Lisa? Doubtful.
Paddington chauffeured them to the station, where Mitchell checked that Lisa was still human and collected Thompson and Peterson, then they headed toward the council chambers.
Cool evening air rushed into the van’s cabin through the open windows. The van was sluggish with seven people in the back so Paddington took corners slowly, not that there was much choice. “What do you think of Archi?” he asked Mitchell, more to fill the silence than because he wanted to hear another of Mitchell’s rants.
“Beautiful place; shame about the people,” Mitchell said. “Tell me, why do you lot fear the modern world so much?”
“We’re not that bad.”
“Your radio still had vacuum tubes in it. McGregor says they stopped using those in the sixties. The early sixties.” Mitchell went back to staring at cottages. Most of them had been started hundreds of years ago and patched or extended as needed. “Still,” he continued, “that’s practically new in these parts.”
“We don’t have much need for technology.”
“Someone does,” Mitchell said. “Someone who doesn’t want us leaving this island. And I’d guess that that someone also knows about the werewolves. He’ll know where the bodies are buried, or at least who the gravediggers are.”
Sweat dripped along Paddington’s armpits. Was Mitchell planning on interrogating the mayor?
They reached the council chambers, climbed out of the van, and started for the entrance. Paddington stopped a few steps later when he realised the others weren’t following; they were all staring at the marble statue of Idryo’s Champion on the roundabout out front. Lights shone up from under the water to create a mosaic of moving lines on a faceless man in a long coat endlessly pouring water from a jug into the pool. He had one foot in the water and one on land.
“Probably bloody leather,” Mitchell said.
“What?” Paddington asked.
Mitchell nodded at the statue. “The hero always wears a leather coat.”
“Must be an archetype.”
“Or a stereotype.”
Paddington started toward the council chambers but stopped again when he realised he was still alone. This time the Team was staring dumbfounded at the council chambers. To be fair, the chambers were unlike every other building they’d passed. Two storeys of cream stone highlighted against the night by huge floodlights and supported by tall columns it was, in no way, a cottage.
“The old chambers burned down about seventy-five years ago,” Paddington said, leading them up the stairs. For once, they followed. He didn’t mention that the fire had been during a zombie outbreak; best keep things simple. He didn’t need the Mainlanders checking every cellar and outhouse for zombies. They’d be here all year. Besides, Conall had already dealt with them.
“And the fountain?” Mitchell asked.
“That’s always been there.”
By now they were inside and, at a nod from the receptionist, Paddington guided them upstairs and knocked on a tall wooden door.
“Come.”
The room was dim, lit by candles and a dull desk lamp. It was the most faithful recreation of the old mayor’s office they had been able to make. There was an antique desk, three chairs, bookshelves, thick carpet, and only one door. The curtains had seen better decades. Except for the podium and Book of Three, it was a replica of the duke’s study.
A single figure stood at the window, his back to them. “Welcome gentlemen. I’m Mayor Baldwin,” he said. His dark jacket was tailored, the tails reaching his knees. His white-gloved hands were clasped behind him. “Lovely night, isn’t it?” Still Baldwin gazed out the window and spoke like he didn’t have a care in the world.
Mitchell’s finger crept to his rifle’s safety. “Who’s blocking our communications?”
Baldwin turned to face them. His dark hair was styled back, off his pale forehead. Two pointed yellowing teeth hung over his bottom lip.
As one, the Team members took up firing positions.
“What the hell are you doing?” Paddington screamed, looking from Mitchell to the mayor and back, needing to defend the mayor, to spring into action, to save the day, if only his feet would move.
“Me?” Mitchell stared at him like Paddington had gone mad. “He’s a bloody vampire!”
“Am I?” Baldwin sounded interested. “What’s that? One of your Mainland minorities?”
“What?” Mitchell asked.
“Care to explain what a vampire is?” Paddington asked.
Baldwin looked ignorant. Honestly, his role was mostly show. He chaired meetings, made the occasional speech, but the difficult decisions were made elsewhere. Baldwin was mayor because he was popular, not capable. It had always annoyed Paddington that Archi worked like that.
“McGregor, enlighten the natives,” Mitch
ell said without lowering his rifle.
“A vampire is a corpse that rises from its coffin at night. Usually depicted as having two pointed teeth, which it uses to pierce the victim’s neck and drink their blood. Modern variants of the myth include eternal life, pale skin, and old clothes.”
Paddington had to admit, Baldwin fit the description.
“Truman, find me a stake,” Mitchell said.
“You’re hungry?” Baldwin reached for the phone. “I can call the kitchen.”
“Hands where I can see them!” Mitchell shouted.
Baldwin lifted his hands high and turned to Paddington. “No wonder we’ve had complaints,” he said brightly.
“This is ridiculous!” Paddington said.
“Really?” Mitchell asked. “Today you arrested a werewolf.”
“But that’s…” Paddington trailed off. That was what? Sensible? “Why do you need a stake?”
“A stake to the heart’s the only way to kill a vampire,” Mitchell said.
“Or silver,” Skylar said.
“I thought that was werewolves,” Paddington said.
“Bullets for werewolves; stakes for vampires,” she said.
“Or sunlight,” McGregor said. “Vampires turn to ash in sunlight.” Behind him, Truman beat an antique chair against the wall.
Paddington held his hands out for peace and risked a half-step forward; no one shot him. “I’m sure there’s an explanation.”
Truman handed Mitchell a wooden chair leg, smashed to a point at one end.
“We were talking earlier about traditions!” Paddington said, stepping in front of Baldwin. He’d made a mistake giving Lisa to these strangers; he wasn’t abandoning the mayor as well.
Mitchell aimed his rifle with one hand, the stake in the other. “Out of my way, detective.”
“It’s a misunderstanding!” Paddington said. “The suit’s understandable, and he’s pale because he’s awake all night and asleep all day, and the teeth… the teeth…” He turned to the mayor. “Care to help me out, sir?”
“The teeth are a symbol of office,” Mayor Baldwin admitted. He deposited his worn, yellowing dentures into a gloved hand and Paddington wondered what carnivore they’d been moulded from.
“Please tell me they craft a new set for each mayor,” Mitchell said.
“Cer’anly nob!” Baldwin sounded offended. “Dese teef are a shtaple of the mayoral posi’ion, handed down frough ’enerations.”
“I’m getting sick of your traditions, detective.” Mitchell lowered his rifle and dropped the stake. “Skylar, get us some garlic from the kitchen.”
Baldwin sat behind his desk, reinserted his teeth, and spoke as if nothing had happened. “Now, what are you doing here? Searching for these vampires? Or is it werewolves?”
Mitchell said nothing.
“This is my island,” Baldwin said with a pointed smile. “I’ll have to insist on your cooperation.” When Mitchell still said nothing, he added, “Captain, the citizens have been kind to you so far.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Says the man with the gun,” Baldwin said. “It is advice. The citizens are bound to hear that you threatened my life. If I can’t assure them of your good character, they may turn hostile.”
“Detective Paddington caught a vicious animal,” Mitchell said, “but we need to contact London for further orders.”
“And what do you expect me to do? I’m mayor of this island, not the world.”
Mitchell frowned. He had a good forehead for it. “You can’t get a message off Archee?”
“It’s pronounced Ark-eye,” Baldwin said. “And why should I want to?”
Skylar reappeared and placed a whole garlic on Baldwin’s desk.
“Take it, mayor,” Mitchell said. “Now bite into it.”
“And if I refuse?” Baldwin asked.
“I stab that chair leg through your heart.”
“Hey!” Paddington shouted.
Mitchell turned slowly. “Yes, detective?”
Now that Mitchell was looking at him, Paddington found it much harder to stand his ground. Was Mitchell bluffing? Surely he wouldn’t actually stab the mayor in his own office, in the presence of a police officer…
Would he?
And if he did, how would the citizens react? There would be no staring from street corners; they’d kill the Team, and probably Paddington for summoning them.
“Just… think about what you’re doing,” Paddington said.
Mitchell paused, searching Paddington’s face, and apparently found what he was looking for. “You’re right. Forget orders; it’s safest just to kill every werewolf we find.”
Paddington saw it in his eyes: Mitchell knew Lisa was his girlfriend. But how? What else had he worked out?
Those were questions for later. Right now, if Baldwin didn’t comply, Mitchell would execute Lisa to prove how serious he was.
Paddington turned to the mayor. “Bite it. Sir.”
For a moment Baldwin watched both Mitchell and Paddington, perhaps judging whether they were serious, then he bit into the clove and crunched. Tears leaked out of his eyes. Paddington felt his stomach turn with every bite; what would the mayor say of all this? When the Team left Archi, would Paddington be shipped off with them? He’d as good as betrayed the island, first by bringing the Mainlanders and now by siding with them.
Who did he have left to betray? He was running out of friends.
“Do I hab doo swawwow?” Baldwin asked. Drool dribbled down his chin.
When Mitchell shook his head, Baldwin spat the garlic into the wastepaper basket and dabbed his mouth with a tailored handkerchief. “May we put that unpleasantness behind us?” he asked, again acting as if nothing had happened.
Mitchell nodded and lowered his gun. Paddington did his best not to collapse with relief. It was okay! Everyone was still alive, thanks to Baldwin! Paddington thought he finally understood how politics worked. You didn’t need to be smart, you needed to be fearless: to go above and beyond; to do what your opponent would not; to befriend everyone; and most importantly, to never admit that any demand was unreasonable.
“Good,” Baldwin said. “Now get the fuck off my island.”
Or not.
Bovicide, Zombie Diaries, and the Legend of the Brothers Brown Page 23
