by Dan Stout
He hung his head and swallowed loudly. On another man, I’d have thought it a sign of remorse.
“One of the things I did was pick up Jermaine Bell. Make sure he got to work on time. He was a good kid. Harmless.”
Down the alley, the tibron wagon creaked and groaned as it rolled along. The kid who’d drawn me there perched on the bench, and I finally placed his face.
“The boy at the farm.” I searched my memory for what Flanagan had called him, calming him as he stared down our drawn weapons. “Benny?”
“Benjamin,” he said.
That was the connection.
“He’s not much younger than Jermaine,” I said.
Flanagan spoke in a low voice. “If I’d known what they wanted him for, I’d have stopped it.”
My stomach clenched. The light in the alley seemed to fade, and I felt myself sway, a flagpole in an arctic wind.
“Stopped what?” I said.
Flanagan wiped at his mouth.
“I don’t know exactly what they did to him. I didn’t see that. But I saw the changes. Saw the way he changed. Some days he was fine, others he would attack people, go into a blind rage. At the end he was a loaded gun, waiting to be pointed at a target.” He shook his head, his lips flirting with a smile. “Even with all that, he used to talk about his family, about the people who helped him, like your friend.” His nostrils flared, and color flushed his cheeks. “He was a good kid. Harmless.” Flanagan’d started repeating himself, like a man convincing himself he was on the right path.
“What happened then?” I said.
He frowned, hesitating. I gave him time. He’d come to me, there was no need to push him. Finally, he grunted, getting over whatever inner hurdle he’d been wrestling with.
“Haberdine had a sweet tooth,” he said. “No real secret. I just dug around until I found out what candy he had his eye on. Turns out it was a girl who worked for Butterfly Carrington.”
Stacie. Haberdine had seen her with Lowell at the Squib’s soiree at the Armistice hotel, and she must have caught his eye.
“Carrington owed me a few favors,” said Flanagan. “I made sure the candy met Haberdine. Next thing you know, they’ve got a date.”
That meant that Flanagan—and Harlan Cedrow—knew when and where Haberdine would be alone.
“And then?” I said.
“Then I told Carrington to call the candy off.”
“And that left Haberdine sitting alone in a room, expecting company.”
He fell silent.
“Was it Jermaine?” I said. “Did he kill Haberdine?”
“I wasn’t there.”
I snorted, equal parts disdain and disbelief.
“I told you,” he growled. “If I’d been there, Jermaine wouldn’t have been involved.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I was at the guidepost the rest of the evening, just like Guide Clemens said. All I did was call off the candy. I didn’t know about anything else.”
“You did more than that.” I stayed very still, watching his reactions. “The candy and her pimp ended up dead.”
“I don’t know about that, either.” He glanced back at his companions while he said it, looking as guilty as a dog who’s gotten into the garbage.
“Right,” I said. “Come inside and you can make a statement.”
“Hells,” he said. “I’m here to help, not do your job for you.”
“You told me what you know,” I said. “Now we need to get it down—”
“I didn’t go to the trouble of shaking that tail you put on me just to talk about the Squib. We’re just getting started.”
Something in his voice gave me pause.
“What’s Harlan up to?”
“Something strange,” he said. “But there’s nothing good that’ll come of it.”
I spat on the cobblestones. “Sure,” I said. “‘Nothing good’ is kind of your specialty.”
“Not anymore. It’s something I’m . . .” He stumbled over the words. “I’m working on it.”
I’d rather have heard him cackle like a cartoon villain than deliver a halfhearted apology.
“Oh, no.” I shook a finger, a futile gesture in the face of a killer. “You don’t get to say you’re sorry and walk away,” I said. “You don’t get to forget about the families of the people you—”
“Hey.” He raised both hands. “You don’t want me here? I’ll go.”
But he didn’t move.
“What I got for you,” he said, “is bigger than one dead Squib.”
Of course Flanagan viewed just a single murder as no big deal. Sighing, half at him and half at my own willingness to listen, I twirled my fingers in a let’s-go motion.
“Look at this,” he said, and pulled a plastic bag from a pocket. Opening it with a twisting motion, he showed me the contents: a dingy white rag. He pushed the sides of the bag, and a familiar smell wafted out. Cinnamon.
I gritted my teeth and swallowed the rush of saliva it produced. I stepped back and covered my nose and mouth with the crook of my elbow. I gagged, but managed to keep my breakfast where it belonged.
“Oh, Carter. This stuff really gets to you, don’t it?” He practically leered at me, and I ached to wrap my fingers around his throat. Which is when I realized I was already holding something.
My fingers were digging into the damp fabric of the rag. I had no memory of grabbing it from him, but there it was. The fabric was wet, but there was no blood, no hint of viscera. So where was the smell coming from? The confusion was enough to distract me from my rage.
“What—” My voice was muffled behind the fabric of my jacket.
“It ain’t blood, Squib or otherwise,” he said. “I’ve seen it when they soak the rags. It’s clear as gin.”
“What is it?”
“Don’t know.” He shrugged, his indifference total. “But they’ve got us driving around with these rags tied beneath our carts. Especially down here.” He jerked his chin toward the roiling crowd. The violence had escalated so much faster than I’d expected. I remembered the ever-present rolling Therreau carts, the plain-dressed religious folk most of the city ignored.
“Flanagan. What is that stuff?” My voice was tense. I already had a guess.
“I told you I don’t know.” He bared his teeth. “I do what I gotta to survive. If bags of this stuff show up and we’re told to parade around the city with them, then that’s what I do. The smell doesn’t do anything for me, but some people . . . Man, oh man.”
I’d had enough. More than enough, and I wanted to ram that damned rag down his throat. Before I knew what I was about to do, I’d grabbed hold of him and wrapped a hand around his neck. He easily shed my grip and stepped back. The heel of his hand caught me on the cheek. The kind of strike a lioness might deliver a wayward cub.
“Stop it,” he said. His voice was monotone, no anger or excitement. I might as well have been a toddler taking swings at an adult.
I moved to the side, hoping to get another shot at him. His hand drew back.
“Timothy!”
The call came from the wagon at the end of the alley, a deep baritone that echoed off the buildings on either side of us. Never straying from his course, the driver craned his neck to maintain eye contact with Flanagan.
“That is not our way,” the man said. Next to him the boy, Benny, stood with one foot on the buckboard, as if he were ready to spring to Flanagan’s defense.
Flanagan’s hands went up, fingers outstretched, so that his companions could see him disengage me.
“Not here to dance with you,” he said. “Don’t keep tempting me.”
I threw the rag at him. It struck his chest before falling into his open hand. Flanagan tucked the rag into the bag and resealed it.
“Why did Harlan Cedrow poison me?”
“S
ide roads.” He shook his head. “You don’t listen at all. I don’t know who put your friend in the hospital, but I can guess. You oughta check on what that person would’ve wanted with a kid from Old Orchard. And this”—he shook the bag—“is some kind of trial-and-error thing. Sometimes it’s potent, sometimes not. Real lab rat stuff.”
“Really?” I said. “Cryptic hints? This would go a lot quicker if you just spelled it out.”
“No, it wouldn’t. You’d have hearsay and insinuation, and there’s no way a jury would believe what I had to say, even if I was willing to testify.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Which I’m not.
“Instead,” he continued. “I’m telling you where to look. Now pull your dislike for me out of your ears and listen to what I’m saying. Follow the kid’s trail. Find out where he worked. You think you can handle that?”
Lips pressed tight, I said nothing. He smirked.
“Good,” he said. “You may be an idiot, but you’re no lapdog.”
The disgraced cop glanced down the alley again and shifted his bulk from one foot to the other. He was anxious to leave. But I had another question for him.
“The cop who shot Jermaine,” I said. “Myris. You going to come after her?”
He pursed his lips and pulled his brows together, as if he were puzzled by the question. “She pulled the trigger,” he said. “But she’s not who killed him. You oughta understand that better than anyone.”
The taste of cinnamon still sat in the back of my throat. I spat it out, and Flanagan snorted.
“Spare me,” he said, and stepped away from the coupe. He half turned, looking at his companions on the tibron-pulled wagon.
“When guns come out,” he said, “some people get shot, and some people walk away. You got a fraction of a second to sort out who’s who. Admit to yourself that you’re the kind of person who makes those decisions. It’s your job and it’s who you are. Recognize that, and it’ll let you get on with your life.” He squinted at me, eyes tight, as though he were staring into the midday sun. “Course, you won’t get to sit around feeling sorry for yourself anymore, so you probably won’t do it.”
“Is that the motive behind this good deed?” I asked. “Are you getting on with your life?”
He frowned, and looked to the Therreau wagon. “I don’t like to see these folk put in danger.”
“Come on,” I said. “Now you’re the defender of the innocent?”
Flanagan shrugged. “I got out of prison and was told to live with the Therreau. Prison makes you harder than when you came in. You live with decent folk, maybe that rubs off, too.” He slipped off the wide-brimmed hat and ran his fingers over his hairless scalp. “I gave you what I can, now get the job done. Jermaine deserves it. And your girl in the hospital,” he said. “She deserves it, too.”
“Protect and serve,” I said. “It’s what I do.”
“Good.” He stepped away. “You won’t see me again.”
Flanagan walked down the alley and met the wagon as it circled around once again. In one easy motion he hopped onto the driver’s bench and landed next to the older Therreau man, who shot me a nervous glance. Flanagan gave him a pat on the shoulder. Pulled forward by the ceaseless legs of the tibron, they merged into traffic and were absorbed by the city.
I probed the flesh along my cheekbone where he’d struck me as I watched them go. It was already swelling. I’d be hard-pressed to convince Bryyh that I’d been “collecting myself” when I showed up with a black eye.
I didn’t care, now the Haberdine killing was coming together. As long as I went the day without taking any more beatings, I’d be fine.
27
MAYBE I SHOULD HAVE REPORTED the conversation with Flanagan immediately. But I’d already been sent home for the day. And besides, what would I say? Hey everyone! Remember that Flanagan guy we just let go? I wanna rearrest him so he can deny secretly telling me that he didn’t do it. Somehow I didn’t think that would go over well. No, to make use of the information Flanagan had just revealed I needed to knock holes in the defenses of the head of Rediron Drilling. And Bryyh had been right about one thing: I couldn’t go barging into Harlan’s office. That would be both stupid and reckless. I try to only be one of those at a time.
So I followed the tips that Flanagan had dropped and started researching medical facilities. I had Jermaine’s history, and his information that he’d given to his aunt. Little enough to start with, but I began to pull the threads together.
I assumed that any facility like Jermaine described would be in a less populated part of town, but not so far out as to make stocking supplies difficult. So I directed my search farther leeward, away from the Mount and the warmth of the geo-vents. I made a few calls to medical supply companies, and asked about their delivery routes.
That gave me a list of twenty sites with potential. Around midafternoon I stopped by the vehicle bay and checked out the Hasam, forgetting to mention to the pit crew that I was supposed to be home “collecting myself.” Then I started driving. I made it to the fifth site on my list before seeing something I knew wasn’t right.
The place was a nondescript concrete building with tinted windows and a front gate designed to keep out an invading army. Everything about it was too new and too well maintained for the neighborhood. I drove past, knowing better than to try the security gate with its punch code and sturdy steel construction. I circled the block, scoping out the rest of the property and looking for weak spots in its security.
It was on the fringes of the city. Wisps of snow snaked over the streets, and there were even scattered vacant buildings, an almost inconceivable sight closer to the Mount. I parked on the back side of the block, and eyed the medical building. As I watched, a stocky human in a thick coat trudged around a well-worn track on the perimeter of the lot. Clearly he was walking guard duty. I waited long enough for him to make a full circuit, and didn’t see anyone else outside in that time. That meant only one guard outside, making the rounds at specific intervals and probably pissed off about it, keeping his head down, not really watching what happened beyond the edge of his coat’s hood.
I could work with that.
Stretching an arm into the rear of the Hasam I swept aside the remnants of my fast-food lunch and flipped up the backseat bench, exposing the storage bin below. All police vehicles—and practically all Titanshade vehicles, period—had an emergency kit stored in an out-of-the-way compartment. A stranded vehicle might be inconvenient in most environments, but on the ice plains it meant a death sentence. The Hasam held a medical kit, snow chains, a thermal blanket, and an insulated parka. The parka would be the most convenient item, but it was a bright orange to help stranded motorists be seen by rescuers. No, it’d be the thermal blanket for me.
* * *
Coming at the compound from the rear I moved as quickly as I could. Bundled in the thermal blanket, I trailed its long end behind me, obscuring my tracks in the snow that dusted the ground this far from the Mount. We weren’t into the truly cold areas, but I couldn’t stay outside for long in just a suit and tie. At the chain-link fence I stooped and tugged at its bottom end. The cold ground was hesitant to let the metal fencing out of its grasp, but with a few pulls, it came loose. Then I pushed, pointing the sharp links of the bottom row toward the building and away from me. Perfect.
The ground was hard and frozen. I crouched low, obscured by the blanket and late afternoon twilight as I waited for the big guard to pass by on his rounds. It took some time and I was glad I’d taken a preemptive pain pill as the cold seeped into my joints. Finally the guard came around, his head down, not bothering to study the scenery beyond the lot. He just kept moving and continually cracked his knuckles. First one hand, then the other. Probably trying to move fast and keep warm.
I gave him enough time to get around the corner of the building. Drawing the blanket tight around my shoulders, I
rolled underneath the chain link. I dragged the blanket behind me, obscuring my tracks, and jumped into the big man’s footprints. I followed in them another twenty feet, then hopped closer to the building. The windows were few and far between. I peered through one, but the bland office and file cabinets told me nothing. If I wanted to learn anything I needed to get inside.
Moving quickly, I followed the outline of the building until I came to a side door, where the guard’s footprints had worn the area clear of snow. It had to be the entry and exit point for his rounds. I tried the handle. He’d left it unlocked.
The handle turned, but I didn’t pull it open. Crossing the threshold with no warrant, with no reasonable cause meant leaving my authority behind. I couldn’t ignore Flanagan’s information, but I didn’t have enough cause to go through proper channels. Ajax had convinced me to wait, to go the official route. And when I did, I’d been sent home like a misbehaving schoolboy, while Talena convalesced in a hospital bed.
So maybe just a little peek, I told myself, to see if there was anything to Flanagan’s talk. I could always come back later with the full weight of the Bunker behind me.
I went inside, immediately searching the utilitarian, antiseptic corridor for someplace to hide. That guard might be coming back at any moment, and I didn’t want to risk being caught out in the hallway. I folded the blanket up on itself, so that any melted snow wouldn’t puddle on the floor, and moved forward holding my breath, trying to find my way with my ears and my nose as much as with my eyes. From somewhere down the corridor voices echoed. I placed my hand on a door to my left, feeling the handle just as the door to the outside swung open. I walked through the door and found myself in a dark room. I cushioned the door’s swing with my fingertips, shutting it silently behind me. In the dark, I stretched out my arms and felt walls to the left and right. Sturdy metal shelves filled with plastic containers. The air was musty with pine-infused antiseptic, and the back of my hand dragged over the knotted cloth strands of a mop head. I was in a maintenance closet.
