Alien Blues

by Lynn Hightower

  “Over, huh? Wishful thinking, Winston. What’s Santana doing here, then? Why did you have to ‘check’ before you called me?”

  “It not over,” the Elaki said.

  “But they said …”

  “They always say. Is not to believe, Winston. I have told you.”

  “Oh God.”

  “Where are they?” David said.

  “Back,” Winston said. “Way back. Where all the apartments are. The families.”

  “Family units,” Tester said.

  “Okay.” David took a deep breath. “How many?”

  “Santana. Two that stay with Santana. And more—three from my memory—who hunt.”

  David swallowed. “Stay here. If you see my partner, tell him what you told me. Keep to the walls, and stay out of the main tunnel.”

  Winston grabbed his arm. “Look, Detective. Your partner isn’t coming, not with tornadoes blowing across the city. Let this one go. I’ll help you get him the next time.”

  “There won’t be a next time.”

  “You can’t go in there by yourself.”

  “Mel will be here. So you be around to tell him what’s up.”

  Winston stepped back, shoulders sagging. “Whatever.”

  “Just stay put until Burnett gets here.”

  Partway down the tunnel, David looked back over his shoulder. The two of them watched him, heads stretched into the corridor. David sighed but kept moving, hoping they would have the sense to pull back, hug the walls, and stay quiet.

  FORTY-TWO

  They’d called them the pussy tunnels when he was a kid, because they were tight and dark and wet. Bravado. There was rubble on the floor and barely room to walk upright. The walls pressed, brushing David’s shoulders on both sides. No one liked the passages—wormholes networking the major tunnels of Little Saigo. They were the poorest efforts of the construction workers-access routes, hammered out quickly and not meant to last.

  David sneezed. Dust rose in thin swirls around his ankles, turning his shoes greyish white. The air smelled musty and worse. He was closer here, to the sump at the bottom level. The smell of old sewage was faint—not, thank God, the overpowering stench that permeated the lowest level. But he knew the odor would cling to his hair and clothes.

  It was the rubble that made him nervous, indicating movement in the rock and possible structural damage. Just how safe it was down in Little Saigo was never a burning social issue, but the wormholes were unquestionably dangerous. Few people used them. He could count on being alone here. He hoped.

  He remembered the old routes pretty well, as long as he went by instinct, and didn’t think too hard. Some of the wormholes crossed behind major tunnels rather than going through, and some of them dead-ended into solid rock.

  He smelled food—grease, garlic, fish—so he must be close to the family units. He wished he’d had dinner. Murmurs and snippets of conversation filtered through the ventilation shafts.

  David moved carefully, but quickly. Light filtered into the darkness, and David veered toward it. He heard voices, activity. He clicked the red penlight off and slipped it in his pocket.

  David ducked out of the wormhole and into the main corridor. A woman looked at him, then turned away. Anyone coming out of the wormholes was up to something. She flashed her wrist at David, the toogim glowing green. He raised his hands in what he hoped was a gesture of benevolence. The woman took her two daughters by the arm and walked, her gait careful. Not too fast, David remembered. Don’t stampede the predator, or throw him a scent of fear and the chase. But not too slow, either, if you want to get away.

  Marion’s apartment was empty and untouched, everything in order, or what passed for order in Little Saigo. The dry wall had never been installed, and the walls were a roughed-in skeleton of wires and studs. An extension cord snaked out of the apartment in the usual jury-rigged effort to bring in electricity. A chipped plastic faucet stuck out at knee level on one side wall. The original plumbing had been intended for a toilet, but it was Marion’s only source of water. Water, power, and sewage were controlled by the tunnel rats. Even Marion paid.

  David heard a shoe heel on concrete. His shadow, large and spidery in the lamplight, was dwarfed by another shadow.

  “This here’s Marion’s place,” a man said. The voice was deep and slow-moving, the words carefully enunciated.

  David took a deep breath and waited for his heart to slow. The lined face was familiar—high cheekbones, overlarge ears, pale complexion. The man wore stained corduroy pants, heavy work shoes, and a wrinkled blue shirt. He was large, seven feet tall, and bent forward in a permanent stoop caused by years spent in cramped passageways. His hair, black and oily, was touched with grey, and his eyes were small, dark, and sleepy-looking.

  “Bertie?” David said. “That you?”

  The man leaned forward menacingly. “You know Bertie?”

  David stepped back instinctively, showing the toogim on his wrist. “Don’t you remember me? It’s Silver, David Silver.”

  “Silver … Davie? Davie Silver? Mrs. Silver’s boy, that right?”

  David’s knees felt weak. “Right. That’s right.”

  Bertie extended a moist, callused palm. “Davie Silver! I can’t believe it!” Bertie slapped his leg. “I just can’t believe it’s you!”

  “How’ve you been, Bertie?”

  “Okay, Davie, getting along. Hey, you remember Bennie Howitzer? That kid you used to hang around with?”

  “Yeah, sure, I remember Bennie.”

  “He’s in prison, did you know that? Long time now, he’s been locked away.”

  David thought for a minute. “What about Gregorio?”

  “Gregorio Alonso?”

  “Yeah, Mrs. Alonso’s boy.”

  “He’s dead, Davie. Killed in a turf fight with those tunnel rats. And Maybelle Riverton, she’s gone.”

  “Got out?”

  “No, gone. She’s a hummer now.”

  “Maybelle?”

  “You wouldn’t recognize her, Davie. Not anymore. And that girl that was so little, that Keri—”

  “So, Bertie, how’s the old toe?”

  “The toe? Gosh, it’s the same, Davie. Good as ever.”

  “Still reliable? Give me a report, Bertie.”

  Bertie’s face went red, the blush creeping from his cheeks, down the lined and weathered neck, to the V of skin at the top of his shirt.

  “Naw, now, Davie.”

  “Come on, Bertie. Me and Gregorio, we always used to say you should be on TV.”

  “Aw, Davie.” The shoe was a lace-up, but Bertie had it off in no time. “There she is! The weather toe.” Bertie’s grin was huge and happy. “Never did think when that auto door crushed it that a accident could turn out good.”

  “What’s it say?”

  “Storm, David. Real bad weather.”

  “On the money, every time.”

  Bertie sat on the floor and admired the toe. “This old thing, on the TV?” He smiled, and worked the shoe back on.

  David sat down beside him. “Listen, Bertie. I’m worried about Marion. I’m afraid something’s happened.”

  Bertie slowly worked the lace on his shoe. “Me on TV!”

  “Listen to me, Bertie. Have you seen Marion?”

  “Marion?”

  “I need to listen to the tapes. She may have said something that would—”

  “Nobody can listen to the tapes, Davie, you know that.”

  “I know, Bertie, but this time I have to. I think Marion’s in trouble. She may have said something—”

  “Nobody can listen to the tapes.”

  “Bertie, listen to me. Marion’s in trouble. She could get hurt.”

  “Who would hurt Marion? Nobody bothers her, Davie, you know that.”

  “Somebody has.”

  “Hurt Marion?”

  “I think so.”

  “Who … a prowler, David? I seen one in the hall there. A prowler got Marion?”

 
; “Who are the prowlers, Bertie?”

  “Bad ones. They take people. Marion’s people. Even tunnel rats. They got that girl that had the toy box.”

  “Toy box. Magic box? You mean Naomi Chessfield?”

  “I don’t know her name. She hides a lot. But she’s got big—”

  “That’s her. We got to find her, Bertie, find her fast.”

  “Got a knot here, Davie. Give old Bertie time to get the knot.”

  David watched Bertie’s thick fingers pick at the worn rawhide lace. The urge to push Bertie’s hands away and tie the shoe himself was almost more than he could bear.

  David stuck his hands in his pockets.

  FORTY-THREE

  David heard a woman singing.

  “Is that Marion?”

  Bertie stopped, his bulk plugging the passageway. The man’s sweaty musk was pungent in the constricted tunnel. “What, Davie?”

  “The singing, Bertie. It sounds like Marion.”

  “Aw, no, Davie, that’s Miz Brendon. She’s got her grandbaby back from her son-in-law. He’s no good, that son-in-law, so she’s hiding out.”

  “Okay, Bertie, okay. Let’s find Marion.”

  It was amazing, David thought, what he could hear, back in the wormholes. Bertie lumbered ahead, bent forward at the waist, moving with easy familiarity. What things had Bertie heard, coming through the ventilation shafts?

  “Shhhh. Here, Davie. See that? A prowler. But he hain’t got Marion.”

  David stood on tiptoe to peer over Bertie’s shoulder. A man stood with his back to them, keeping lookout down the tunnels. The light was dim, but David could see tattoos laced across the man’s forearms. A tunnel rat. Some kind of cooperation going on.

  “Bertie,” David whispered. “Can we get out farther down this way?” He jerked a thumb in the direction opposite where the man kept watch.

  “Comes out near them tunnel rats, Davie. Not a good place. Them down there, they don’t even like Marion getting into these parts. Kind of off-limits.”

  “It’s a good place for the prowlers, Bertie. It’s got an exit large enough for a car. That’s where I need to go.”

  There wasn’t room to swap places. Bertie pointed. “Go back, Davie. Go … um … that way when the floor makes a hill.”

  David was aware, suddenly, of the rhythmic groan of powerful machinery.

  “What is that?”

  Bertie laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Don’t be ’fraid of that, David. That’s the pump. The city got it working again, I guess. They been at it a couple days.”

  David nodded. The sump had been leaking into the city water supply for years. “Didn’t know they finally got around to pumping it out.”

  Bertie shrugged. “Don’t do ’em much good. Tunnel rats keep breaking it when no one’s around. Marion told them down at the government how much to pay them rats. Had some kind of agreement, but then they said—”

  “No extortion for wiseguys and riffraff,” David said. “I remember reading about it.”

  The sound of voices was faint over the low rumble of the pump.

  “… it up. We don’t need this. You’ll cost us everything, Santana, if you haven’t already.”

  Winston’s voice.

  “But why here? They expected you to come here, this was stupid.”

  “Winston, the words, please.” The Elaki. “For the control group. It is research project, you know of parameters, Winston.”

  “The control group isn’t needed now.”

  “Winston. For your phase two. P.H.”

  “P.H.? That’s not ready to try on people.”

  “Oh, but it is.” The voice was slow, silky. “P.H. is beautiful, Winston. It sets us apart in the marketplace. It’s the whole point.”

  “But we can’t control the reaction yet. My God, you let it out now, everything just gets that much worse. I need time. Can’t you people understand that? What’s a few more months? We can give people what they want, exactly what they want. No addiction, no side effects, no … no goddamn scummy drug dealers—”

  Winston cried out and David heard the sibilant hiss of a distressed Elaki.

  “You will cease. For to kill him, most stupid.”

  Light diffused the darkness as David and Bertie neared the main tunnel. David put his penlight away, and pulled his gun out of the holster. Bertie’s breath was warm on the back of his neck.

  “What are you going to do with these women?” Winston sounded ill.

  “Don’t you idiots know who you’re dealing with?” Naomi Chessfield’s voice was incredulous. “That’s the Maid. Marion. Nobody touches her. Her people will rise up and—”

  “The only thing keeps the tunnel rats in hand be me,” Marion said dryly. “He ugly, but not stupid. Don’t be worrying, Naomi.”

  “They’ll rise up and kill each and every—”

  Marion sighed. “She harmless. And under my protection.”

  “That’s between you and the rats.” The low silky voice again.

  David crept closer.

  “Turn your back, Winston. Think of your work.”

  “That old lady’s blind for Christ’s sake!”

  “Ah, Winston.”

  “Don’t touch me. You people are sick. Come on, Tester, let’s get out of this.”

  David wondered if he could get close enough to see without being spotted.

  “Load the whacko.”

  David moved to the edge of the tunnel. Someone was moving off to the left, toward the mag lev entrance. Marion and Naomi were huddled close together, next to the wall. Two men bent over them. There was no sign of Winston or the Elaki.

  “Marion!”

  David clamped a hand over Bertie’s mouth. “Quiet. Quiet.”

  Marion was rising slowly to her feet. “You come into my place. You take this girl under my protection. You get trouble, from me and the rats.”

  David came out of the wormhole quietly, then slipped on a loose rock.

  “Don’t move,” David said. Bertie lumbered out behind him.

  Both men stood up. Their forearms were covered with iridescent tattoos that shone in the dim light of the tunnel.

  “I said don’t move.” The men were still. “Marion, it’s David. Naomi, I want you to take Marion’s arm and move away. Don’t get between me and the gun. Bertie, stay put.”

  “Heigh ho, Silver!” Marion shook her head. “And you all too young to know what I mean.”

  She moved slowly, and David wondered if she was hurt. Come on, he thought. Come on. He pictured the man keeping watch in the tunnel behind them. Two with Santana, the Elaki had said. And three who hunt.

  “Bertie, take Marion and Naomi and get out of here. Not that way. There are other prowlers in the tunnels. Go back the way we came. Find a safe place and stay put till I find you.”

  “Be careful, Davie.”

  Bertie and Marion disappeared into the wormhole. Naomi stopped at the entrance, then turned back around.

  “Go on,” David said.

  “They’ve got my box.”

  She stood so close he could hear the quick intake of her breath, the loud gulps when she swallowed. David didn’t like the way the men looked at her. He wished she had a shirt on, under the vest.

  “Naomi.” David clenched his teeth. “Go.”

  Tears slipped down her cheeks.

  “That one,” she said. “He … she. It’s got my box. You know what’s in there, Silver.”

  “Naomi, go. Now. Move.”

  He heard something behind him.

  “Go, go, go!”

  A shot flicked sparks along the wall beside him, and echoed through the tunnel.

  “Throw it behind you, cop.”

  David dropped the gun.

  “Up against the wall.”

  David backed into the cold stone wall. A man in a red sweatshirt waved the barrel of a gun. The lookout. David’s knees felt weak.

  Naomi was trembling. She had a cigarette between her fingers, but her hand
shook so badly she dropped it.

  One of the men against the wall, one with a heavy handlebar mustache and a trim narrow waist, lit a cigarette. He licked the end of it and offered it to Naomi. Her mouth popped open, making David think of a hungry baby bird.

  She took a small puff of the cigarette.

  “Move away, Quintero,” the lookout man said.

  Quintero stepped back, but kept his eyes on Naomi.

  David didn’t hear anything, but saw Naomi shift her attention to the well of darkness on his right. Both Quintero and the fat-necked man beside him turned to look.

  David checked the lookout man. The man’s gaze was cool, and still focused on him. David squinted into the darkness.

  The figure moved closer and David caught his breath. Santana was tall and impossibly thin, soft brown skin covering a build that was lean to excess, thin wires of muscle strung over bone. Two women moved stealthily behind him—a matched pair of cats with a dangerous aura of confidence.

  “I see you, all my babies.” The melodious voice was marred by a slight childish lisp. Santana paused under the light, and David studied him, as he was meant to.

  Santana’s eyes were deep brown, the whites so clear they were almost blue. The lashes were black and long, girlish. He wore black boots that had silver over the toe, black jeans, and a white silk shirt. A silver buckle glinted on a leather belt that encircled a slender waist.

  His fingers were long and supple. The cheekbones on the face were high and pronounced, the skin smooth and luminous. A beautiful man/woman—mesmerizing as a snake. Small rosebud breasts swelled under the white shirt, nipples erect, prominent.

  “Give it to me,” Naomi said. “You’ve got it!”

  Quintero turned to Santana. “That box she was carrying. That’s what she means.”

  Santana smiled. From nowhere, it seemed, the box appeared in the long brown fingers.

  Naomi bared her teeth. David felt her move just as she screamed. She hurled toward Santana with the lit cigarette.

  The women behind Santana strained forward, then settled back at a small movement of Santana’s hand. The box smashed on the stone floor.

  Santana held his arms wide, welcoming Naomi like a lover. He swept her off her feet, and pulled her arms behind her back. David heard the pop when both shoulders dislocated. Santana put his mouth on Naomi’s, stifling her cry of pain. He bent her to him, pressing until her neck snapped. David flinched.