by Sue Perry
"My gut."
"Yeah. See. As much as I like your gut, evidence would be reassuring."
"I get that."
"Especially since, conversely, your gut tells you it was the Cysts, not a drugstore, that had him so blazed when we got to his apartment."
"That's common sense. Nobody uses every drug at once."
"Anyway, Ben never has," I agreed. "So they blasted his mind - somehow - then planted all that shit to - what? - get him arrested? There's something here we're not seeing, the pieces don't add up."
"I know."
"When I got there, he told me to run. That doesn't seem like he was high." We shared a sigh. "And Ben had no clue about what happened to Ziti in his apartment?"
"He remembered nothing, but he did say one thing I keep going back to. When I asked him could he remember anything, anything at all, like how long he'd been sitting on the floor? He said he couldn't remember and if he did remember he'd die. Then he gave a little laugh like he wanted to be kidding."
"Gotta be the Cysts," I whispered.
We stared out the window and my attention went to a neon sign at the tavern across the street. The light wavered before it came on, the way that neon does. CLOSED. Which confirmed that it was way past my bedtime, especially after today's ten-hour drive and the previous days' adventures.
Hernandez continued. "Something unrelated to this case that Ben told me. Those cops who knew you at the Largo -"
"Mathead and Scabman. Not their real names."
"Suitable monikers. Those cops have pressured Ben to inform on his dealers."
Aha. That explained some things.
"Ben has outstanding charges that will go away if he helps these two cops."
"As will his ability to breathe."
"He sees that, but he agreed to help because he thought he could -"
"Wait, I know how this one goes. He figures he can get the cops off his back, then finesse them and weasel out of the deal." Thassa my Benny. "Let me guess. His finesse didn't work and now he is avoiding the cops."
"Something along those lines."
"The nasty reality is that he needs to eat the charges and move on."
"He sees that now, but he doesn't trust those two cops so won't turn himself in. And I don't blame him, I asked Patti what she recommends and -"
"Patti? Oh you mean Detective Henson." Was that a blush? My, my. You go away for four days and life steamrolls forward without you. It was time for a change of subject. "Tell me about Edith's hearing."
"Edith and Karina did very well at the hearing and everyone was very respectful of them. With their testimony, the case is going to trial."
"A great step forward. Patti won't let the trial hurt them." He could only nod, not entirely convinced she had the power to protect the girls in court. "Maybe we can ship Garcia to the Cysts and unburden the courts. I wonder if that shit realizes his parents died trying to help him."
"Do you hear that?" He rolled down his window, cocked his head out, then twisted the ignition and shot us toward the Digby Construction site. Now I could hear the growling and barking.
By the time we swerved up to the site, Anwyl had scaled the ten-foot fence. Below him, inside, a trio of slavering guard dogs leaped at him and bit the chain link, shaking the fence with their jaws. Anwyl vaulted over the razor wire into the bed of the truck, cradling his left arm in his right. Hernandez peeled out, which made Anwyl fall over. He did not sit up again. I undid my seatbelt to turn and get a better look at him. A pool of blood shimmered around him on the truck bed. "He's hurt!"
Hernandez was pulled over and in back, demanding to see Anwyl's arm, before I had my door open. While Hernandez examined one wound, Anwyl extracted something from another deep cut on his forearm. He held up a broken piece of a circular saw with the roots of a tooth.
"Those were clockwork dogs?"
"In the Frame where they began their attack, they were."
Hernandez yanked his t-shirt off and ripped it into strips. "The wound is shallow and it barely nicked an artery. You will be fine after I shut down the bleeding." We watched silently as Hernandez staunched the wounds. When both wounds were doctored, Anwyl joined us in the truck cab. I sat in the middle and could feel the heat from Hernandez' shirtless skin.
Focus, Nica. I examined the saw-piece tooth. "Here is our proof that the Cysts are involved with Digby Construction."
"Perhaps. Theirs are not the only clockwork dogs. The Framekeeps would call this a suggestive coincidence, nothing more." He sniffed the tooth. "My blood overpowers their scent."
"How many suggestive coincidences have we assembled, now?" I asked. Nobody answered, but that was okay, the question was rhetorical.
Anwyl sniffed the clockwork tooth again, and worried it between his teeth. "These are likely beasts of Warty Sebaceous Cysts. If the dogs recognized me, then Warty Sebaceous Cysts know we study the construction sites, and the game changes."
"What did you see at that site? More of the same?" Hernandez asked as he got us onto the 10 freeway, west, to return to the Henrietta.
Anwyl nodded. At each of the sites, he had explored the remodel in this Frame, then Traveled to examine the building in other Frames. Each of the buildings, like the Henrietta, was a sentient structure that persisted in many Frames. The add-ons in this Frame did not persist, but that was to be expected. Changes made by Neutrals typically only show up in the same Neutral Frame. However, in other Frames, Anwyl found each of the changed buildings heavily guarded, or isolated with high walls and fences.
Anwyl gave Hernandez an assignment. "It is important that you determine how many of these projects exist in Los Angeles."
"I'm on it," Hernandez nodded.
"What about construction like this in other Neutral Frames?" I mused.
"Or other cities in this Frame?" Hernandez added.
"All these, too, may exist." Anwyl looked more serious than I had ever seen him.
We dropped Hernandez at home, where his daughters slept. His house was a tidy bungalow on a street in east LA that was so family oriented it made me want to go have kids. But Anwyl had more for me to do. Because I had slept as recently as last week, I could not complain.
Anwyl and I took Hernandez' truck to Watts, hopped the fence surrounding the Towers, and Travelled to Miles and Monk's Frame. There, even at this late hour, skateboards frolicked in one neighboring yard. It was good to be back but it dug a hole in my heart, knowing that Miles would not be here.
We spotted Monk down the block, surrounded by others: a meeting was underway. As we approached, I had the impression that Monk sagged a little. He didn't look any different and yet he had that vibe. He was sad. He was worried. Miles and more.
Three of the attendees I had seen previously, and had privately nicknamed Vince, Ruby, and Slam: the Vincent Thomas bridge, the red car with her shawl of track, and the Hammerhead roller coaster. In addition, tonight the Capitol Records building was here; its tall stacked disks of floors spun slowly, or faster when the conversation grew heated. What may have been a Sunset Strip billboard was fringed on all sides with floppy strips of peeling paper that here and there looked familiar - images from old ads for music or movies. One of the billboard's eyes and cheeks looked a lot like Justin Timberlake, while the other may have been the Little Mermaid. There were also three attendees from out of Frame: a ten-foot sword covered with thick bark and a hilt that teemed with ladybugs; a small grove of palm trees, topped not with fronds but with single perfect white roses whose fragrance perfumed us; a sand dune that cascaded and reformed several times during the conversation and steepened whenever disagreement broke out.
There was a guy standing in the middle with Monk. He looked human, although his mannerisms during the conversation suggested that a goldfish inhabited a humanoid body. Actually, it wasn't a conversation they were having; it was more like a lecture and occasionally an interrogation.
The lecture topic was whether Maelstrom's Frame collapse could be reversed. Goldfish man e
xplained the technical details and helped the others sort out propaganda from folklore from technology. I came in on the middle of the discussion and understood about as much as when I read income tax instructions in Tagalog, but I got the gist: the official answer was nyet - reversal was impossible. The actual answer was possiblemente - reversal might be accomplished with the right knowledge and opportunity.
Most of the architects of Frame collapse were dead. Only a very few existed who understood the entire procedure. The knowledge was passed down and along to ensure that somebody knew how to do a collapse when another bad guy like Maelstrom came along. The identities of the living architects was always closely guarded.
From the handful of current architects, one architect had gone missing, along with her entire family. The worst-case speculation was that the Cysts had abducted the family to force the architect to help them. The ladybugs on the sword hilt swarmed and the Capitol Records discs whizzed.
"What word of Miles?" somebody asked.
"Of and from the same. Nothing," Monk's words were weighted; they sank fast.
"That mission was an error," Vince rattled his bridge struts. "That is the reason he did not want to go."
"You shouldn't 'a forced him and now -" the Capitol Records building agreed, and its disks spun to a blur, when Ruby interrupted.
"All the free Frames face worse dangers under Maelstrom. What choice did we have but to send Miles?" Ruby shrilled.
"All choices exist," Monk brooded.
Anwyl interjected, "Miles did not wish to go, but he accepted the burden. He is but two days tardy in his return. That concerns us, but not yet mightily - and we have much else to decide."
“The Cysts aren't arguing about their next steps," I had to pipe up.
The record tower stopped spinning, Vince stopped rattling. They and the others turned to study this mouthy Neutral. Then somebody muttered agreement and they buckled down to nuts and bolts decisions about where to best deploy spies in order to detect whatever the Cysts were up to, and to delay them until enough power and knowledge could be wielded to stop them.
A beloved voice hailed us and Anya strode toward us, with a haughty redtail hawk on one shoulder. "I bring Pent-Up Angst, a librarian of the free Frame Wherewithal, whose witness you must hear," she announced. Or that's what the names all sounded like to me.
The group gave Pent-Up Angst immediate attention. Outside the Neutral Frames, a librarian is essentially an army recruiter, enlisting unattached books for causes - some just, some nefarious, and some shockingly well-paid.
"One cycle ago," the librarian began, "Warty Sebaceous Cysts visited me."
"Don't you mean their Entourage?" someone asked.
"No, I mean as I say. The three themselves. They wanted all the books I could enlist for them. They offered generous compensation, including shelf ownership in a choice of Frames when conquest was accomplished."
"'Conquest'? They used that word?"
"They did. They enflamed their converts with visions of a new world, ruled by force and might. They promised text conversions to permanent ink for standing armies."
This evoked shouts of distress. The Capitol disks spun to a blur.
"Their boldness frightens me as much as their claims," someone said.
I had to agree. I prefer my bad guys cautious and skulking to audacious and arrogant.
Pent-Up Angst proclaimed, "Warty Sebaceous Cysts spoke as though they face no opposition of consequence."
"Warty Sebaceous Cysts are reckless. Do not take this attitude as proof that they will prevail. That is what they wish for us to conclude," Anya counseled. This helped to restore some confidence.
Full confidence returned when the meeting adjourned with one of Anywl the commander's inspirational leave-takings. "Always have our foes expected victory. Always shall we disappoint them."
Now, when I looked at the allies, I saw not conspirators but generals.
33. Good Luck Restoring Your Honor
"And how do you spell that?"
"Same way we spelled it in the three previous messages you took from me."
"And your phone number?"
"I renewed my annual service while you had me on hold, so that is unchanged also."
"And your message?"
"Care to make a wager about what that would be?"
Her keyboard ceased to clatter. "I'll put 'see previous message'."
"An economical solution. Is Kimball in court today, is that why her phone is turned off?"
"Our policy has not changed since we discussed this earlier."
"Good one. Got me back!"
The law office receptionist tittered. From what I could tell - and I had gotten to know her well during my repeated attempts to reach my attorney today - she wasn't a power monger or an asshole, as was typical in such gatekeeper positions. It was her job to prevent riff raff from wasting the attorney's billable hours. That's where our basic misunderstanding set in.
"Look, I understand your reluctance to put my call through when you can't find my name in Kimball's client list, but I am Kathleen's client -"
"You have so stated."
"Pull up her schedule for last week. Let me give you dates and approximate times I've seen her this week, you'll see that -"
"I cannot confirm or deny any appointment, including those in the past. Our clients deserve that discretion."
"Oh! Em! Eff! Gee!"
"Please refrain from cursing."
After that call, I gave up and fled my office. I had to get outside or I would combust. Anya and Anwyl had brought me home close to dawn. I slept a scant few hours then launched efforts to get my case dropped, but couldn't get to square one, contact with my attorney. My frustration rose faster than today's temperatures. I had missed the chance for my morning jog so I stormed around the block a few times, instead. It was hot and smoggy and dirty, yet afterwards I felt better. The tall buildings that lined the streets did block some sky but lacked the oppressiveness of four walls and a ceiling. I had Zappa and Waits in my earbuds to remind me of the pleasure of absurdity or vice versa. When I was done stomping, I went to the gym to take out more of my morning on a punching bag, then enjoyed a short cool shower surrounded by strangers. Sometimes I could see disadvantages to living in my office.
During all this, Anya and Anwyl explored the Henrietta's roof, looking through the Frames for clues to the purpose of the construction. As soon as they finished, I would take Anya to Parker Center to prove I was innocent of kidnapping or harming her. If we had to go without my attorney, so be it.
I got back to my office just as they came downstairs from the roof. Per their expressions, they had not learned the purpose of the addition. "We don't need to know everything by tomorrow, though. You've told me that." I said this to reassure myself, but all I did was tense myself up.
"You are correct. At tomorrow's audience, we do not need to understand the purpose of the construction projects," Anya agreed.
I remained unsoothed. "I still think it means something bad that they moved up the petition to tomorrow. Earlier trials never help the prosecution."
"We need to stop Warty Sebaceous Cysts quickly, so we must welcome the change."
I didn't want to spend the afternoon anxious, so I let it go.
Anwyl went off on his own while I took Anya to Parker Center. It was only a three-block walk but we collected a lot of doubletakes during it. I'm not the only one drawn to Anya. She wore her usual shapeless shift tunic caftan thing - and she has no noteworthy curves - yet she turned heads, because she radiates such vitality and enigma. Those not coming on to her tried to categorize her and were left with pleased but puzzled frowns. You can't look at her style or body language to guess her career or life path, social standing or success, interests or personality. Neither Anya nor Anwyl give off the usual subliminal cues. Walking down a crowded street with Anya, I was reminded how much we humans rely on our accumulated experience to read those cues. Interestingly, when I was out with Anwyl, peo
ple ignored him.
I was so glad to be headed for Parker Center. I had feared a run-in with cops before I got myself cleared. There had to be a warrant out for me by now, thanks to my four days out of contact, out of Frame. Also, I had removed the GPS device without permission. As soon as I returned, Hernandez cut it off with bolt cutters. I carried the pieces in a Ziploc bag.
Hark and behold, as we headed up the steps to enter police headquarters, the cops who had arrested me were headed downstairs, laughing as though sharing a dirty joke.
"Hey, guys. Remember me? Nica S.T.A.T.Ic."
Recognizing me ruined the joke. One of them shoved a hand into a pocket and I winced, expecting him to extract handcuffs. Instead, he pulled out an electronic cigarette and started puffing. The other one - the one with OCD - adjusted his shades. They were going to let me carry the conversation.
"Standing next to me is the woman you've accused me of kidnapping and killing. As you can see, she is alive, well, and unrestrained, which proves the charges were wrong."
"Is that right?" one of them replied.
The other said to Anya, "Excuse us. Police business," and tried to move around her.
Hell, no. I kept Anya in front of one and repositioned myself to block the other's path downstairs. They were not going to walk past us!
"How do I get the charges dropped?"
The one with the water vapor cigarette squinted like he had smoke in his eyes or didn't remember the case. "Your lawyer will know."
"Ah-I-am representing myself now." If Kathleen Kimball wouldn't take my calls I would fire her ass.
They stepped back like I was a turd and they were barefoot. But they still couldn't get around us. We exchanged stares until Anya spoke up.
"How will Nica restore honor to her name, if not with your aid?"
The one with the cigarette substituted an exhale for a sigh and said to his partner, "I'll catch up to you. Get me a number seven with extra sauce."
It turned out I would need a court hearing. Today, we did the paperwork to get me to that hearing. The process was low on drama, slow on resolution. Forms, procedures, signatures, approvals. The cop would leave with one set of paperwork, return with another set.
