ARC: The Buried Life

by Carrie Patel

  “Related to the attack, Mr Arnault.”

  He sighed. “Last night, then. I returned home and went to bed early.”

  “What time?”

  “1.30, about.”

  Malone frowned. “That’s early? Where were you returning from?”

  “Yes, it is, and that’s none of your business.”

  Malone tapped the contract in her jacket.

  Arnault rolled his eyes. “The Gearbox. A bar near the factory districts. Anyway, I awoke in the middle of the night and thought I heard someone in the domicile.”

  “Could you be more specific about the time? And what did you hear?”

  Arnault clenched his jaw, raising knots behind his molars. “Shall I tell my story or not? I wasn’t taking notes, so you’ll have to be satisfied with what I remember.” He paused and slicked back his hair with one hand. “It must have been after three. I got out of bed, took my pistol, and went to the hall where someone gave me this.” He gestured to the welt on his cheekbone. “I jumped back, dropped the gun, and grabbed my attacker’s arm and twisted. He sliced me with the knife in his other hand, and I let go. By the time I had my gun in hand, he was disappearing down the street. I made it almost to the door before losing consciousness. A neighbor heard the commotion, saw me lying in blood, and helped me to the hospital. And that’s all I know.”

  “You dropped the gun?” Malone asked.

  “That’s what I said.”

  She looked at him in disbelief.

  “Why so surprised? Isn’t that the kind of thing that normally happens, Inspector?”

  “It is with home-defense amateurs, but not with men like you.”

  Roman snorted. “I don’t use it as much as you seem to think, Inspector. Certainly not as often as you use yours,” he said.

  “Did you see your attacker?”

  “No.”

  “Can you tell me anything about him?”

  “Not really. Seemed smaller than I.” Given Roman Arnault’s considerable frame, that was a reasonable assumption. “It could have been a woman, for all I know.”

  “You didn’t see him at all?” Malone asked.

  “It was dark. We didn’t spend much time face-to-face, in case you couldn’t tell.” The polished stone walls behind Arnault glowed in the bright hospital lights, but a scowl shadowed his face.

  “How did the attacker get into your domicile?”

  He sighed. “If I knew that, he wouldn’t have.”

  “Do you know of anyone who would want to harm you?”

  “Plenty,” he said with a grin, “but none who would dare try.”

  She glared and paced closer to his bedside. “Mr Arnault, you aren’t being very helpful.”

  His nostrils flared, and he gritted his teeth audibly. “Madame Inspector, I was awakened in the middle of the night, hit over the head, and drained of five pints of blood. You will pardon me if my memory is not as sharp as yours would be.”

  “That’s not the problem. I don’t think you want to help me.”

  “Such powers of deduction.”

  Malone squeezed her hands into fists. “I’m not asking favors. You’re the one in the hospital bed.”

  He sat up and brought his face close to hers. She could see the glassy sweat beads at his temples and the blood vessels snaking across his eyes. “Inspector Malone, do you think I don’t know that my life is in danger?” For the first time, Liesl Malone saw him look truly unsettled. “If I had anything useful to tell you, I would. Doubt no longer. I am terrified for my life.” Looking at his wide eyes and pale, perspiring cheeks, Malone believed him.

  “Then let me help you,” she said. “Tell me what you do know and let me protect you.”

  “Inspector, you haven’t the slightest idea of what you’re getting yourself into. The truth is, neither do I.” He continued before she could interrupt. “Besides, there’s only one person I trust, and I’m sure you can guess who that is.” He tapped his chest.

  “I can’t protect you from your own paranoia, Arnault.”

  “You saw Hollens just before he died, Inspector. Tell me, did he give you what you wanted?” Malone’s face darkened and creased. “Oh, I seem to have touched a soft spot.”

  “For a man afraid for his life, you have a dark sense of humor.”

  “You Municipals are so much like the criminals you pursue: deceptive, manipulative, and heedless of any authority outside your own.” Arnault watched as Malone stood in silence, biting her tongue. He smiled, and his bright eyes gleamed in his blanched face. “When was the last time you broke into a suspect’s home? Stole evidence? Forged an identity? Browbeat a witness?”

  White teeth flashed from behind Malone’s drawn lips. “We’ve never been elegant, but we have limits. That’s what makes us different from the lawbreakers… and from you.”

  Arnault barked with mirth, wincing as his sides heaved. “No, it’s your self-righteousness. You’re so certain that you know what’s wrong and how to fix it. You’re ignorant and headstrong, and one of these days, you’re going to get someone killed. I just hope that it’s you.”

  “Easy for you to criticize when the only one you have to look out for is yourself.”

  Roman settled back into the bed, allowing his eyelids to droop as he prepared to return to sleep. “How are you always so sure of everything, Malone?”

  Malone stood back from the bed. “You’ve been as helpful as ever.” The nurses looked on wordlessly as Malone stalked out of the ward, her face set in an impassive mask.

  At the station, she did not have to wait long for Sundar, which didn’t bode well for his end of the investigation.

  “The place was already swarming with the City Guard and the Council’s ‘official’ investigators. They were checking papers at the door, and as you can guess, I didn’t have an invite. I certainly hope you had better luck,” he said.

  “In a way.” Malone flicked her head in the direction of her office, and they walked through the station in silence, their eyes fixed to the ground and their minds on their respective defeats. After reaching sanctuary, Malone gave him the rundown on her exchange with Arnault. “He’s afraid, but he’s determined not to cooperate,” she said, resting her head on her hand. “If he were anyone else, and if this were any other contract, we could force more cooperation out of him.”

  “Through the Council, you mean.”

  “Right.” She signed. “I don’t know what to make of him anymore.”

  “Target practice would be one thing.”

  Malone looked up. “Be careful where you say that.”

  “Don’t tell me you haven’t thought the same thing.”

  She smiled.

  Sundar sighed and clasped his hands, resting on elbows. “What now?”

  “Now, we see what Edmund Wickery can tell us, whether on paper or in person.”

  #

  As promised, Olivia prepared dinner that evening. Jane sat by the warm fireside, mending a pair of trousers. She could not forget Fredrick’s comment from the other night, and despite years of friendship, she still never knew when to take him seriously. Sharing a walk earlier in the day, she had tried to pry the candor out of him.

  “You know, just because she’s gorgeous and uninterested in you doesn’t make her a… um…”

  “A prostitute?”

  “Yes.”

  “Of course not. It’s the schedule she keeps and her way with people.” Furrowing her brow, Jane nearly tripped over a flagstone. “Do you know anyone else who makes ‘house calls’ after ten at night? It’s obviously a euphemism,” he said, his tone airy yet authoritative.

  “I’ll admit that’s odd, but what do you mean about ‘her way with people’?”

  “Did you notice that she rarely talks about herself?”

  Wheeling her laundry cart around traffic, Jane considered the question. “Maybe she’s shy.”

  “She dodged all the questions we asked about h
er, but she asked plenty about us – our work, our day, our opinions. And she found it all fascinating. What does that tell you?”

  “That she’s a nice person.”

  “Wrong. She knows how to make people feel good. Her trade isn’t just about providing clients with physical pleasure. It’s about holistic satisfaction.”

  Jane frowned, watching the clothes shift and bounce on the cart in front of her. “You make it sound like an art form.”

  “Ah, Jane, don’t be such a prude. She pays the rent early and keeps you company. What do you have to worry about? After all, she brought her own bedding.”

  Now, sitting in front of the fire, Jane pushed the memory from her mind. It was still early, but she was looking forward to a quiet evening at home, her deliveries for the day already done. Savoring the smell of simmering herbs and the heat of dancing flames, Jane set the needle and pants beside her and flexed her fingers, rolling her wrists from side to side. The turn of a key at the door and subsequent rumbling of the bar interrupted her peace. “Hold on,” she called. Checking the window, she saw Fredrick and hastened to let him in.

  “Hi,” she began. He pressed a newspaper into her hands with an impenetrable expression. As she unfolded it, he moved to sit on the couch.

  “Be careful, there’s a–” she began.

  Fredrick leapt up, muttering an expletive and feeling his backside. He produced the needle between thumb and forefinger, but his gaze faltered as he looked back at Jane. Returning to the paper, she opened it to the first page and a headline that stopped her breath: “PROMINENT SOCIALITE FOUND HALF-DEAD IN HOME OUTSIDE THE VINEYARD.” Beneath it was a picture of a scowling Roman Arnault.

  “I don’t know if that’s a good description of the man, but I certainly can’t think of anything else that’s printable,” Fredrick said from the couch. Jane continued reading a lurid description of Roman’s bloodstained doorway on Carnegie and his dramatic entrance to the hospital. The author had seasoned the account with graphic statements from the nursing team about Roman’s injuries and treatment, each stitch like a gory exclamation point on the page.

  “If it’s any comfort, I think the article exaggerates his condition,” Fredrick said more softly, seeing Jane’s pallor. “I’m fairly certain that he was only at the hospital a brief while this morning, and I happen to know that the reporter who wrote that article has a knack for embellishment.” Olivia had paused in her cooking for a moment, and the apartment was silent but for the crackle of the fire and the bubbling of pots.

  “I do not understand. What has happened?” Olivia asked.

  Fredrick saw Jane’s eyes still glued to the page and answered, keeping his recounting brief and free of detail. “It’s not serious,” he added, watching both women.

  “Not serious?” Now it was Olivia’s turn for surprise, not only at the news, but also at Fredrick’s seeming nonchalance. “How can you say it is not serious if someone is in the hospital?”

  “Was in the hospital,” he said. “And I say it by considering the totality of the circumstances. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that he’s terribly lucky. Three men have died, and he’s managed to get away with a bruise and a scrape.”

  Olivia reddened, shaking an accusing spoon at Fredrick. “Yes, we’d see if you call it ‘a bruise and a scrape’ if you were the one–”

  Fredrick held up two placating hands. “It could be much worse.”

  “Much worse! How can you–”

  “Because he survived,” Fredrick continued, gathering steam. “He’s younger and in better shape than the other victims. It seems our murderer was overconfident after preying on graying bureaucrats.”

  Olivia threw up her hands and returned to the pots.

  Fredrick sighed and ruffled his hair, looking down into the fire. “And it would appear that I was, er, mistaken in my earlier accusations. He’s still an odd trick, but I didn’t see this happening. So I’ll say it once and let it rest: I was wrong. How’s that, Jane?” He looked over his shoulder, expecting a response, but she was gone. The door hung ajar and the discarded newspaper marked the spot where she had stood only moments ago.

  #

  Dashing through passages and sprinting down tunnels, Jane had left the sight of her apartment warren before she knew where she was going. She slowed at Tanney Passage to catch her breath and clear her head. The newspaper had said that Roman was home, and Fredrick had said that he was all right, but she needed to see this for herself. Her pulse thumped a rapid pace in her throat, and she assessed her options.

  It would be nine o’clock in several minutes, which meant curfew. Jane didn’t have an excuse to be out, but she thought that she could invent something suitable if it became necessary. She had an idea of where Carnegie was, and on the outskirts of the Vineyard, it wouldn’t be hard to find. Her only problem was getting there and without getting caught… by the guards or anyone else. She hoped that she knew the subterranean passages well enough from her laundry runs to evade anyone that she might not wish to meet.

  Jane sprinted along the passages on padded feet, skirting the major thoroughfares and on the lookout for guards. She had not decided what she would do when she reached Arnault’s domicile, but she resolved to trust her feet for now and her wits later. Her pulse steadied as she sprinted, crept, and listened. She nearly ran in front of a pair of patrollers, but she ducked behind a corner just in time and watched them pass unaware, close enough for her to tug their coats.

  She glimpsed the few trolleys and railcars still running, hearing their growls and hums below her feet and above her head. They could save her thirty minutes of travel, but she did not want to answer any questions.

  Her pace slowed as she neared the Vineyard, expecting to find more guards. She wandered the grid of tunnels on the outer rim of the Vineyard, convinced that Carnegie was somewhere nearby. Rounding a corner, she heard someone shout.

  “You there!” a man directly behind her called. She froze, and as she heard footsteps draw closer, turned.

  The guard was standing five yards down the passage, his hands folded behind his back. “It’s half an hour past curfew, you know. Where are you off to this late?”

  Jane looked up at the nearest tunnel marker and read “Carnegie.” “Home,” she said. In the low lighting, she saw the hint of a smile.

  “You’ll pardon my saying so, miss, but you don’t exactly look like you live around here.”

  “A maid. I’m a maid, officer.” Looking down at the worn hem on her skirt and her disheveled garments, she could see what he meant.

  “I see. And what are you doing out?”

  This was the question she had hoped to avoid. None of the explanations that she had invented along the way seemed plausible now that she was standing in front of an actual guard, pistol, uniform, and all. As she made a final effort to think of an excuse, she blushed and her eyes darted to the ground. The guard seemed to take meaning from this and laughed aloud.

  “Oh-ho-ho, I see what this is! Don’t you worry, missy – your little secret is safe with me. But you’d best hurry on ’fore someone else notices what’s missing at home, right?” He gave her a wink that was a little too familiar.

  Nodding, she turned and hurried down the next passage, eager to be out of the guard’s sight for more than one reason. Thinking back to her conversation about Olivia, she wondered how many others like her were out past curfew making their rounds.

  Fortunately for Jane, most of the doors were marked with plaques bearing the names of the occupants or businesses. She walked quickly, scanning them. Carnegie was a serpentine passage with a high ceiling and sturdy, varnished doors that spoke of position, so when she reached the plaque gnawed by tarnish, she knew she’d found the right one. The printed name “ARNAULT” confirmed her suspicions and, brushing a few stray locks from her face, she rang the bell. The tasseled cord left a fine film of crumbling red velvet on her palm as the bell sounded on the other side of the door. The radiance
stones set in the passage glowed dimly, their white light reflected off of the smooth gray walls. She began to count them as she waited.

  After a few moments, she heard a click on the other side. Roman opened the door, and his face betrayed his astonishment at seeing her there.

  “Miss Lin, this is an unexpected surprise.” He looked her up and down and glanced all around her, as if anticipating someone else. “It’s well after curfew, you know?”

  “That wouldn’t stop you.”

  He laughed. “No, it wouldn’t. Please come inside, and forgive my poor manners.” She followed as he ushered her in and led her to the drawing room. His hair hung free to his chin and, as seemed his custom, he was dressed loosely and comfortably. Jane noted a slight limp in his right step.

  “Sit and rest. I don’t entertain many guests, but I hope you’ll make yourself comfortable.”

  She took the offered seat next to a crackling fire. She sank into the plush armchair, letting her heels slide down the scroll-patterned area rug at her feet and looked around.

  The drawing room was not large, but it was well-furnished. The wood paneling and flooring lent a warm touch and a rich scent to the room. Bookcases, packed full with multicolored spines and assorted oddities, framed the fireplace and ran the length of that wall. Foreign-looking artifacts and hangings nestled between the books and adorned the walls, reflecting the tastes of an explorer or eccentric more than a sinister misanthrope. A map decorated one segment of the wall, and a pair of microscopes sat in a corner, next to a shelf holding orbs of various sizes and designs.

  “The one on the left shows the world bisected by the magnetic poles,” he said, following her gaze. “And next to it is a globe map of the constellations.”

  Looking down, Jane realized that the carpet alone must cost more than her apartment. Now trying to lift her feet from it, she looked to the ancient telescope sitting against the far wall.

  “And that doesn’t work indoors,” Roman said. He spread his hands and turned back to her. “It doesn’t compare with the luxury of the Vineyard, but it’s at your disposal.”