St. Katherine took a step back. “You are to be torn to pieces on the wheels,” she said, “just as my namesake, Saint Catherine of Alexandria, was to be torn to pieces on the wheels. For you, however, the pain and destruction will be mental, not physical. The three wheels around you will turn and generate holy energies, then transmit them into your brain through the Neural Shroud. Your mind, not your body, will be torn to pieces.
“But do not despair, Minor Danzig. An angel came to Saint Catherine of Alexandria and broke the wheels and spared her. Perhaps an angel will come during your trial, in one form or another, and spare your mind from the ravages of the wheels. If so, you will have been shown worthy.” She paused, breathing deeply. “Worthy to be my consort for life.”
St. Katherine’s face seemed to glow, and Mixer thought she looked even more beautiful than before. His heart was banging around inside his chest, but he could not take his eyes away from her face. My mind’s already gone, he thought.
The Saint smiled at him, a smile filled with passion and hope. Or was it his own desperate hope he saw in her face?
St. Katherine stepped to the side wall, pressed a panel with her hand. The wheels beside and above him began to slowly, slowly spin. St. Katherine walked toward the front row of Saints and stood before them. She said nothing, just looked at each of them in turn, then swung around to face Mixer and the spinning wheels. She lowered herself to her knees, placing her hands on her thighs, her gaze and smile fixed on Mixer.
Mixer suddenly became very calm. All the panic left him. He thought of Sookie, and he wondered if she’d become calm and unafraid just before the Chain Killer had murdered her. He hoped so. Then he thought of Paula, and a wave of grief rolled over him. He was going to miss her. Or would he? Even if he lived through this, he probably wouldn’t even know who she was.
The wheels were spinning more rapidly now, and tiny sparks of blue and white electricity danced around their rims, glittering at him. The sparks grew, joined one another, formed thin, flickering strings of electric fire leaping toward him. Mixer gazed at the blue and silver fire above and around him, transfixed.
Then he realized a chanting had begun, and he looked out at the Saints and the novitiates seated before him. Their eyes were wide open, and they were all staring directly at him, lips parted, a long and deep, wordless chant welling from their throats. The sound wavered, sliding back and forth around itself. Mixer was mesmerized by the chanting, transfixed by the dancing strings of electricity surrounding him.
No, he was paralyzed. That’s what it was. Paralyzed.
A single flash of electric blue fire arced from the wheel above him and struck one of the net nodes, stinging him. Suddenly his calm vanished, and the panic returned.
Mixer lost his breath for a moment. More flashes arced from the wheels to the net. Mixer could feel them firing along the net wires, jolting into him at the nodes, like cold, sharp needles. He twisted, pulled at the arm and wrist straps, knowing it was hopeless.
Oh fuck me, he thought, fuck you all!
The wheels spun even faster, and flares of energy scattered from them, arcing into the nodes. Mixer felt a shaking in his head, like his mind was being electrocuted.
Pain skittered along his face and neck, tiny lines of it burning his skin. He hadn’t expected that. Everything was going jittery inside him, his thoughts, even his vision, jumping around, flickering in and out. But he was also aware that something strange was happening to his right arm. He managed to turn his head and look at it.
His right arm—the exoskeleton, really—was twisting and straining against the straps, almost of its own accord, like a metal-sheathed snake. Mixer could just hear the high whine of the exo’s motors working, shifting back and forth. The strangest thing, though, was the electricity coming from the wheels: it seemed to be focusing on his right arm and hand, on the exoskeleton, most of it now guided and pulled away from his head, funneled to and spread out along the exo. The electricity swam along the metal surface, and as the wheels continued to spin faster and pour out more energy, more of it flowed to the exoskeleton.
The pain in Mixer’s head seemed to ease, but his right arm was on fire. He could see just enough to realize that now almost all the energy from the three wheels was funneling into the exo, flashing and glowing, making the metal shine and burn.
Shine and burn, shimmer and shake, Mixer thought. Where the hell had that come from?
There was a bright, silent explosion of sorts, three of them, actually, one from each of the three spinning wheels, and the energy gouted from them like fountains. Some of it washed over his head and face, tingling his thoughts and shimmering his vision, but most poured into the exo and his right arm. He didn’t notice anything different for a few seconds; then the pain blossomed in his arm and he screamed.
His arm was on fire. He couldn’t even see it anymore, hidden by the flames of blue and white energy that surrounded it, swirling and heaving like an electric beast. This was, he realized, the moment when his mind should have been torn to pieces. Instead, it was his arm and hand.
More explosions, this time loud and bright, and Mixer screamed again, the pain in his arm unbearable, tearing him apart. His face was starting to burn now, too, the net wires burning into his skin. White and blue crashed all around him; he couldn’t see anything, just wild shadows in front of him, leaping and flying. The Saints, he thought, they’re going crazy. Or they’re burning up along with me. Good, man. burn, you crazy fuckers!
Then even the dancing shadows were gone, and there was nothing but painful silver-white light all around him. I’m dying, he thought, I’m fucking dying. Orange and red flared up behind his eyes, and he thought he felt his arm burned and torn away from his body. Mixer screamed one final time; his vision burst, and then he was gone.
THIRTEEN
IT WAS TIME for Carlucci to talk to the slug, and it was the last thing he wanted to do. So he set up an appointment for that night, then left the station to play pool.
When he stepped out of the buildings, he was hit by a wall of damp and heat. The clouds were thick and heavy, a sick brown-orange overhead, and he could barely tell where the sun was behind them—a pale, slightly brighter disk shimmering high above the buildings. It was going to rain soon, he was sure of that, but he had his raincoat, and he decided to walk.
A few blocks to Market, another block south, then up a few more blocks to Bricky’s. “X” marks the spot, Carlucci thought to himself. The only sign anywhere was a tattered piece of cardboard in the window with the word pool handwritten in faded black ink. The windows were so grime-coated, all Carlucci could see through them were vague, shifting lights and shadows. He pulled the door open and stepped in.
Inside was cooler and quiet. A time warp. The place probably hadn’t changed in seventy-five years. Maybe even a hundred, Carlucci thought. Fifteen tables, low overhead lights above each, no other lights in the room except for a few beer signs behind the bar and a small orange-shaded lamp on Bricky the Fifth’s desk. Most of the tables were occupied, but there were a few open. Players looked at him, but no one nodded or waved or smiled. Those who knew him knew he was a cop; they accepted him, because Bricky did, but that didn’t mean they’d be friendly.
Bricky the Fifth sat behind his desk smoking a cigarette, watching Carlucci. He was tall and gaunt, short hair almost hidden by the red 49ers hat he always wore. He was only about forty, but looked at least ten years older. A year ago his son, Bricky the Sixth, had been gutted with a linoleum knife in front of the pool hall, two days after his wedding. There would never be a Bricky the Seventh.
Carlucci walked over to the desk and asked Bricky for a rack. Bricky nodded without a word, pulled out a tray of balls from a shelf behind the desk, and pushed them toward Carlucci, then made a note in pencil in an old spiral notebook.
Carlucci took the balls to an open table near the front corner, went to the bar for a bottle of Budweiser, then returned to the table and racked up the balls. He spent a few m
inutes picking out a cue, took a long drink from the beer, then placed the cue ball on the table and stroked it into the balls.
Carlucci spent the next hour playing alone. No one stopped by the table, no one said a word to him. He wasn’t very good, but he enjoyed it, and it relaxed him. When he couldn’t play his horn, he liked to play pool. His session with the slug would be awful, and he needed to relax and skim out before going.
Though he was near a window, he couldn’t see any more of the streets than he’d been able to see of the pool hall from outside. He could hear the rain start, though, about ten minutes after he arrived. Surprisingly, the rain got stronger as he played, and gave no signs of blowing over. There hadn’t been a good long rainstorm in months. People coming in off the street dripped water, and Bricky gave them towels to dry off; he wasn’t going to let his tables get wet.
Carlucci nursed his beer through the hour; it went from ice-cold to warm, but he didn’t mind. As he played, bits and pieces of the cases flashed across his thoughts, but he pushed them all aside, tried not to think about Chick Roberts or anyone else. He focused all his attention on the colored balls clacking and moving smoothly across the green felt.
After an hour, Carlucci took a break from the table. He got another Budweiser, then sat on a stool by the table; he stared at the now motionless balls, listened to the rain still coming down outside, drank from the bottle, and thought about the last few days.
Three cases: Chick Roberts; the mayor’s nephew, William Kashen; and Robert Butler. Or rather, three murders, and all one case. Not on the books, not in the files, not for anyone else, but all one case for Carlucci. The more time that passed after his lunch with Diane, the more convinced he became that they all were connected in some important way. Carlucci felt caught between them, pressed and torn in several directions at once, and what he was afraid of more than anything else, was that he was going to get fucked over by the whole mess. His career would be shot, or his life would go to shit, or he’d end up dead. The chances of coming out of this clean, he thought, were pretty fucking close to zero.
Options.
He could walk back to the station, work up a letter of resignation, effective today, and walk away from it all. He had the years, he’d come away with full pension and benefits. He’d have to go through a review, but he’d be able to lie his way through it; the committee would want to believe his lies, and they’d approve his resignation; probably they’d even drop a citation or two on him.
Carlucci didn’t like that option one bit. It stank, and he would stink along with it.
He could just push forward with the nephew’s case, forget he knew anything about Chick Roberts, not let the connections lead him anywhere; avoid the Chick Roberts case; hold back and let Hong and LaPlace drive the investigation of the other two cases, just stay out of their way. With any luck, they’d eventually dead-end, gradually pull back, and finally quit without solving them. Or somehow solve the damn things without blowing anything open, no spillover into anything else.
He didn’t like that option much better. Too much could go wrong. And what about Paula Asgard?
Third option? He could push forward as hard as he could with everything, eyes open, knowing the whole fucking mess could blow up in his face.
Carlucci smiled to himself, shaking his head, and finished the beer. He didn’t like any of his options. And what the hell was Tremaine’s interest in all this?
He got a third beer, picked up his cue, pushed away all those thoughts again, and went back to playing pool.
It was still raining when he left Bricky’s. Carlucci stood in his raincoat with his back against the pool hall windows, trying to keep out of the downpour. He had three more hours until his session with the slug, and now it was time to go see Brendan. He scanned the street, searching for a phone. Nothing on this side, but he spotted one across the street, just outside a pawnshop.
When he saw a break in the traffic, he dashed out into the rain and across the street, horns blaring at him as he juked in and out of the cars. Up the curb, across the sidewalk; then he ducked under the hood of the phone. He shook off the worst of the water, ran his card through the box, then punched in his code and Brendan’s number.
Brendan answered almost immediately. “Chez Prosthetique,” he said, a joke almost no one but Carlucci would understand.
“Brendan. This is Frank.”
Brendan coughed, then said, “Funny, I thought you’d be calling soon.”
“Can I come over?”
“Now?”
“Now.”
Brendan hesitated, muffled the phone, and said something to someone else in his apartment. He came back on. “Give me fifteen minutes.”
“Is it all right?”
“It’s fine, Frank.”
“See you in a bit, then.”
“Right.” Brendan hung up.
Carlucci put the phone back in the slot and looked out at the rain. If he walked, it would take about fifteen minutes, just right, but he would be drenched. Or he could stand here under the hood for ten minutes, then hope to flag down a cab or bus. Fuck it, he decided. He stepped out into the downpour and started walking.
When he reached Brendan’s apartment building, Carlucci wasn’t as wet as he’d expected. His raincoat had kept off the worst, and the rain had lightened up, though it had never quite stopped. Biggest rainstorm in weeks, and the gutters were flooding. Carlucci took the few steps up to the building entrance and pushed Brendan’s bell. He identified himself, and Brendan buzzed him into the building.
Brendan lived on the second floor, his apartment in the back with views of the neighboring brick buildings, thick bushes, and the airwell. Carlucci knocked on the door, and Brendan pulled it open. Brendan and a young woman were standing barefoot in the front room, both wearing jeans and both naked from the waist up. A strange sight. The woman, who was probably in her thirties, was a Screamer; her lips had been fused together, and Carlucci caught a glimpse of the nasal tube in one nostril. He also couldn’t help thinking that she had damn nice breasts. And of course Brendan had only an eight-inch stub protruding from his left shoulder where an arm should be.
“Frank, this is Mia. Mia, Frank.”
Carlucci nodded. Mia nodded in return, then pulled a sweatshirt on over her head. She sat on the edge of a chair and buckled sandals onto her feet.
“Something to drink?” Brendan asked.
“No thanks, I’ve had enough.”
“I haven’t.” Brendan padded out of the room and into the kitchen.
Carlucci took off his raincoat, looked around for someplace to hang it, but Mia got up from the chair to take it from him. She carried it down the hall and into the bathroom; Carlucci watched her hang it from the shower. “Thanks,” he said when she returned. She smiled at him and nodded. At least he thought it was a smile.
Brendan came out of the kitchen with a tall glass of vodka over ice in his hand, and a towel draped over his stub. “Dry yourself off,” he said. Carlucci took the towel from him and started with his hair. Mia came up to Brendan, took a deep sniff of the vodka, brushed her fused mouth against Brendan’s lips. Then she nodded one more time at Carlucci and walked out of the apartment.
“Sit down,” Brendan said. He carried his drink to the recliner across the room and dropped into the chair, splashing the vodka without quite spilling any. Carlucci took the only other seat in the room, a worn, overstuffed chair beside a table stacked with books; on top of one of the stacks was an old telephone. The front room had the view of the building next door: cracked brick and crumbling cement and metal grilles and shaded, glowing windows. Dusk was falling early with the clouds and the rain.
“She’s a Screamer,” Carlucci finally said.
“What clued you in?”
“You don’t have to be sarcastic.”
“You don’t have to state the obvious.” Brendan paused, drank deeply from the vodka; it would be the cheapest he could find. “She doesn’t talk much, she doesn’t smo
ke, and she doesn’t mind fucking a gimp,” Brendan concluded.
Carlucci didn’t say anything. He’d had this kind of conversation with Brendan too many times, and it never went anywhere. They had known each other for twenty years, and they were still good friends of a sort, but Brendan had never been the same after he’d lost his arm. He had lost it five years earlier because of a fuck-up by his partner, Rossi, who was drunk at the time. Brendan began drinking too much himself, afterwards, and it wasn’t long before his wife left him. He hadn’t seen her in two or three years, hardly saw his two sons. He could have had the best artificial arm available, but he refused any kind of prosthetic, taking a perverse pride in his stump. He’d stayed on the force a while, behind a desk, and soon became a liaison to the slugs, doing most of the main interviews himself. No one liked the job, but Brendan was good at it, which was why Carlucci was here. Even that, though, hadn’t lasted, and two years ago Brendan had resigned. Between disability and pension payments, he had enough money to keep himself in his cheap apartment and a steady supply of even cheaper vodka. Carlucci saw him once or twice a month. Miserable evenings, every one, but Carlucci couldn’t abandon him.
“You’ve got a session with a slug,” Brendan said.
Carlucci nodded. “I want your advice,” he said. “I haven’t had a session with a slug in over ten years.” He shook his head. “Only had a couple, back when we were first bringing them into the department. Disasters, both of them. Then we got the liaison position going, and I’ve managed to avoid them ever since.”
“You had people like me to do the scut work,” Brendan said with a faint smile.
Carlucci nodded.
“But you can’t do it this time.”
“No,” Carlucci said. “I need a private session.”
Brendan nodded. “The mayor’s nephew.” It wasn’t a question.
“Sort of,” Carlucci said. “You up on the case?”
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