“Tell me.”
Sifter reared up on his bottom fringe, teetered for a moment, then let himself down slowly.
“Isss as you say. Some things would prefer to leave under the hide.”
“This is a murder investigation, Sifter. The only thing I’m interested in is Cochran’s killer, because I know, the way a cop knows, my friend, I know this kid is dead.” And as he said it, David realized it was true. “I’m interested in one thing only. Finding his killer. Anything else comes up, I could not care less. You understand me?”
“Understand thisss, Detective. I do not have the knowledge of the Cochran eternal fate.”
“Did you go to the Bailey Farmstead with him the day he went missing?”
“Yesss. In afternoon.”
David waited.
“He left this place most alive.”
“What were you doing out there?”
Sifter did not answer.
“Look, Sifter, I need an explanation. We have soil, we have blood. I can only think of one reason for those two substances. In my mind, I see Cochran dead and buried.”
“Cochran will do the burying.”
David looked at him, not quite sure what the Elaki was confessing to. “Go on.”
“He and me together we did, with his work more of the tough physical.”
“What about the blood?”
“Him be cut.”
“Come on, Sifter, that’s flimsy and you know it.”
“Isss truth, flimsy or no. He feel not well, and get careless. Hand me shovel tool, cut him palm, all way cross. Bleed on tools, and into dirt tops. Keep dig, keeps bleed, and sweat in this head.”
Sweat in this head? David kept going. “Why were you digging?”
“Make the deep hole.”
David waited.
“Burying object.”
“What object?”
“Bear.”
“What?”
“Teddy bear.”
FORTY-ONE
It was nightfall by the time they got their permissions, subpoenas, and crime-scene crew in place. It was raining again.
Mel looked at David. “I don’t believe for one minute we’re going to find any damn stuffed bears down there.”
David coughed, huddled under the umbrella. “It’s a sleeper scam, Mel. I talked to the guys in Art Theft; they said it’s older than the antiques.”
“They bury the loot, then discover it later?”
“That gives it authenticity. It’s a twentieth-century farmstead, these are twentieth-century bears.”
“Who’d believe somebody buried a damn teddy bear?”
“People who want to believe it. Dealers, Elaki dealers. We’re talking about a lot of money, Mel.”
“Yeah, right.”
The ground was soggy, and Sam Caper and his people moved slowly in the soupy mud, preserving the dirt in layers, in case they found the worst.
David slogged through the grass onto an asphalt walkway and looked around. It was pretty here, providing you could tune out the police cars, the CSU van, men and women removing layers of mud, waiting for something nasty to turn up. Mel was in the car, talking on the radio. Keeping in touch with Halliday most likely. Sifter Chuck had come over in the CSU van with String and Sam Caper. The two Elaki were deep in conversation. Sifter Chuck had that loose-limbed slump that signaled Elaki depression.
David walked through a puddle, wetting his feet. It was too much like the night they’d found Cochran’s car, the night he’d become infected. No more than three or four days ago. It seemed longer.
Sifter Chuck and Luke Cochran had done their digging between the weathered grey barn and the bright yellow farmhouse—both under preservation and open to the public weekdays from ten to four-thirty. On weekends, the hours were extended till dusk.
It was peaceful out here, or would be, and well-tended, like David wished his place was. He liked the orderliness, though he knew it was dearly bought by government funds, and that the farm had looked nothing like this in the twentieth century, when it was a working operation.
There was a vegetable garden that made him think with a pang of the tender green plants in his own would-be garden, chewed to pieces by Dead Meat, the pretty good dog. Behind the house were the orchards, apples trees mainly. The path led that way. On his left was a small wooded area—trees fat, tall, and mature. David veered off the path, heading for the trees.
The rain stepped up just as he ducked under the tree cover. He could hear the roar of the raindrops as they launched a major onslaught, mercifully screened by the foliage. A steady drum of water thudded into his heavy black umbrella, but he was not deluged.
His feet were already soaked—not a great idea for a man as sick as he was supposed to be—but he couldn’t get any wetter than he already was, and he wanted to walk.
It was like being in another world. The beat of the rain and the spread of trees shut out the noise of the city, and the CSU generators. It was dark, here in the trees, and David had not walked far down the rain-sloppy path when he had to call it quits. He leaned up against a tree and closed his eyes.
He felt hot and he couldn’t quite seem to catch his breath. The hair at the back of his head was drenched with sweat and rain mist. He took his jacket off, breathing in the damp air, feeling chilly now. Sweat pooled under his arms and made the cotton shirt stick to his back. Hot and cold—he wished his system would settle on one or the other, and quit the continual switching that made it impossible for him to be comfortable.
The virus had not seemed real until now. He hadn’t gone more than two hundred yards, and his heart was pounding, his head aching. He was strongly considering sitting down at the base of this tree in the sticky mud for the pure joy of being off his feet.
He was a good hiker, a tireless hiker. He could tramp back and forth across his farm and think nothing of it. When he was well.
The rain had a smell to it, which for some reason made him think of the color grey. The raindrops kicked up little puffs of mud, and the earthy smell was strong, and not unpleasant.
David shivered, put his jacket back on, and zipped it up to the neck. He folded his arms. His teeth were chattering. His vision blurred and he rubbed his eyes, thinking how hot the skin of his palms felt on the clammy coolness of his forehead.
He took deep, steady breaths and began to feel a little bit better.
He liked it here, it was serene. He would like to be buried in a place like this.
David frowned. Something. Something was bothering him, something he ought to remember, but couldn’t because he was so damn tired. He started shivering hard, and his muscles ached with the effort.
Someone was calling his name. He felt a hand on his shoulder.
“David?”
He tried to focus, rubbed his eyes. “Mel?”
“You okay?”
David licked his lips. “Yeah, sure.”
“You’re soaked, my friend. We better get you in out of—”
“What’d they find?”
Mel grinned. Held up a teddy bear lovingly wrapped in cellophane. “Sifter Chuck wasn’t jerking us off after all. Broke his little Elaki heart to see this little fella dug up so soon. Cute, ain’t it?”
David heard the relief in Mel’s voice. No bodies. Miriam might still be alive.
“They got that bear wrapped too tight,” David said. “Can’t breath through plastic.”
“That makes a lot of sense. Come on, let’s get you out of here.”
“Gotta rest a second.”
“Throw your arm over my shoulder, buddy, there you go. Car’s pretty close, once we get out of Bernheim Forest here. No, no, this way. Should have left a trail of bread crumbs, David, so you could find your way back. You’re lucky I come along.”
FORTY-TWO
David slept hard all the way to Mel’s apartment, a deep, heavy slumber that was like being drugged. He could feel the armrest of the car digging into his ribs, but could not wake up enough to shift pos
ition.
It was an effort to stand and wait while Mel talked to his locks. The door opened finally, and David did a double take.
“Am I still dreaming, Mel, or is your apartment clean?”
Mel grinned. “Walk through.”
David looked at him over one shoulder, then went through. The neatness shimmered and was gone. An illusion. Here was the apartment David recognized—dirty laundry on the couch, vids stacked on every available surface, sticky kitchen floor. He knew that if he opened the refrigerator door, the kitchen would be flooded with bad smells.
“Home sweet home,” Mel said, telling the door to lock.
“What happened there?” David said.
“Neatness hologram. Miriam gave it to me. Cute, huh? Somebody comes to the door, it looks like you got a nice place.”
“Till you invite them in.”
“Yeah, well, you want to get picky …” Mel pointed a finger. “Go get a hot shower. I’ll leave some dry clothes for you, give Rose a call and tell her you’re sleeping here tonight.”
David headed into the bathroom. He was cold again. He turned the water on, undressed, and leaned against the wall of tiny dark blue tiles while hot water turned his skin pink and warmed him. When he was finished, he found that Mel had put a worn but clean pair of jeans on the toilet seat, along with an oversized white cotton shirt and a pair of white gym socks. The jeans were loose around the waist, and a little short in the leg. There was a small hole in the seat. But it felt good to be clean and in dry, comfortable clothes.
The hallway felt cool after the steamy heat of the bathroom. David rubbed his hair with what he hoped was a clean towel, felt the growth of beard on his face.
“You hungry?” Mel’s voice floated in from the kitchen.
David yawned. His muscles felt loose, relaxed.
Mel stuck his head around the doorway. “Hey, I’m talking to you. Hungry?”
“Depends on what you got.”
“Want some chocolate?”
David went into the kitchen. His face was still a healthy pink from the hot shower. “Did you say chocolate?”
“Yeah, remember? We decided to drown our sorrows like women do.”
“You decided—”
“Go on, sit down inside. Just shove that laundry off the couch.”
“Is it clean?”
“The couch?”
“Never mind.”
“Oh, the laundry? Hell, I can’t remember. Go on, I’ll be right there.”
David put the laundry in a chair on top of a stack of newspapers. He ordered the television to channel surf and settled on the couch. Mel dropped a chocolate bar in his lap, then sat on the other end of the couch, facing the TV.
“Channel surfing is no fun without a remote,” David said.
Mel unwrapped his chocolate bar. “Come on, David, give this a chance.”
David felt queasy. He broke his candy into small squares and pretended to eat. He looked at Mel.
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“How’s it working? How do you feel?”
“Full.”
They were quiet a while. Watched the weather on TV. It was hot and muggy in Kentucky, and the ragweed was bad.
“Maybe you have to eat more than one,” Mel said finally.
“You can have mine.”
“The hell. I got beer and Doritos in the kitchen.
Mel had offered the bed, but David opted for the couch. He had fallen right asleep. Less than an hour later he was suddenly wide awake, drenched in sweat, panicky and unsure of where he was. He walked around the dark apartment, ran a hand through his hair. Listened to Mel snoring in the next room.
Time was slipping by him, and he still didn’t know where Miriam was, or if Cochran was dead or alive, and he was getting sicker by the hour.
He left Mel a note and summoned his car.
FORTY-THREE
Valentine sang in a club called the Dixie-Saigon—the kind of place you’d find nowhere else in the world but Cracker Village. There were very few cars out front, the locals didn’t own cars. The place was packed to the legal limit and beyond, and this on a week night.
Years ago in the deep South they’d have called the Dixie-Saigon a juke joint. The tables were unmatched, the floor uneven linoleum, but almost every chair was taken. The walls had been painted, papered, and painted again, giving them a texture that almost seemed planned.
David smelled stale beer and garlic, not a bad combination. He was still wearing Mel’s tattered blue jeans, like ill-fitting hand-me-downs, and he had a heavy growth of beard. His eyes had been bloodshot and dark with fatigue in the bathroom mirror at Mel’s. He would blend in here.
It was hot inside the club. The windows that lined the top of the wall were all open, and the smell of ozone and hot, damp air poured in. A breeze started up, and David found an empty chair. He could only feel the small draft of air when he closed his eyes. It was faint enough that it might have been wishful thinking.
There was a stage at the end of the room—a small one, dark hardwood that had been polished so diligently it reflected the light. A skinny Asian man burst through the swinging doors that led into the kitchen, and took the steps up to the stage in one energetic leap. He wiped his hands on a dirty apron. Sweat dripped from his pockmarked forehead.
“It is my deep pleasure to introduce to you our very own, very talented, silver-tongued beauty … Miss Valentine.”
The applause was amazing, considering how drunk the patrons were. David was surprised they could find their hands, much less coordinate movements. People whistled, shouted happily. David watched the stage, wondering what kind of act Valentine had.
It was not what he expected.
She wore a simple black dress that reached her calves. It looked like silk and was slit up the right side. Her black spike heels made her look slim and sexy. Standing in front of an old-fashioned microphone in a round orb of spotlight, she began to sing.
Opera.
Little Cassidy had said her mother sang in Italian, but David hadn’t made the connection. He listened, mouth open.
He had always assumed he hated opera, but he had never heard it sung like this. He was an instant convert.
The sound system was quite good—an astonishing feat in a place like this. Valentine’s voice rose and fell with a clear, pristine purity. No one talked. No one even whispered. Everyone watched and listened, spellbound.
David wondered why she was singing in a place like the Dixie-Saigon. She could sing anywhere in the world with a voice like that. He looked at faces in the crowd, and knew that for whatever reason she chose to sing here, she was recognized as the miracle that she was.
David closed his eyes, let the room go away. He had another moment, pure happiness; he’d thought his illness would keep them from coming. He felt lucky to be here, to be listening, to have found a chair near the window where he could feel the breeze.
He opened his eyes so he could watch her. Her arms were raised, eyes closed. He could not tell where the black dress stopped and the shadows began. Her choice of clothing, lighting, were perfect. The voice was the focus, the voice was all.
When she stopped singing, the room stayed silent; then the applause began. Valentine turned and left the stage, as if she could not hear the accolades, or simply did not care.
David felt wrenched when she left, like a child whose pretty new toy has been taken away. He wanted her back, wanted her to sing, just for him. He just wanted her to sing.
He felt shy, suddenly, about approaching her. Could almost not believe he had sat with her in the rubble of Annie Trey’s violated apartment, watching her smoke in the dark.
What was she doing in the dingy tenement? How did she create such a beautiful voice in a place like Cracker Village? And did he have the courage to ask her questions, now that he’d heard her sing?
The room closed in on him and he couldn’t breathe. He stumbled to the door, generating stares. He made it out to
the street, leaned up against the side of the building. The chipped brick felt rough and hot against his back, still warm with the accumulated heat of the day.
Listening to Valentine had loosened something inside him, something he’d just as soon not have touched.
He did not want to die. He did not want to be sick.
He looked up at the haze of yellow illumination spilling from the street light to the broken sidewalk. He hadn’t done anything wrong. He had returned a child’s teddy bear, and now he was sick. He could not sleep. If he did sleep, he woke up every hour, hot and cold and glistening with sweat. His throat hurt and his head ached, and it was all he could do to stay on his feet. He had no appetite. Food was the enemy people tried to force on him.
He wanted his life back the way it was before. He loved it all—his work, his ridiculous marriage, the little farmhouse that always needed work, the ragtag garden he neglected. His kids.
He had to be there to see them grow up. He had to.
He heard a soft footstep, the rattle of a pebble, a small sigh. He wondered if he was going to be murdered, or just robbed.
“Detective?”
He knew the voice instantly, of course. David turned around.
Valentine still wore the black dress, but the shoes dangled lazily from her fingers. She was barefoot, toenails painted blood-red. Her feet were surprisingly pretty—small, nicely shaped, high arches and tiny toes. She crooked her finger and David followed, going down a dirt pathway that was choked with weeds, trash, and broken glass.
He did not warn her to watch her step or put on her shoes—this was her territory; he was the stranger. And she seemed charmed, moving languidly, eyes half closed. She never made a misstep; her feet never touched the broken glass, the trash, the rough, sawtoothed grass.
She stopped at the end of a low, crumbling brick wall that ran parallel to the right side of the building. She scooted to the top of the wall and perched there, legs swinging. David sat beside her, taking care not to come too close. She was wearing perfume, David realized, something heavy, woody, exotic.
Valentine lifted the hair off the back of her neck and leaned into the muggy breeze.
Alien Rites Page 16
