Chapter 18
They found a record of a Michael Elton, registered at a convalescent home there in Seattle. It didn’t take their Fed’s computer five minutes to burp out the name, once they knew who they were looking for.
Escaping Occupied Seattle, however, proved to be more complicated than finding PFC Elton’s address.
Constantine uncuffed me, giving me back my badge and my gun as I smoked a cigarette in the interview room. I followed him back up to street level and struggled back into my bomber.
The riot still raged outside in the streets of the city, leaving the town looking like a disaster zone. The Feds were keeping the protesters back, but at the cost of almost the total commitment of their manpower. It was only a few hours before dawn, and they hoped first light would bring a break in the fighting.
The protesters had battled all night, hoping that the President would intervene, roll back the occupation and allow for a cooling off period. But no such order had come. If word had reached the President about Q, and the big guy’s allegiances really lay where I suspected they did, then no such order would ever come. The Feds were committed. The Rosicrucians were committed.
There were no more shiny, black Chargers left to transport the Special Agent and myself around. They’d all been burned by the rioters. Instead, we waited within the Command HQ’s perimeter, in amongst the broken glass and bricks, for an armored vehicle to get us out of the combat zone. The sound of fighting could be heard streets away.
“When we find Q,” I said to Constantine, kicking a chuck of concrete with my boot. “Are you packing up and going home? That was the reason you were here, correct? All that about rescuing Seattle from itself. That was all bullshit, right?”
“No, Detective,” Constantine answered, wearily. “Nothing has changed. “If Cain has a cure for the Geneing plague, all well and good, but there is still a lot of hard work to be accomplished. If you think this lawless has, in any way, weakened our resolve—”
“No, I didn’t believe that for a moment.” I shrugged. “I can see now what you are capable of.”
A tall van, with its windows covered in grates, turned from James and pulled up before us. The side door slid open and a riot officer waved for us to climb in.
Constantine leaned down to climb in. I hesitated.
“It doesn’t look good, you know,” I said, still on the sidewalk.
“What’s that?”
“All of this. To the rest of the country.”
“They’ll forget,” Constantine said, taking a seat in the van. “If we find a cure.”
“Which Cassidy will happily take credit for?”
“I would assume.”
“But no mention of what started this all? Who’s fault it all is?”
“Why dredge up the past, Detective?”
I stepped up to the van and climbed in beside Constantine, sitting down on the long, hard bench that ran the length of one side.
“Because the past has a habit of coming back to haunt us?” I suggested as the officer swung the side door closed.
That Nietzsche Thing Page 24
