“You killed them all,” he said finally. “Your own followers, your own Guardians. To throw blame on the Izicho. You gave Dahmi the gun.”
Angel was still. Watching him.
“There were no cho killings. They were Angel killings.” He took a breath, wiped sweat off his temple. “How could it be so important?”
“Izicho must not be allowed stronghold here. Ever.”
“I had it backward about Arnold, didn’t I?” David said. “He wasn’t a target, not at first anyway. You didn’t want him killed.”
“His work critical.”
“So you made sure the killers hit when he was out of town. You were one of the only ones who knew he was going. You had the crime, the public sympathy, and you didn’t lose a valuable player.”
“I was genuinely fond.”
“Were you? But I guess you loved your pouchlings, too. I hope to God you aren’t fond of me.”
Angel looked at him. “You lie then.”
David looked away. “Why’d you kill him?”
She moved slightly to one side. “Stephen become suspicious of cho killings. Sees discrepancies. Really a most scholarly intellect. Excellent perception and top negotiator. Bad to let him go. Sacrifices must be made.”
“Sacrifices? You’ve made all of them, haven’t you? Your chemaki-mate, your shadow. Your children.” David frowned. “One hundred percent ruthless revolutionary.”
“I do what I must with one single-minded cause. It is my strength.”
“You’re under arrest. For conspiracy to commit homicide, multiple counts.”
“You have not ability to prove. You are human cop, not Izicho. You must follow rules.”
“Painter isn’t dead,” David said softly. “She knows you gave the gun to Dahmi. And we have forensic evidence placing Weid at the scene of two cho killings. The operative word is conspiracy.”
He didn’t know exactly what he expected. Not for her to come along quietly, but neither did he expect her to come straight at him, in blatant disregard of the gun.
“Please, no,” she shouted, running at him. “Izicho.”
He fired, saw the piece of flesh tear from the top of her frame, and then she was on him.
She was a killer. He fell against a table, back smashing against a chair before he slid to the floor. She wrapped her body around his, enveloping him, squeezing tighter and tighter. He felt an odd, almost-electric shock as something sharp entered his ribs, something so sharp it went through bone without a hint of resistance. She pulled it away and he felt an odd relief, and the lukewarm wetness of blood.
He gasped when the stiletto went in again.
She hugged him tighter, jammed the blade in deeper. His fingers were oddly numb, and he squeezed his eyes shut, concentrating, bringing the gun to her back.
If he fired, the bullet would tear her to shreds and go through her into him. If he didn’t, she’d kill him anyway.
He steadied the gun barrel and fired through her midsection. He felt her shatter just as the bullet entered his left lung, and took his breath away.
He did not expect to open his eyes again; he did not expect the face of Pierre peering into his. David coughed, felt the blood bubble up on his tongue. He wanted to move, or something. What, exactly?
“Ambulance,” Pierre said roughly.
That on the menu? he thought.
He could not make the words come out. Too bad, it would have shown wit and panache, it would have finally impressed Pierre, who was pressing, pressing against his chest, his sides, stopping the flow of blood. So much blood too, getting downright impressive. Red blood, mixed with yellow blood, you could tell whose was whose.
One hard jab to the vena cava would have dropped him. Instead, she had stabbed through the rib cage, missing major veins, two, three times. Why hadn’t she killed him?
People were staring. Elaki stared, then turned their backs. Izicho. He heard the whispers.
“They killed her,” someone said. “That’s Angel Eyes.”
“After all this time. Now they get her.”
David closed his eyes, thinking how it looked. She had been peacefully eating her dinner when he’d come through the door, clothes torn and bloody. He’d held the gun. And she’d died shouting Izicho.
She was still one step ahead.
David turned his head—an effort, that, an effort that made him sweat, and he looked at what was left of the one hundred percent Elaki revolutionary. His Angel.
He tried not to feel sorry. But he did.
Turn the page to continue reading from the Elaki series
ONE
The quiet was odd—the hushed silence of a house without utilities, a home without life. The windows were shattered and full of darkness. David flashed his light, saw the clean outline on the soot-blackened floor where they’d found the family dog.
Water dripped somewhere down the hallway. David skirted a pile of blackened rubbish that was still smoking, and walked up the stairs, hoping they’d hold. Wood creaked underfoot.
A soft intermittent chirp made the hair stir on the back of his neck. He flashed his light along the charred walls, saw the red glow of an overloaded detector. He stood on tiptoe to disconnect the chip.
“Seven occupants in the house,” came a raspy metallic voice.
David jumped back.
“Two adults, four children. One adult visitor present.”
David reached up to loosen the connection.
“Occupants are Celia, age thirty-two—”
He yanked and the voice stopped. Sweat filmed the back of his neck. Wrong, of course, to tamper with the alarm system, but he did not want this litany of the dead. Not when four of them were children.
David heard the wail of sirens—more fire jeeps, late arrivals, too many and too late. A bomb threat had been called in just as the fire started and the square block of tenements had been sealed off, while the bomb squad looked for explosives that had not been there.
The order for grid release had come a good fifteen minutes after the fire was called in—an eternity under the hot lick of flame. The death toll from the supper club would be astronomical, and three houses had burned along with it.
The families had escaped from the other two. This one had ignited early.
David headed down the hallway, shining his light in the master bedroom.
The fire had burned hot and heavy here, lit from below by a burning ember from the supper club next door. David’s light caught the charred remains of the bed, where one of the women had been found, her body covering two children, all blackened beyond recognition, fused to a mattress that was nothing more than ashes and springs.
David moved back down the hallway to the baby’s room, where another female, Caucasian, adult, had been found outside the door.
Very little damage here. Soot smeared the sheet in the battered old crib where a fire fighter had found the baby. David had seen her tiny nightgowned body laid on a sheet on the pavement next to the charred remains of her mother, her aunt, and her two siblings. She had died of smoke inhalation; there had not been a mark on her. The fireman who had carried her out had crouched at her tiny feet, his eyes red with smoke and tears.
One child and one adult unaccounted for.
David heard shouts, a scream, a muted voice on a bullhorn. He went to the window, careful of broken glass.
The scene below was going from very bad to worse. People pressed against men and women in riot gear, moving in a mass toward the carnage of the supper club.
“Where’s Harry?” A woman’s voice, hysterical. “I got to know if he’s okay. Harry? Where’s Harry?”
A man’s voice cut her off. “I don’t believe there was no fucking bomb.”
Anguish and rage were palpable in the heat of the night.
A bottle flew, caught a woman on the lip. Her face blossomed in blood. Someone screamed and the press of bodies surged forward. David heard a crash, saw an ambulance go over in a splatter of broken glass and crumpled
metal. The riot was born.
He headed down the hallway at a dead run, thundering toward the stairs.
When the third step broke beneath his feet, his momentum pitched him headfirst. His ankle twisted and he grabbed the bannister. It held, just for a moment, then the staircase collapsed, and the bannister tore away from the wall. David’s stomach lurched as he swung sideways.
“Shit,” he said, and fell.
It was a quick drop, eight feet and two eternal seconds, and then he was on his back, trying to breathe, the wind knocked out of his lungs.
He lay still in the close, sweltering darkness, the smell of smoke like a hand on his chest. He wondered where his light had landed. He sat up, tried to catch his breath. His chest ached and he rubbed the scar where he’d taken a bullet in the lung, a good six months ago.
Everywhere he turned he felt or sensed a conglomeration of shapes, things, pressing close all around. It was hot here, incredibly hot, and he wondered if there were live embers close by.
He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting the old sick claustrophobia.
And then miraculously, he heard voices. He checked the urge to call out—if there were locals wandering in, he wasn’t sure he wanted to be found. A homicide detective would make a prime target.
“The human is a law officer, Yo Free. He would hear the trouble and join in.”
“Shut up, will you? I heard something.” A woman’s voice, sounding exasperated. “Now look at that, will you? Some shithead’s disconnected the alarm. These guys go charging around a fire scene with their thumbs up their ass, don’t think twice about messing up the scene, and no idea how dangerous it is. First the fire fighters, tramping through with their big boots and gel grenades, then all of a sudden now we got these prima donnas from homicide who … See that, Wart? I see a light. Hello?”
David wondered if he wanted this irritable woman to find him. “Down here!” he shouted. Silence. “Hello? Hey!”
“I hear you, baby, hang on.”
The shaft of light was a welcome thing, coming through the well of blackness above him. The light hit him in the face, and he covered his eyes with a soot- and sweat-grimed hand.
“Sorry, baby. You Silver?”
David coughed. “Yeah, I’m Silver.”
“You hurt?”
“No, but I’m not real comfortable.”
“I hear you, baby. Have some patience, I’m a get you. If you don’t mind, I’m coming down there an easier way.” The woman’s voice dropped an octave. “Get his flash and shine it down there, Wart. Keep him talking. He doesn’t sound too good.”
The light came back.
“Hello, the Detective Silver of homicide. I am Arson Investigator Detective Warden.”
David squinted, eyes aching. “An Elaki?” Stupid question; people didn’t talk like that.
“Yes, Elaki am me.” The tone seemed stiff, though it was hard to tell with Elaki. “You work with Elaki too, I know this. Homicide Detective String? He does the magic tricks?”
David grimaced. “He tries.”
He listened to the woman’s footsteps, marking her progress. She was close. Something crashed, just a few feet away, then he heard a creak, and saw a stream of light to one side.
“Silver? You in here?”
“Wherever here is.” He squinted, aware of her shape, vague and dark, behind the halo of brightness.
“You’re in a closet, baby, under the stairwell.”
A closet. It made sense. He kept moving, felt himself in open space, felt air circulation, felt the claustrophobia easing away. He could not see the woman in the darkness, but he felt her near him.
“So you’re Silver from homicide, huh?” She played the light up and down his chest.
“Yeah. And you?”
She shone the flashlight on her face. “Detective Yolanda Free Clements, Arson Squad. You the turkey disconnected the alarm up there?”
She gave him a half smile, hand on one hip. She was black, high cheekbones, big brown eyes, lush lips. Her face was interesting. Her hair was long, fanning out in the plaited wedge that was all the rage.
She flashed the light at his feet, then let it sweep sideways and behind him. David heard her intake of breath.
He looked over his shoulder. “What is it, Clements?”
“You want to come out of there first?”
And then he saw it, the two of them huddled close, a hand’s breath from the spot where he’d fallen.
The missing woman and child.
TWO
The light flicked across a blackened tennis shoe, a small one, child’s size. David studied the huddled bodies, twined and fused in death. Had they waited under the staircase for rescue, listening for sirens that came way too late?
Outside, voices rose and fell, and David heard a boom that resonated like the beat of a drum.
“You hear that?” Clements said.
David nodded. “Hologram troops. Must be bad out there.”
Clements led him back through the burned-out house. The Elaki was waiting by the splintered remains of the front door. He was tall even for an Elaki, eight feet to the usual seven, and so thin David wondered how he stayed erect. Like all Elaki, he was fine-boned and flippy, covered in scales, and balanced on a bottom fringe that rippled like the belly of a snake.
His colors were muted, as if he’d been bleached in the sun. The tender inner area was pale ivory-pink, the outer a soft pearl-grey. His eye prongs were very pronounced, and he skittered sideways when he noticed David staring.
Elaki had arrived on Earth with attitudes reminiscent of the British colonials who had invaded India in the far distant past. They loved to meddle in politics, health care, and anything else that caught their fancy. These days, it seemed almost every aspect of human enterprise had an Elaki element—taint, was how some people put it. The Elaki strength was in social sciences; they were able to cure an array of human mental illness that had overwhelmed psychologists for years.
They were fascinated and bewildered by the human psyche. They made excellent cops, and formidable criminals. They were also racist, arrogant, and prickly. People were fast becoming second-class citizens on their own planet.
Warden waved a fin. “Hologram troop, hear this? My other officers in need of the assist.”
Clements shook her head. “Wart, baby, they’ll tear you apart.”
“I will be like flea on hamster—”
Hamster? David thought.
“I will hide in hologram. I can be of the help.”
Clements looked at David. “Your Elaki this stubborn?”
“Worse.”
It was hot out—still in the eighties, here after dark, the humidity one hundred percent. David didn’t feel the heat, he didn’t feel anything, but sweat drenched his clothes, and Clements’s face glistened.
The scene was lit well enough to pass for high noon, though the light had a bluish cast. Emergency lights from ambulances and police cars flicked across the holograms, making the troops—except the real ones—go green with every pulse. The holographic troops flickered around the edges, the stuff of nightmares for the living-breathing cops interspersed inside. The real cops wore riot gear and carried stun clubs—weapons that sent a cone of voltage capable of knocking ten people off their feet with one sweep.
The worst was over. The troops, backed up where it counted by real officers, had cut through the crowd, separating them into smaller and smaller bunches. People had been herded down the street and away from the scene, and the riot cops had them on the run, wearing them down.
Bodies lay side by side away from the road. Even blackened, the human corpses had bulk and form. The Elaki remains were like deflated balloons, long and shriveled and black. David saw two fire fighters carrying a dead Elaki out of the supper club, saw the body break apart in the middle, streaming black-streaked yellow juice.
Supper club was a misnomer for what had once been someone’s cherished brownstone, years ago when the neighborhood had been good.
Up until tonight, it was a place where Elaki and humans could come together in vice and mingled bad habits. It was a dark, Elaki-style maze of rooms with loud music, cheap drinks, varietal smokes. Upstairs cubbies were available for anything from gambling to group sex. The club was frequented by just enough of the fringe criminal element to attract young, fun-loving humans and Elaki, the poor and the slumming wealthy, and anyone else who imagined they were up for a walk on the wild side. The club gave them a little taste of down and dirty ambience, and the bad guys liked dropping in to be admired.
The smell of smoke and burnt flesh was heavy in the night air. David looked up, saw press choppers, though he could not hear them over the boom of the holographic generator. He wondered if anyone had tried to reassure the residents, organize them into helping units. It would have gone differently on the other side of town.
A woman in a tight white dress sat sideways on the tracks in the middle of the road. Her dress was soot-stained; one of the fragile shoulder straps had broken loose and peeled away from burned and blistered flesh. Tears ran down her cheeks, and she opened and closed her fist.
Her temple was bleeding thickly. David knelt beside her, unfolded his handkerchief, and pressed it to the side of her head.
Her fist opened and closed, opened and closed. “I had his hand.”
“It’s all right,” David told her, his voice a soft, reassuring murmur.
She clutched his arm, fingernails breaking the flesh. “I climbed out the window, he was right behind me, right behind me. I tried not to let go. I pulled him so hard. I knew if I let go he would die.”
“Can you stand up?”
She opened her palm and David saw that she held a class ring. It looked very new. David saw from her eyes that she was sliding into shock. He put an arm beneath her shoulders.
“Let’s get you up and out of here.”
She didn’t react, except for the convulsive opening and closing of her fist. David heard an engine, looked over his shoulder, saw a police wagon headed their way.
He bent down and picked her up. She was small, for which David was grateful. Her leg was red where the track had left an impression in the skin. She smelled like smoke, sweat, and lilacs. She wrapped her arms around his sweaty neck, and hid her face in his shoulder. His shirt grew wet with her blood and his sweat.
Alien Eyes Page 26
