Metal Sky

by Jay Caselberg

  As he took another large sip, the guy who had been watching him reached up a hand to rub the back of his neck, tilted his head to one side, said something to one of his companions and, carrying his beer, strolled over in Jack’s direction. He was a broad, heavyset guy, thinning gray hair, a thick nose, and thick, dark eyebrows, set beneath a contemplative frown. Slowly Jack lowered his glass and leaned forward.

  “Don’t I know you?” said the man.

  “I don’t know. Do you?” said Jack.

  The man rubbed his jaw with his free hand. Jack took in the details as he did. He wore a plain shirt, barely disguising a middle-aged paunch, and conservative trousers. Sensible black shoes showing a good shine sat beneath them. Jack groaned inwardly. Stupid. He glanced around at the bar’s other occupants, then back up at the guy. It suddenly made sense.

  “Yeah,” said the man. “You’re Stone . . . Jack or John or something, isn’t it? You’re that investigator. Private. I’m right, aren’t I?”

  Jack gestured at the chair beside him. “You might as well sit down. And it’s Stein. Jack Stein.”

  “I knew I was right. Always been good with faces. You’re into all of that weird shit, that psychic stuff, aren’t you? I’m right, aren’t I?” He waved his fingers in emphasis and then sat down, planting his beer on the table. “I was telling Steve, my partner over there, that I knew you.”

  Jack looked over at the men clustered at the end of the bar and gave a brief nod. Of all the places to end up. Trust Jack Stein to walk into a cop bar. Here in Yorkstone the police were more like petty bureaucrats than any proper law enforcement. The city’s real crime level was minimal. At least they weren’t simply corporate muscle like they were back at the Locality.

  “Yeah, you got me,” said Jack.

  “I ran into you on that abduction case, what, last year some time?”

  “Uh-huh,” said Jack. “Sorry, can’t remember your name.”

  And he couldn’t. He remembered their brief interaction. At first the cop and his partner had dismissed him out of hand. The partner had made no bones about how he felt about what Jack did, or anything that hinted at the psychic at all.

  His companion thrust out a hand. “Morrish. Jim Morrish.”

  Jack shook the proffered hand. “Yeah, I remember. Investigator Morrish.”

  Morrish gestured over at the bar with his thumb. “That one over there’s my partner. The rat-faced one.” He gave a chuckle. “Steve Laduce.”

  Jack gave another nod toward the bar end. The scowl on the face of Morrish’s partner sat firmly in place. Oh, he remembered Jack too. That much was clear.

  “So, what brings you here? You just in the neighborhood or what?”

  Jack slowly shook his head. “No, just out sniffing around. See what I might come up with.”

  Morrish grinned. There was nothing malicious in the expression. “Well, you’re not going to find a lot here, are you?”

  Jack grunted. Really. A Yorkstone cop bar. They were the last people he wanted to make contact with. He was wary of the police, always had been, and he didn’t particularly like drawing their attention to him or what he was doing. “No, I guess not.”

  Morrish leaned forward, looking serious. “You know, Stein, I never did quite get what you did or how you did it, but it seemed to help in that Delynne thing. I don’t think we would have found her without you. I remember that.” He jerked his thumb back over his shoulder. “If Steve had had his way, we would have arrested you as an accessory at the time. Said you knew too much. Couldn’t be natural. He was convinced you were tied into it somehow. I guess I’m a bit more open-minded.”

  Jack looked up and met another scowl from that end of the bar.

  Morrish leaned back, his paunch becoming all the more evident, before taking a healthy swallow of his beer. “And me, I’m grateful for whatever it was. I don’t have to understand it if it gets me results.”

  Jack simply nodded, taking another sip of his own drink, trying to avoid the hostility emanating from the other side of the room.

  Morrish leaned forward again, carefully placing his glass down, leaning on his elbows and folding his hands together in front of him. “So, explain it to me again, Stein. I never did quite get what it was that you did.”

  Jack suppressed a brief sigh. Either the guy was setting him up, just playing dumb, or he really didn’t know. He gave a slight shrug. “I feel things. I get impressions from things. You might even call some of them visions. Objects contain their own energies, and some of us can feel things from them. Those feelings are like pointers to bits of information that I can use to solve cases. Sometimes they’re just warnings. I also have dreams.”

  “Yeah, but we all have dreams . . .”

  Jack turned his face slowly back from scanning the bar to look at him. “The trick is to know what they mean, Investigator.”

  Morrish shook his head and grimaced. “I guess I’m not really going to get it. I’m not sure I really understand, and to be honest, I’m not really sure I want to understand. All that stuff makes me sort of uncomfortable. And call me Jim, okay? All I know is that without you, we wouldn’t have been able to break the case and she’d likely be dead now. Funny running into you again though. Especially here.” He chuckled.

  “Yeah, funny,” said Jack wryly.

  “Can I get you a drink?” asked Morrish.

  “No, thanks,” said Jack. “I really ought to be going.”

  “All right, if you think . . .”

  “Yeah.” Jack downed the rest of his scotch and placed the empty glass down on the table with finality. “I should be going.”

  “Well, good to see you again,” said Morrish. “Here, take my card.” He fished inside his top pocket and slid a small, plain card across the table. Jack slipped it away without looking at it.

  “Thanks.” He pushed back his chair and stood, then headed for the door.

  “Good seeing you,” he said as he pulled open the door and headed up to the street outside. He could have thought of a number of people it would be good to see, and not a single one of them was a cop.

  Out on the street, Jack looked in both directions, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. In the old days he could have walked into a bar, any bar, and it would have been the right one. So much for Lucky Stein. He grimaced and headed up toward the intersection. He might as well face it—he wasn’t going to find what he needed this way.

  Two

  When Jack got back from the bar, Billie was waiting for him, standing just inside the door as he opened it. She must have had the system alert her. There was something about the way she looked, on edge, slightly nervous. He was just about to ask her what was wrong when she desperately waved a hand to still him, her eyes widening in warning.

  “Shhh. Someone here. You’ve got a visitor,” she whispered. “A woman. She’s in your office waiting for you.”

  “Well, what’s wrong with—?” he started in a normal voice, but she waved him down again.

  She wiped some hair away from her face. It was still as tangled as it had been when she got up. “I don’t like her.”

  Jack frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean? What does she want? Who is she?”

  Billie shrugged. “A client maybe. I don’t know. I just don’t like her.”

  “Dammit, Billie. A client? Isn’t that what we want?”

  “I guess . . .”

  “Yeah, well, if she’s got a case for me and she’s willing to pay, what’s the problem?”

  Billie shrugged.

  “Okay, I’m going in to see her. You wait in the living room, will you? Find something to do.”

  As he walked past her, heading for the office, Billie grabbed his arm.

  “What?” he said.

  “Just be careful.”

  He shook his head and continued into the office. He didn’t know what the hell Billie’s problem was, but it wasn’t going to get in the way of a job. Not now.

  Jack stopped just outside the room, wai
ting, seeing if some sense of the woman beyond the door would come to him. Just as he’d tried to explain to Morrish in the bar, a lot of what he did worked on his extended senses, but the place inside him, high up in his gut where such feelings grew, simply remained blank. He grimaced. It seemed his senses had deserted him for now. He opened the door and stepped inside.

  The woman was seated on one of the chairs Jack reserved for clients, though they saw little enough use these days. He couldn’t see her face from his position by the doorway, so he pulled off his coat, hung it beside the door, and crossed to his own chair, speaking as he walked.

  “Hello, I’m Jack Stein. What can I do for you?”

  As he took his seat, he studied her. She was slim, mid-thirties, reasonably attractive, but in an odd sort of way. You couldn’t say she was exactly good-looking, but there was something about her. Striking. That was the word. Her auburn hair was done in an elaborate braiding at the top of her head, and her blue eyes looked across at him appraisingly. The cut of her clothes was stylish—nothing cheap about them—but there was a flavor of something exotic, as if they came from somewhere far away. Simple drop earrings complemented her hair color, silver with some sort of red stone in the shape of teardrops. Around her neck she wore a silver necklace with a teardrop pendant matching the earrings. She watched him, waiting.

  Jack couldn’t see what Billie’s problem was. If there was something about this woman, he wasn’t getting any real sense of it. Besides, wasn’t he supposed to be the psychic? He crossed his legs in front of him, linking his fingers behind his neck as he waited for her to respond.

  “You were recommended to me, Mr. Stein.”

  “Uh-huh.” Her voice had a slight accent, nothing he could pin down. He didn’t know anyone who would be likely to recommend him in Yorkstone, and since they’d left the Locality, he’d hardly made a splash. He decided to let it pass for now. If he needed to, he could find out more later.

  She looked at him, clearly waiting for him to say something else. When it became clear that he was also waiting, she spoke again. “I understand you are reliable and . . . discreet.”

  Jack unlinked his fingers and sat forward. “Yeah, well, that comes with the territory, Ms. . . .”

  “Oh, I am sorry. My name is Farrell. Bridgett Farrell.”

  “So, how can I help you, Ms. Farrell?”

  She pressed the tip of her tongue lightly between her lips before continuing. Jack watched with fascination. That simple touch, the barest contact on those perfectly formed lips, drew his attention, held him.

  “Are you sure . . .” she said, glancing around the room.

  Jack cleared his throat. “Yes, you can talk here. We’re perfectly secure and what goes on in this room stays in this room.”

  She reached across the desk with one hand, touching Jack’s forearm with the tips of her gloved fingers. “But what about the girl?”

  Jack sat back, pulling his arm out of her reach. Gloves? Who wore gloves? “Don’t worry about my niece, Ms. Farrell. She can’t hear us in here anyway.”

  She hesitated before withdrawing her hand, then gave him the slightest smile. “All right. If you say so.” Again the slight moistening of her lips with the tip of her tongue, and she folded her hands gently in her lap. Jack was starting to see what Billie meant. This was performance, all performance, designed to keep Jack’s attention divided—and it was doing its job. He focused on the single deep-red teardrop suspended at her throat.

  Again he cleared his throat. Her eyes widened, blinked a couple of times, and then she relaxed again.

  “I have a problem that you might be able to help me with. I hope you can help me, Mr. Stein.”

  Jack was quickly starting to lose his patience, not only with her, but with himself as well. She was dragging this out for too long and his concentration was starting to wander. It had been a long time since . . .

  He gave a slight shake of his head. “Go on.”

  “There’s an item of mine that has gone missing. I would like it found and returned.”

  “Okay . . .”

  “This object is something of great significance to me. I would be prepared to offer you handsome payment for its return.”

  Now she was starting to talk his language. She tilted her head slightly, reaching up to play with one of the earrings, watching him with wide, clear and liquid eyes. The performance wasn’t even subtle. Well, maybe she was used to getting what she wanted as far as men were concerned, but on this occasion, she might just be trying to play the wrong man.

  “Listen, Ms. Farrell, I don’t know what you think you’re trying to achieve here. I don’t think I’m interested.” He stood and crossed to look out the window. Too many complications. Way too many.

  “I don’t know what you’re saying, Mr. Stein. I came here to offer you a commission. If you have a problem with that . . .”

  Jack kept looking out the window as he answered. He’d seen the type before, and sometimes you didn’t need a psychic sense to be able to read someone.

  “Yeah, maybe so, Ms. Farrell. I think there’s more to it than that, isn’t there? You don’t know me. If you think you can play me, then you’re making a mistake. Tell me the whole story and I might be willing to take your case. Otherwise, I think our business is finished.”

  “I don’t know what you mean. What are you saying?” she said, all innocence.

  Jack whirled on her then, leaning across the table. “Listen. You say this item, whatever it is, has gone missing. That’s only part of the story, isn’t it? Isn’t it?”

  She backed away in her chair, looking shocked. But that too was an act, and Jack knew it.

  “Well . . .” he said.

  “All right. You’re right. It hasn’t just gone missing. Someone has taken it.” She sighed, some of the coquettishness gone from her.

  “Better,” he said, finally relaxing back into his chair. “Now, tell me the whole story.”

  She took a deep breath, then nodded. “I’m sorry. Until a week ago, I had the object in my possession. There was only one person who knew about it and I think he’s taken it. I need to get it back, very badly.”

  Jack said nothing, watching impassively, waiting for her to continue. Simple observation had told him what she was doing, but nothing about her had sparked anything in his extended senses yet. Billie was a pretty good judge of character on first impressions. Maybe it was just the woman’s cultivated performance that had prompted her caution.

  “Okay,” he said finally. “What is this thing you’re looking for?”

  “It’s an artifact.” Her tongue crept back between her lips and then withdrew, followed by her teeth pressing down on her bottom lip, chewing slightly.

  “A what?” said Jack.

  “An artifact. It’s an object. Metal. Sort of like a tablet, about this big.” She held her hands about a foot apart in illustration. “It has symbols across its top surface and tracing along the edges.”

  “Metal, you say.”

  “Yes, metal, but it’s extremely light. Extremely light and extremely hard. It’s a dark gray-black. Slightly wider at one end than the other.”

  “And how thick is this thing?”

  She held her thumb and forefinger apart about midextension.

  “And the back?”

  “Slightly pitted, but smooth.”

  “No symbols?”

  “No.” She shook her head.

  “Anything else about it, any other distinguishing marks?”

  She shook her head again. “I would have thought it was particular enough by itself.”

  “Have you got a picture of this thing?”

  Again she shook her head. Some of the previous false demeanor was starting to creep back, the uncertainty, the vulnerability, and she was looking at him with a slightly startled, nervous expression.

  “Hmm,” Jack said, looking down at the desk. He looked up again quickly, watching as her expression changed. “So, who is this guy who is supposed to ha
ve taken it?”

  “His name’s Talbot. Carl Talbot.”

  “And what is this Talbot to you?”

  She frowned. “Nothing. An acquaintance.”

  Jack turned his chair back to face the window. “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure.”

  “If he’s nothing to you,” Jack said slowly, “how do you know him? Why do you think he took this thing?”

  She paused before answering. In the silence, Jack spun his chair slowly back around to face her and leaned forward, elbows on the desk, hands crossed in front of him. Her hand drifted to the drop at her throat.

  “He was the only one who knew about it. I’m sure of it.”

  “Why are you so sure, Ms. Farrell?”

  “Because I told no one apart from Carl. No one at all. It was too important.”

  Jack narrowed his eyes. “So why tell him?”

  “Because I trusted him,” she said. “We’ve known each other for some time, only casually. I had no reason to think he’d betray me.”

  “Hmmm. And there’s no chance someone might have stumbled upon it by accident, seized the opportunity.”

  “No.” She shook her head.

  Jack watched her, saying nothing. It didn’t wash. Why would she tell a mere acquaintance about this thing if it was so valuable? Bridgett Farrell still wasn’t telling him everything. For now, though, the prospect of a fee was driving him more than his suspicions about her. He didn’t want to think about the other thing that was driving him right now, and it was nothing in his head.

  “Okay,” he said finally. “I’ll take the case. I still have my reservations, Ms. Farrell, but I’m prepared to put those aside for the moment. I think I’m going to need some more to go on though. And despite its apparent importance, you say you haven’t got a picture of this thing.”

  She shook her head.

  “Of Talbot?”

  “No.”

  Great. Just great.

  “Fifteen hundred a day plus expenses.”

  She didn’t flinch. He nodded. “So where is this Talbot now?” he said.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Why do you think I’m here, Mr. Stein?”