by Marcus Sakey
With a squeak, the door swung open. The man who came in wore a decent suit and an impeccable knot in his tie. He took his time stepping in, closing the door, walking around the table. Made theater of not looking up, staring instead at a folder in his hands. Brody wondered how many of these moves cops picked up from cop shows, a weird recursion of art imitating life imitating art imitating life . . .
After a long moment, he set it down on the table, pulled out his chair, and sat. “I’m Detective Kelly Gardner. Who are you?”
“I already told the officers who processed me.”
“And now I’m asking.”
“My name is Will Brody. I’m a special agent with the FBI.”
“Any identification?”
“No.”
“See, I have a problem with that,” Gardner said. “You know what it is? It’s not that you’re pretending to be an FBI agent, although you should know that’s a federal crime. But my problem is that you’re pretending to be a dead FBI agent. A hero who died in the line, saving the life of a police officer.”
Brody shrugged.
Gardner’s eyes hardened. “You, my friend, are screwed. Your sweatshirt was covered with blood, bone fragments, and brain matter. The sledgehammer beside you was covered with blood, bone fragments, and brain matter. When we test them, they’ll match. Your hands had blood on them, which means that you weren’t wearing gloves. That means we’ll find your fingerprints on the hammer. Are you following?”
“It’s not complicated.”
“No,” Gardner said, “it’s not. You are cooked. You’re so cooked that I’m not even going to bother with good cop and bad cop. I’m not going to get you coffee and let you sit here for five hours until your bladder is bursting. Any state’s attorney—I mean, the most pimple-faced, scrawny-bearded, soaked-behind-the-ears ASA—could slam-dunk you. Do you understand me?”
Brody did. He just couldn’t make himself care. “Sure.”
“Good. So make it easier on yourself. Where’s the body?”
“Which body? Mine? Claire’s? The guy I beat to death with a sledgehammer?”
The detective paused. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. “Let’s start with the guy you beat to death with a sledgehammer. Where’s his body?”
Brody blew a breath, thinking about the question. “You know, I’m not sure.” He paused. “Let’s see. Lucy was still alive. So that should keep him there. But once she leaves, the echo will reset itself, and his body will vanish.”
“I get it.” Gardner smiled. “You ought to know, statistically speaking, trying for insanity is a bad choice. Almost nobody gets off on that.”
“About a quarter of one percent,” Brody said. “I told you, I’m an FBI agent.”
“Look,” Gardner said, “I’m trying to help you here.”
Brody burst out laughing. On a certain level he sympathized with the detective, no doubt a decent guy confronted with what looked like a brutal murder and a psychopathic suspect. He just couldn’t help himself, the sounds tumbling out manic, closer to hiccups than humor. When he finally got control, he said, “I’m sorry. It’s just . . .” He rubbed at his eyes, packed the laughter away. “The woman I love is dead. Again. Second time in a week. Meanwhile, somehow I’m alive, and it means nothing to me. I’ve been arrested for murder and I honestly do not care. Last night I had to listen to a woman burning alive. How exactly do you intend to help me, Detective?”
Gardner paused. His mask of authority was slipping a little, and behind it was exasperation and anger. The cop studied him a moment. Then he collected himself and leaned forward, elbows on the table, palms together. A classic sincerity play. Brody had used it plenty of times himself. “Okay, Agent Brody—”
“Oh, nice touch, calling me by name.”
“—obviously, you’ve been through a lot. I’m sorry if we got off on the wrong foot. I’m trying to understand what happened. Can you help me understand?”
“You want to understand.”
“I just want the truth.”
“The truth?” Something snapped in Brody, the vague screen of surreality giving way to the rage that tumbled in him. “You want the truth? Okay. The dead are all around you. When you eat breakfast or hug your son, we’re there, in an echo of real life, fighting an invisible war. The corner where you picked me up was the site of a battle where I killed the gladiator of a dark god sent to organize the Eaters to feed on everyone in the echo.” Brody paused. Smiled. “You feel better? How’s the truth working out for you?”
Gardner sat back. A tiny smile on his lips. “Okay. You want to be an asshole, go ahead. I’ve been polite because I thought you might want to help yourself, but here’s what’s going to happen now. A couple of cops are going to strip you down. They’re going to make you bend over and cough, and no law says the glove has to be lubed. Then you’re going to put on the clothes you’ll wear for the rest of your life, and I’m going to lock you in a cage. You, my friend, are doomed.”
“No kidding,” Brody said. “But I’m not alone. Wait until you get my fingerprints back. See how you sleep that night.”
Before Gardner could respond, they were surprised by a sharp rap at the door. It wasn’t the tentative knock of a detective who didn’t want to disrupt his partner’s flow. It was a sound intended to interrupt.
The man who stepped in wore formal blues and a captain’s bars. His expression was at once angry and frightened, the look someone might wear while watching their dog being kicked. “Gardner.”
The detective was on his feet. “Yes, sir.”
“Get him out of here.”
“I was about to. I’ll move him to holding—”
“We’re not charging him.”
“What?”
“No charges. Let him go,” the captain said, “and then lose his paperwork.”
Brody’s mouth fell open. What the hell was going on? Gardner seemed just as confused. “Sir, there’s got to be a mistake. This guy claims to be—”
“There’s no mistake, Detective, and I wasn’t asking.”
“But sir—”
“Now.”
Gardner stared. Slowly, he turned. It was the second time Brody had felt an urge to feel sorry for the detective. It wasn’t just the disappearance of an easy win. It was that this case was beyond open and shut; it was slammed so hard the table might break. Yet here was the captain—not a sergeant, or lieutenant, but a captain, the executive officer of the whole district—coming down and telling Gardner to set a murder suspect free and then destroy the records of his presence.
Gardner pulled keys from his pocket, leaned over, and unlocked the cuffs. Anger radiated off him like heat. Brody stared back and forth. Rubbed absently at his wrist. Then shrugged and stood up. He walked to the door. “I can just . . . leave?”
“Yes,” the captain said. He grit his teeth. “We apologize for any inconvenience.”
Two minutes later, Brody pushed through the revolving door of the 18th District into a breathtaking autumn afternoon. A cluster of beat cops stood smoking, watching a woman in a short dress being tugged along by a Labrador. A line of tourists pedaled by on blue Divvy bikes. At the edge of the street, a black Lincoln Town Car was parked. Two burly men in dark sunglasses stood beside it.
Ahh.
They had the carriage of private security and the suits of GQ models. One of them opened the rear door. “Mr. Brody. This way, please.”
Whoever had sent the limo had gotten him released. Clout to burn, but more than that, connection. He’d been in the station for an hour, two at most. For someone to learn of his arrest, find out where he was, and then pull the strings necessary to free him—especially given the evidence—well, it was an impressive display of power.
He didn’t care. “No thanks.”
The two bodyguards exchanged surprised looks. Then one of them opened his jacket to reveal the shoulder holster within. A ballsy gesture in front of a police station. “Now, Mr. Brody. Get in.”
“Fuck off.” Brody turned and started walking. The El was only about six blocks. He didn’t have any money, but he could—
“It’s not too late for Claire.”
FORTY-ONE
The limo smelled of leather, and the seats were very soft. There was a courtesy bottle of water. Tucked neatly in the seat pocket were copies of the Tribune, The New York Times, and The Wall Street Journal. The windows were tinted, and through them Brody could see the city roll by. The screen separating the front from the back was down.
“So,” Brody said, “who do you guys work for?”
Neither man responded.
“What did you mean when you said it wasn’t too late for Claire?”
Nothing.
“You’re obviously private security, but I’m guessing former military. What, couldn’t hack it?”
The driver pressed a button, and Brody heard a soft thunk. He didn’t bother looking to see if there were locks he could reach. There wouldn’t be, and anyway, he didn’t plan on leaving until he got answers.
Obviously, Thing One and Thing Two here were taking him to meet someone. Equally obvious, it was someone powerful, someone with the influence to free a suspect that had arrived coated in blood. Brody couldn’t even speculate what level of power that might be.
More important, though, was that they had known about Claire. Which was impossible. No one had known he and Claire were lovers. And the only people who knew she had died again were all dead themselves.
The drive took fifteen minutes, and Brody chewed over it the whole time, but was no closer to an answer when the limo glided to a stop. Thing Two got out, then opened the door for Brody. They were parked in front of a sleek silver high-rise with rounded edges like wind-filled sails and a spire that seemed to pierce the sky. Sunlight danced off a thousand feet of mirrors.
“This way, Mr. Brody.”
“Whatever you say, chuckles.”
The lobby was a study in modernist opulence, every surface gleaming. One in front, one behind, the guards led him to a bank of elevators. Brushed-nickel doors opened soundlessly. The swipe of a keycard, and the elevator began to rise. It took a long time to reach the destination. A soft voice with an English accent announced, “Penthouse level, 72nd floor.”
The elevator opened directly into the room. The initial view was calculated to take a visitor’s breath away, and succeeded, pale wood floors and high ceilings framing bright clean glass offering stunning views. The furniture was intricately baroque stuff that looked like it was straight from the seventeenth century. Without speaking, the men led him past the sitting room, through a professional-level kitchen—Sub-Zero and Wolf appliances, a rack of gleaming copper sauté pans, a block of Shun knives—and into a living room in the sky. It was broad and drenched in light. Through wall-to-wall windows Chicago reclined in all its hazy glory, almost lurid with excess.
Thing Two gestured him forward, and then the two men left without a word. Brody strolled to the window and stared out. Idly, he wondered how much a place like this cost. Fifteen million? Twenty? At this distance, nothing seemed real; the world was reduced to a play set.
“Welcome back, Mr. Brody.”
He turned. A woman sat in a heavy chair of polished wood, the feet carved like lion’s paws, the cushions tanned zebra hide. Her face was finely featured, and her hair was white, not the nicotine yellow of age but a vibrant snow. There was something about her eyes that made him very uncomfortable.
“Back?”
“To life,” she said. “Everyone dies. Few return.”
“Yeah, I’m real pleased about it. Who are you?”
“You may call me Isabella.”
“Well Isabella, that is, without a doubt, the ugliest chair I’ve ever seen.”
Her expression showed neither amusement nor irritation. She just kept looking at him with those weird eyes. Like a butcher examining a cow, seeing filets, rib eye, flank. “Are you always so rude?”
“Only when I’m being toyed with.”
“You don’t remember me.”
Brody sighed. “Lady, the reason I’m here, the only reason, is that your guys dropped—”
“I visited your sleep.”
Suddenly he did remember. In the echo, he’d had a series of crazy dreams, culminating in the prophetic one about Claire. But in the midst there had been a woman with white hair and ancient eyes, telling him truths too big to believe.
“You sent the dream. Telling me where to find her.” Pieces continued to click into place. They’d wondered what it could mean, both of them having such vivid and tailored dreams. “And you sent one to her too, didn’t you? Showing her the sniper.”
Her nod was curt, a professor acknowledging that a pupil had reached the correct answer but unimpressed by how long it had taken.
“How did you do that? Why?”
“How isn’t important,” she said. “As for why, it was in my interest.”
“What does that mean? Who are you?”
“Do you have it?”
Brody paused. Do I have what? Then it all started to come together. Not the whole picture, but the edges, like the corners in a puzzle.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the sniper’s necklace. The bones looked delicate, old and dry, the three phalanges wired together by shining loops of copper. By the size, it was the index finger of a woman, or a teenaged man. All this time, he’d been vaguely conscious of it. A sense of mass, like his pocket was stuffed with change, although the necklace actually weighed almost nothing. He spun his hand so that he was holding the leather with the finger bones swaying beneath.
Isabella extended a palm. “May I?”
Brody stepped toward her. She crackled like one of those Tesla plasma balls with the purple lightning. With some effort, he held his smile. “No.”
Rage rolled across her face like a rogue wave in an otherwise smooth sea; calm, fury, calm again, as though the anger had never existed. Brody didn’t flinch. “Tell me about Claire. What did you mean, it’s not too late?”
“You of all people know that death is a relative term.”
A tiny spark of hope kindled in him. Was it possible? Could she still be saved? “Who are you?”
She leaned back in her chair. “I am Isabella Maria Ravaschieri. The White Lady. She Who Hungers. The Scourge of Souls.”
“Wow. Great nickname. I bet you never have to wait for a table.” It probably wasn’t a good idea to be so flip, but screw it. All he had right now was having nothing left to lose. May as well double down. “Can you bring Claire back?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“If I tell you, will you give me the totem?”
“Maybe.”
Isabella rose. He had six inches and seventy pounds on her, and yet he retreated. He didn’t plan to; he just did. “How much do you understand of what you have seen, Mr. Brody?”
“When I killed the man who carried this, I saw something.” He ran his tongue over his lips. “A boy he thought was an angel.”
She seemed amused. “That was Edmund. He is many things, but not an angel. We were lovers, once.”
“A bit young for you, isn’t he?”
The way her gaze snapped was almost audible. In that instant, he seemed to see two things in front of him. A handsome woman with white hair. And a beast with endless hunger, a huge, slavering thing made not of flesh and blood but of power and will and hatred. The visions overlapped. It took all he had not to retreat further.
“You would be wise to show more respect, Mr. Brody. You are speaking to a god.”
He snorted a laugh. “Right. Well, Jesus Christ is a close personal friend.”
If his joke bothered her, she didn’t show it. Instead, she seemed thoughtful. “Jesus, yes. I was educated by nuns. Long ago, when I was a human girl. I learned the Bible, studied the verses, memorized the teachings of Christ. When I passed, I expected to find him there.” She stared out the window. “But in the centuries I walked beyond the
world, I never saw him.”
Centuries? As megalomaniacs went, she was in a class by herself.
Unless she’s telling the truth.
Killing in the echo filled you with power. It healed wounds and recharged vitality. Back in the Langham, Arthur had suggested it might even let someone live forever. Brody had taken that somewhat metaphorically, but now he considered it. Aging was essentially decay, the exhaustion of the body’s ability to repair and renew itself. In the echo, that manifested as fading out, like Arthur was. But killing there could fix that.
In which case, all someone would need to do was kill again, and again, and again. Resetting the clock each time.
She’s an Eater, he realized. If the term was even enough. An Eater who sustained herself for centuries on the souls of others. Again he felt an urge to move away, to step back. It was a primal, physical panic, like running out of air underwater.
He forced himself to stand still. If she was telling the truth, then she knew more about how life and death worked than anyone. And he needed to know it too. “Tell me about Edmund.”
“I already did. In your sleep.”
His dreams usually melted away as he opened his eyes, but now that he focused, he knew exactly what she meant. “I saw a boy on a broken ship. Alone. Eating and watching a sunset.”
“The Persephone. In 1548, returning from America, the ship was caught in a hurricane. The masts snapped, the hull was breached, provisions and cargo washed away. When the storm finally passed, what remained was little more than a raft. There was nothing for he and his companions to do but drift and starve. But Edmund has a restless mind. He found a way to survive. For a while.”
Brody was about to ask how, when he realized he already knew. He fought a shiver. Isabella smiled. “Yes. Edmund fed on men even before he died.”
1548. A week ago, he would have laughed at every piece of the story, dismissed the whole thing as madness. Now he was surprised to register that he was barely surprised.
