The radio was playing The Supremes. Diana Ross crooned, I'm aware of where you go each time you leave my door... I watch you walk down the street...
He shivered and snapped the dial off, licking the last crumbs from his lips. Too damn spooky. Sometimes it felt like everything in the damn town was levelled against him. The rain, the voices on cold nights... even the radio was fucking with his head.
Or maybe he was reading too much from too little. He'd been doing that a lot, ever since the incident at the Hill family farm. When he watched the six pm news it always felt like the anchor was staring directly into his eyes. That at any moment the next story would be, "Police have released the name of a man wanted for questioning..."
But it never came. He'd been careful. Covered his tracks. Retrieved the casings and burned the clothes he'd worn that day in a ditch on the far side of Rustwood. Scraped and hosed any trace of farmhouse mud from his tire-treads and sterilised the interior, removing every stray hair. And anything he'd missed, his employer would take care of. The voice, the first and one true Queen, was good at smoothing over rough corners.
His second croissant was still warm in the paper bag. No point sitting in the car until he froze his ass off, avoiding easy paperwork.
"Fuck it," he whispered, and threw himself out into the rain.
The Rustwood PD was a long stretch of peeling Formica and nicotine stains. Most of the beat cops in Rustwood smoked like brushfires, lighting each new cigarette from the butt of the old, and the ceiling fans - some busted, some canted, some missing blades so that they spun like dying flies - only ferried the smoke around, hustling banks of tobacco cloud from one end of the building to the other.
Goodwell didn't smoke. He couldn't. The stink of burning blood was bad enough. No need to add cancer to the equation. He kept his eyes ahead, angling for his desk beside the window where he could gulp down what little fresh air squeaked in through that tiny gap. But he hadn't made it five feet from the door when he heard his name shouted across the top of the cubicles. "Goodwell! Get in here!"
He winced. Commissioner Snow. What a pain in the ass.
Goodwell felt the eyes of every other detective, beat cop and coffee-drone in the office as he trudged across the hall to Snow's door. He envied their casual cool. The way they could puff away all their worries. Days like this he needed something to take the edge off. Maybe a blade pressed against the crook of his elbow...
"Hurry it up, Goodwell. I've got shit to do."
Commissioner Snow - the hard fist that kept Rustwood PD in line - was waiting behind his desk when Goodwell came in, clipping his nails with a pair of silver scissors that looked tiny in his ape-like hands. Snow was pure hard-top muscle: strawberry-blonde hair cropped low like a wannabe Marine, forearms bulging from hours spent beating the stuffing out of his punching bag, collar unbuttoned, tie hanging loose around his throat. Framed photo of his wife on one end of his desk, framed photo of his Jack Russell at the other. The picture of the dog was the bigger of the two. Moustache and sideburns so wiry you could use them to clean industrial piping.
He didn't look up as Goodwell shut the door behind him. "Don't sit down. I haven't seen a report out of you in a week. You sick, or just lazy?"
Goodwell forced a grin. "Following through on the Tuscon incident."
"Thought you had that all wrapped up."
"Maybe this time next year, boss."
"Put it away." Snow tossed his nail clippers into a desk drawer and slammed it shut. "Tuscon's dead. No trial, no inquiry."
"Who says?"
"Orders from up the chain."
Goodwell couldn't hide his grin. That was the Queen, most likely. Sweeping all those dirty little issues, the knots that couldn't be untangled, into dark corners and under heavy rugs. Keeping Rustwood tidy. "You need me back in the queue?"
"Tell me about the Archer woman. Her husband still calling?"
"Five times a day."
"And?"
"I found her once already. She's missing because she wants to be."
"You think he-"
"Mister Archer never laid a finger on her. She just wants a different speed. Leaving your husband isn't illegal."
"Doesn't mean we don't keep an eye out." Snow flipped papers on his desk, seemingly at random. Stalling as he thought of some other reason to chew Goodwell out, most likely. "Speaking of people who don't want to be found, you seen the missing person's report?"
Goodwell clenched down on his panic. Finally, after all the sleepless nights, the tickle of paranoia at the base of his neck, it had come full circle. "Every morning, every night."
"Those three kids. You know them?"
"Everyone knows them. They make enough noise for ten."
"Wish they'd make some noise now. We've done a clean sweep, knocked on every door, interviewed their friends, swept the woods. Still no sign of the little shits. Couple of leads - someone saw Dylan Cobber getting into a stranger's car the day he disappeared, and an unidentified man collected Taram Traore and Martin Goldfarb from underneath a bridge shortly after noon. After that..." Snow spread his hands. "It's now a potential murder investigation. I want you on top of it."
Goodwell almost laughed. He'd always known his position as Detective was a secondary concern when weighed against the wishes of his true employer, but being ordered to investigate his own triple-murder? It was a farce. "You sure you want me swap me off one murder for another?"
Snow made a sound in the back of his throat that was half cough, half growl. Adolescent posturing, Goodwell thought. He suspected all new police commissioners were handed a ten page booklet along with their pay rise explaining exactly how to dress, how much weight to gain, and how to scowl at their detectives. Commissioners all over the US had an image to uphold. Ten bucks said Snow was having marital problems, and that he'd call his wife 'the old lady'. Another ten said there was a half-finished bottle of whiskey in the third drawer down.
All image and ego, designed to put the fear of God into their employees. Problem was, Goodwell had a different god to fear.
"Look, Commissioner." Goodwell dropped his voice to a seductive purr. "We don't need to look for them. Just like the Archer woman. Some people don't want to be looked for."
Normally this was enough to shut Snow down. He had a simple mind, the sort of spongy brain that bent easily to suggestion. No different to any of the other thousands of drones sleepwalking their lives away in Rustwood.
This time, Snow wasn't so easily turned aside. "Parents are on the phone every fucking hour. They've been calling the mayor, Goodwell. The shitting mayor! Make it a priority. And, by the way, I'm assigning you a partner."
Goodwell bristled. Last time he'd had a partner was when he'd first made Detective. Six months following that tubby bastard Detective Western around the office, pretending like he couldn't smell the rancid after-odour of peanut butter and bacon on the old man's breath. They'd taken on three cases and cleared zero. Then came his new, secret employer, the bowl of blood, the voice in the basement. The real cases. The bodies that mattered.
Detective Western had quit shortly after. Heart problems, shortness of breath. Goodwell had never been assigned another partner. Paperwork always went missing. Snow would mention the issue in passing, then stop, stare at his feet, and lose his train of thought.
The true Queen of Rustwood kept Goodwell independent. Unfettered by bureaucracy or suspicious eyes. It was the way Goodwell like it. "I don't have a partner," he said. "Not now, not ever."
"Funny, that. You've met Detective Chan?"
He knew Chan. Good cop, better detective. Solid clearance rate. Still didn't mean he wanted to work with her. "You want me to do the kids, fine. But Chan's gonna get in the way."
"Shit a dick, Goodwell. You just don't want anyone looking over your shoulder when you fudge the paperwork. Chan's with you until you clean this up, so stop whining, get out of here and do your job."
Goodwell could only open and close his mouth uselessly. This was
n't supposed to happen. The Queen was supposed to take care of things, press on Snow in the right ways, keep Goodwell a free agent-
Snow coughed, reaching into his desk drawer. "You still here? Find those kids, Goodwell. Stop the damn calls. I don't want their parents camped out on my doorstep."
Goodwell had to turn his head to hide his grim smile. "Don't worry. They won't."
Because people never stayed angry for long in Rustwood. Because tempers flared up and rage exploded across the town like flashbulbs, burning bright and fading just as fast. Because people had a habit of forgetting, even things as important as their missing kids. Because the rain was everywhere, in the walls and in the soil and in people's mouths, and he'd seen what it did once it reached the brain.
Sometimes he wondered whether the false queen, the monster championed by those three dead boys, had put Snow in his way. Not to stop him dead but to frustrate him so much he gave up the fight. If Rustwood could conjure up women from New York, why not a caricature from a New York cop show? It would be just like the false queen to stall him with frustrations instead of real monsters. Something else to ask his master next time he communed.
He stumbled out the door, back to his desk. The world was slightly off-kilter, the walls tilted just beyond ninety degrees. Chan, he could deal with her. But Snow was supposed to bend. Snow was supposed to listen. But the sliver of influence his master had always applied to him, the spare inch of power that let him do his job and keep the town from imploding, was gone. Or maybe just muted, damped down by something even greater than the Queen.
That scared him all the way down to his guts.
He'd been musing at his desk for nearly half an hour, wondering whether to head home and commune with the big boss via a wooden bowl and a splash of blood or to just jump out the window and solve all his problems permanently when someone coughed behind him. "They told me I'd find you here."
Goodwell spun. Detective Chan leaned against the windowsill, a fat sheaf of papers in one hand, the other on her hip. She looked Goodwell up and down and made a disappointed clucking noise. "Figures you'd need backup on your own case."
Goodwell grimaced. "Nice to see you too."
Detective Karen Chan was short and wiry, young police recruit muscle that hadn't had the chance to go soft after too many stakeouts. Straight black hair cropped just above her shoulders - the less there was for some asshole to grab in a fight, the better. Not exactly intimidating, but her scores on the firing range were formidable and she spat innuendo like she was paid by the pun.
She was the sort of detective Goodwell was glad to have working the streets, so long as she did it well away from him. Now that she was up in his face he wasn't feeling half so charitable. "This is an ambush, isn't it? Snow set this up."
"Little from column a, little from column b." Chan tossed the sheaf of papers on to Goodwell's desk. "He suggested you'd run if I left you an opportunity."
"Cute." Goodwell didn't bother leafing through the stack. "Missing kids, huh? Waste of our time."
"Too good for the youth of today, is that it?"
"Chan, I've got so many bodies that they're double-parking them in the morgue. But hey, if you want to piss about town and chew up overtime, be my guest." He nodded towards Chan's stack of paper. "Leads?"
"Tipoffs and crank calls, but the guy who saw Dylan Cobber getting into a strange car seemed solid. The kid's friends who were there under the bridge, less so. They were drunk and high, by their own admission. Either way we're knocking on some doors, so you'd better get your boots on."
"And meanwhile, the custodian at Rustwood High? The dead one? Still dead. So if you don't mind-"
"I spoke to their parents." Chan perched on the end of Goodwell's desk. "Distraught. Said there was no sign the boys were making a run for it. No camping gear, no hoarded cash. This all comes down to that stranger."
"What would the parents know? You know how much attention they pay these days."
"They might've raised shitty kids, but they're not stupid. Well. Not all of them. Look at it this way, Goodwell. Three teenagers get more newspaper column space than one old man."
One of the world's little injustices, and one that Goodwell had grown hard to long ago. Still, he did his best to look scandalised. "That's the heart of it, yeah? Save some dumb kids and make the department look good. Don't you have your own murders to chase?"
"Not like this. Not a potential triple. This has to be done." Chan tapped the stack of papers that were now spilling across Goodwell's desk in a slow-motion tidal wave. "I've got an appointment. Let's start the door-to-doors tomorrow, nine am. Unless you'd rather sit around here and piss off Snow?"
"Fuck it. Nine it is." He massaged his temples as Chan eased out the door. He already had a headache coming on, a real gale force nine motherfucker. "Wait. Appointment?"
"My therapist." Chan shrugged. "How else am I supposed to work with assholes like you?"
At least that was something Goodwell could agree with.
The lock on the door to Goodwell's basement was secure but the bowl and candles were set out when he got home that night. For a moment he suspected his wife Hannah, but she'd never shown any interest in what he kept in the basement. Maybe it was a sign, then. His employer wanted to get in contact so bad that it'd reached into the one place he kept sacred and left him a message.
Or maybe he'd just forgotten how he'd left the place after their last chat. He was forgetting things more often these days. Too much to keep in his head at once. That, or the Rustwood poison had gotten to him, just like Dylan and Taram. The rainwater on his lips. Those tiny threads like worms or filaments beneath their skin, in their eyes...
He shuddered and set to the business of blood-letting.
A quarter-inch in the bowl was all he could spare before he felt dizzy. He'd been communing too often and sleeping too little. Too many croissants, not enough steaks grilled medium-rare. He'd have to ask his employer for a couple days off. That, or a coupon for the Rib Shack...
"Goodwell."
He hadn't heard the voice approach. Usually it grew from the dark corners, swelling around him like a volume knob slowly twisted up to eleven. This time, it'd snapped into existence around his ears the moment he'd lit the second candle.
The voice wasn't happy.
It was sometimes hard to tell his employer's true moods, seeing as how the voice wasn't a single person speaking but a tapestry of tiny voices all threaded together, the querulous whispers of old women and whiskey-rough bartenders and the drowned gurgles of dying sailors. It kept Goodwell on his guard. Prevented him from getting too self-important and saying the wrong thing. There were some people you could irritate - Snow, especially - and walk away from with your head held high. Not the voice. Not the one, true, first-and-last Queen of Rustwood.
This time there was no mistake. His employer was seriously pissed.
He ducked his head. "What can I do for you?"
"The woman. Where is she?"
"With her friend, I assume. She's not my problem right now."
From the silence that followed, Goodwell knew it was the wrong answer. Sweat pricked on the back of his arms. "She's safe," he said. "Where ever she is."
"Nobody is safe." The voice swooped and echoed off the brick. "They'll come after her."
"Stop them, then! Don't you have anyone else? Snow wants me looking for missing kids, I've got paperwork backed up and bills to pay. I can't be everywhere at once."
The voice was silent, and for a moment Goodwell thought he'd gone too far. Was his employer actually sulking?
Finally, it said, "I am chained."
"You speak to me. You can speak to others."
"The pretender took the others."
"Killed them, you mean?"
"Stole them. Cloaked them. I can't see where they run."
"How can they hide? This is your town!"
Another long silence. Then: "Times have changed. If you don't protect her, she'll be taken."
&
nbsp; "I can't be everyone's babysitter! Snow's gone strange. He's not listening to me like he usually does. He's given me a fucking partner. They'll crucify me if they find those kids-"
"Separate her from the man," the voice rumbled. "He is the danger. He'll drag her down with him."
"This would be a whole lot easier if you'd just tell me why she's important."
"You make demands of me? You dare, you insolent-"
The candle flames were bent horizontal by an unfelt wind. Goodwell's lips drew back over his teeth, his eyes shut to slits, as a terrible pressure settled around his temples.
He'd suffered the squeeze before. It always passed, but as Goodwell counted off seconds and the pain grew brighter and sharper he began to wonder whether he'd finally pushed too far, whether Hannah would find him slumped over the shrine with his skull pulped and his brain turned to soup in his lap-
The pressure eased, and Goodwell gasped, blinking back tears. The candle flames shuddered, then righted themselves. The voice was a low grumble that vibrated in Goodwell's teeth. "You dare."
"I know her better than you."
"Nobody knows her better than I. Nobody, nobody!"
"Not well enough. She's scared and looking for friends, and the only one she's found is that crazy with the pickup. God knows what games he's got her playing... But if I keep coming at her like a cop, telling her the one person she trusts is nuts, she'll keep running. I have to be her friend."
When the voice finally returned, it was sullen, thrumming with the petulant words of children and jilted lovers. "You'd tell her the truth."
"No, no. Nothing like it. Just enough to make her trust me."
"Kill the madman."
"He's not our enemy. Hell, as far as I can see he's fighting the same things we are-"
"And once he's finished with them? He won't rest. He'll look for new things to burn."
Rust: Two Page 3
