by Chris Dolley
Her right hand flew to her wrist phone.
"What are you doing?" asked Nick.
"Phoning Karen . . ."
He dived towards her, grabbed her wrist. "No! Not here."
She pulled her wrist away. "I've got to phone Karen. It's not her."
She tripped; another stupid cardboard box—why didn't he ever put things away? He grabbed her again, clamped his hand over her wrist and pushed her towards the door.
"Come on. I'll drive. You can make the phone call but not here."
She tried to pull away. "I've got to phone." Her one thought.
"I know, I'm going to help."
Time progressed in jerky dreamtime. Louise disembodied from herself—maybe this was what it was like to separate?—watching a sad girl helped outside and into a car. The girl cried a lot—she could hear the wailing grief—but no tears fell. Her face wouldn't allow it. Tears were for the weak, she said, and for private moments when the world wasn't looking. The sad girl preferred a mask instead, its features fixed and blank.
Time danced, waltzing into the future quick and slow. Louise followed in its wake, connecting and disconnecting with the sad girl and her mask.
"Are we there yet?" the sad girl asked, her voice sucked dry of emotion.
"Another ten miles," said Nick.
Ten miles. She counted them off in her head: one, two . . .
"Are we there yet?"
Nick glanced over. The sad girl couldn't see the concern on his face—she was staring straight ahead at the wash of countryside—but Louise could. "Another six miles," he said.
"Six," said the sad girl, already starting to count. No, said Louise, ripping the mask away. They'd travelled far enough. She had to phone now!
She tore at her wrist, her fingers all thumbs, hit the wrong button, hit the right button, swore at both . . .
"What are you doing?" asked Nick.
She didn't answer. Wasn't it obvious? He reached across; she pulled her wrist away, turned her body towards the passenger door and pressed herself against it. The number was ringing. She could hear it, the dial tone repetitive, insistent, mocking.
"Come on!" she shouted, willing Karen to be at home, praying for that cheery voice to echo down the line, for death to be cheated—just this once. Was that so much to ask?
The phone rang on.
The car must have stopped. Nick was leaning across her. She shrugged him off.
The phone rang on.
The passenger door opened. Nick was outside, his hand closed around her wrist.
The ringing stopped. Louise buried her face in her hands, drew her knees up and folded herself away.
Louise disappeared into her room the moment they returned to the apartment. She didn't want anything to drink, she didn't want anything to eat and she didn't want company.
Nick went to the window in his room and stared outside. Everything was dark grey and black. If only it had been a few hours earlier. He could have flown to Upper Heywood and checked on Pendennis. Maybe discovered he'd escaped.
Or maybe not.
He stayed there motionless for several minutes, wondering if he could navigate at night. The leys would be easy enough. Maybe if he drove to a location where the ley crossed a road?
But could he guarantee the roads at the other end would be lit? Upper Heywood was in a rural location. Most country roads didn't have street lights. And it was hard enough navigating the higher dimensions by day, one centimetre in the wrong direction and he could slip into the void.
He decided to watch the news instead.
By late evening the police had changed the victim's name to Karen Hawkins. Her picture appeared, closely followed by one of Louise. Police wanted to interview the thirty-one year-old charity worker.
Nick watched, waiting for his picture to appear. They must have made the connection by now even if they weren't releasing the information to the press.
He flicked through the other news channels, sampling perspectives but finding little extra. No one was sure whether Louise was a suspect or another victim, one whose body had yet to be found.
He switched to the Framlingham murder, expecting the worst but finding the story unchanged. No updates since yesterday. The police were still looking for Nick Stubbs and still showing that ridiculous Rasputin photo.
He blanked the display. And deliberated. It had to be Pendennis. Framing Nick for murder, killing Louise's best friend. The killer was playing with them. Forcing them into hiding, robbing them of their homes, their work, their friends. That wasn't a warning, that was torture. Death by a thousand cuts.
He glanced over to the window. If only he could fly to Upper Heywood and find out. Maybe if he took it slow?
Then he had another idea. Bruce might have dropped out of the campaign by now. It was afternoon over there. Plenty of time to make an announcement. And if he had, wouldn't that exonerate anyone on his staff from being involved in Karen's death? No one would worry about a potential smear campaign when the candidate had already quit.
He surfed the American news channels. Nothing in the headlines. He clicked on campaign news, sampling five second bursts before toggling to the next. There had to be something on John Bruce surely.
There was. The results of a WCN poll conducted since last night's statement had just been announced. John's numbers had dropped but not disastrously.
"It's a sympathy reaction," suggested the station's political correspondent. "I think some people felt that John got a raw deal yesterday. But I can't see him holding onto those numbers come Tuesday. America may love the underdog but they never vote for him."
The anchor repeated the numbers. Bruce's support had dropped from twenty-one to thirteen per cent.
"Senator Warren McKinley is still out in front with forty-eight per cent, a nine point gain over the week."
The Manchester Dome wasn't packed but it was lively. Two thousand banner-waving McKinley supporters being exulted to give it up for their man, the Senator from Ohio, the next President of the United States, War-ren Mc-Kin-ley.
Senator McKinley stood in the wings. He didn't have the physical presence or the looks of John Bruce. He was a small, craggy sexagenarian who looked as though he'd been pickled in the smoke and grime of a lifetime in politics—too many late-night committee rooms, snatched meals and hotel bars.
His stomach rumbled. Not from hunger—hunger was something he'd never suffered from as his ample stomach testified—but from nerves. He'd always had a nervous stomach, even as a boy. His insides bubbling and churning as everyone around him complimented him on how cool he was under stress, how old Warren could handle anything thrown at him. Good old Warren—tough as old boots and a stomach to match.
If only they knew.
He crunched another tablet, cracked his face into a smile and marched on stage. Music blared, people jumped up and down and banners pumped. But all Warren could see was the giant face on the screen. His. He looked terrible, he knew the make-up would be a mistake; he looked like a reject from mortician's school. Why couldn't they let him be himself?
He waved to the crowd, plugged his speech into the lectern and waited for the cheering to abate. A sharp pain stabbed at his abdomen. He gripped the sides of the lectern to dull the pain and tried not to grimace. Maybe he should shorten the speech by a few minutes, cut out some of the larger passages and see how he felt? After all, the hard work had already been done—he'd made the deals, he had the votes—this was just the icing for the holovision networks.
The first few words rattled out much as normal. He had never been a rousing orator, so no one paid attention to the strain in his voice. By the second sentence everyone did.
The last word came out as a cry. Pain. Intense and building. His stomach felt tight to the point of bursting, a bloated feeling spreading to his lower abdomen and chest. He hunched forward, gripping the lectern. It was as though something—something enormous—had crawled inside him and was now trying to stretch its way out.
The pain spread throughout his body. Incredulously, he could feel his calves stretching; he could hear knuckles popping, ribs cracking. A larger man was materialising inside his body. Slowly. Both bodies fighting for the same space, co-resident yet separate. A larger man pushing in from another plane of existence, stretching into the physical world, a bit at a time, squeezing into McKinley's space, pushing him out.
Blood seeped from every pore of his body. His clothes moved by themselves, buttons popped, seams split. Dark patches enveloped his suit. His hands awash, his face a parody. He staggered, stumbling towards the front of the stage. An internal pressure building up behind his face, threatening to crack it open from ear to ear.
It was one of those moments that stick in the memory of a nation. Millions of people watching live. Sitting at home, unprepared, nibbling at food, shouting at their kids, waiting to zap to the next channel. And then hologram hell exploded in their living room.
Tiny shards of holo-bone cascaded over a million carpets, bits that looked familiar, bits of a face that would come back and haunt their dreams for the rest of their lives. If they could ever sleep again.
Some said the senator's skull expanded a full two inches before it finally blew apart, most just wanted to forget.
Chapter Fourteen
Nick awoke to the news. It was the lead story on all the holovision channels. And a mystery. How could a man be killed like that?
Manchester police didn't appear to know; neither did the FBI or Homeland Security. All took a similar line—the investigation was in an early phase, no stone would be left unturned, the perpetrator would be brought to justice and speculation about the cause of death at this point in time was inappropriate.
The media disagreed. Speculation was not only appropriate but essential. And they had the experts lined up to prove it. Weapons experts, medical experts, political analysts, research scientists. Everyone dissecting the evening's events and providing their own interpretation. A compressed-gas bullet, nano-explosives placed inside a dental cavity, a focussed energy wave, a low-frequency sound gun.
Nick flicked between the channels. One even found a link between McKinley and a cosmetics company, Nanotech Industries.
"Is it true," asked an excited reporter, "that Warren McKinley was being administered rejuvenating nanotechnocytes even though NTCs have yet to be cleared by the FDA?"
An equally excited former McKinley aide admitted that it had been discussed.
"Warren was no oil painting and some of the polls showed a marked voter negativity towards Warren's looks, especially in the upper quartile eighteen to thirty-four year-old group. Some people thought that if we could get Warren to undergo some minor cosmetic surgery it would be worth ten points in November."
"Did he undergo cosmetic surgery?"
"No, but he did have talks with Nanotech. I know they were lobbying hard for FDA approval to commence human trials. According to them they were ready and all you'd need was one injection and all those NTCs would start rebuilding your body from the inside out. As soon as I saw the Senator's death on HV, I couldn't get the idea out of my head. Had someone injected him with NTCs? And had it all gone horribly wrong?"
The reporter turned to face the camera. "A question the whole nation is asking. Craig Sorrensen, WCN News, reporting live from Manchester, New Hampshire."
More experts, more channels. It was an accident, it was a contract killing, a political assassination. Everyone had a theory. Even John Bruce.
He stood on the same hotel steps where he'd been besieged the previous evening. He looked sombre. It was the first time he'd been coaxed out of his hotel suite all day.
"Senator McKinley's death is a tragic loss to the nation," he said. "But not unexpected."
There was a whole second of dead air as the reporter, caught by surprise, tried to frame the follow-up question whilst several excited voices shouted in her ear from the studio. "How do you mean?" she asked.
"Because the senator was doing so well in the polls and it's in China's interest to see the President re-elected. They can't afford a change in American foreign policy."
He turned to face the camera. "McKinley was a threat. He had to be removed."
Nick blurred past Avebury. He had to check on Pendennis despite his growing doubts. Peter had no interest in whether McKinley lived or died. But John Bruce did. Could Louise have been right all along?
He didn't want to believe it. John Bruce was a hero; the first man to pilot a craft into new space.
But if he'd been damaged, if part of his brain had been ripped away . . .
And that comment on China the evening before and the way he blamed China for McKinley's death. McKinley was a threat. He had to be removed. A threat to whom? China or John Bruce?
The wheel of doubt turned once again. What if Bruce was right about China? There was tension between the two countries and there were probably factions within China who viewed political assassination as a legitimate tool if the national interest was threatened.
Which begged the question: was McKinley a threat to China? Nick hadn't heard anything to support that assertion but what did he know about politics? It was something he spent most of his life avoiding.
The last ley junction flashed by, Nick slowed and scanned ahead for the Oxford road. Maybe McKinley's death had nothing to do with John, Pendennis or the Chinese. Maybe the man really did overdose on rejuvenating NTCs.
Upper Heywood blurred into view. Nick swung around to the main entrance, lined himself up with the doors and sped through, dropping to floor level as he did so. He blazed along the main corridor, counting the bays—seven, eight—turning at the end into the east wing, more bays, more counting before slowing as Pendennis's cell approached.
He stretched into the wall, drifting slowly from corridor to cell. A red shape was standing by a mirror. Nick slid along the wall to the side. Was it Peter?
The man didn't move. He looked like he was talking to the mirror, standing there chatting to his reflection. And it was Pendennis, Nick could see that now. Which meant . . .
Which meant Pendennis had to be innocent.
Unless he had an accomplice.
Or a way of slipping in and out of Upper Heywood at will.
Louise was waiting by his bed. He'd barely had time to blink and focus his eyes before she spoke.
"Have you seen this?" she asked, her voice agitated, her arm pointing to an image of Warren McKinley on the HV. "We've got to do something. Tell the media. Tell someone. We can't sit back and let him slaughter his way to the White House."
She was breathing hard, eyes blazing. A different woman from the zombie he'd helped from the car the previous evening.
"Do you really think John's capable of . . ."
"That is not John." She stabbed a finger at the HV. "Did you hear what he said about McKinley? He's in a dream world. McKinley was no threat to China."
"Wasn't he?"
"Of course he wasn't," she snapped. "All the mainstream candidates preach accommodation with China. No one wants an arms race. Except . . ." She looked like she could barely bring herself to speak his name. "That thing calling itself John Bruce. He'll plunge the world into nuclear war. All it needs is suspicion. And if China thinks he's going to get elected and order a first strike against them what do you think they're going to do? Wait for his inauguration or strike first?"
She was agitated; arm-waving, finger-stabbing, table-banging agitated. Which made Nick nervous, supine as he was. He shuffled up the bed into a sitting position, his back against the headboard. He could see the logic of her argument but doubted the premise upon which it was built. How many Americans would vote for John Bruce?
"Who's going to vote for a candidate advocating nuclear war?" he asked.
"If he's the only candidate left standing—millions."
"But . . ."
"No buts, Nick. You saw what happened to McKinley. Take out a few more candidates and no one's going to be asking about rejuvenating NTCs, they're going
to be screaming for revenge and if the only person giving them answers is John Bruce they're going to listen."
"That's assuming he doesn't make a mistake first and get caught . . ."
"How many's he killed so far? Three? And who're the police looking for?"
"You don't know he's killed anyone. In fact he couldn't have killed Culley or Karen. He wasn't even in the country."
"He could have ordered it," she screamed between clenched teeth. "He's the only one who benefits from all three deaths."
"How does he benefit from Karen's death?"
"I don't know!" she shouted, kicking the nearest box. "He must have thought she was me. The killer he hired must have thought she was me. Someone must have thought she was me!"
She turned away and kicked a path towards the window, scattering Nick's filing system as she went. Nick decided to let her burn her anger off. He still couldn't see how Louise could be viewed as a threat to Bruce—except by association—which assumed the killer had somehow traced her though him. But how? If he'd been followed to Louise's home they'd have seen Louise too. So no reason to kill Karen by mistake.
Which meant . . . which meant what? That either Karen was another message or they'd traced Louise another way. Phone records, visitor logs at Upper Heywood or by something he'd left in his house—address logs, notes . . .
Notes. He'd written Louise's name on a Post-it note and stuck it to the fridge door—along with the date and time of their rendezvous with Ziegler, so he wouldn't forget. Whoever left the body parts in the saucepan could have seen it.
But it wasn't the only note on the fridge door, or the only name. There was nothing to make it stand out.
Unless you were an old boyfriend.
Or someone who knew John Bruces's life inside out.
He glanced towards the window. Had she calmed down? He couldn't see her face but she hadn't kicked anything for ten seconds.
"What about members of Bruce's campaign?" he said. "They'd have a motive if they were expecting a top job at the end of it all. Or some fanatic with a John Bruce fixation . . ."
