The Spook and the Spirit in the Stone

by Jilly Paddock

  "Nothing wrong?" Afton echoes, her tone icy. "Wouldn't you say that shooting out the tyre of a car to make it crash into the canyon was wrong?"

  The woman shakes her head, not in denial, but in horror and confusion. "What car?"

  "The car on the road on the north side of the canyon. The car you shot at, with the intention of killing its passengers," Afton pauses. "Our car."

  Polly's still shaking her head and there are tears at the corners of her eyes. "I didn't see any car! I wouldn’t try to crash a car! I was shooting at rabbits!"

  Afton frowns and passes the ball to Giselle. "Do you want to ask Miss Molyneux anything?”

  The telepath smiles at her victim. "Tell us about Curt."

  Polly seems grateful for a question she can answer. "Curt has a cabin up there in the hills. We've been friends for years, since college. I go up and check on it when he's off-world."

  "Could you give us Curt's full name?" Afton asks.

  "It's Curtis... John Curtis. He's a nice guy. Works up at the university," she looks perplexed. "What's all of this about? Has Curt done something bad?"

  "Can you tell us where he is at present?"

  "On Garriock. He's been gone a couple of weeks, working on a dig. He's an archaeologist, with an interest in non-human history."

  "The gun was registered to John Curtis."

  "What gun?"

  "The gun you were carrying at the canyon this afternoon," Afton reminds. "The gun you were using to shoot at rabbits."

  "Rabbits?" the befuddled look is back in Polly's eyes. "Oh, yes, the rabbits. It's funny, but I don't remember seeing any rabbits."

  “Where’s the child, Miss Molyneux?” Giselle’s voice is sharp, menacing. “Where’s Sophie Crispianou?”

  “What child? Who?” The woman’s confusion seems genuine.

  “A little girl is missing,” Afton says. “She’s lost and may be hurt. Can you help us find her?”

  “Oh, poor thing!” Polly says, with real pity, but I’m aware of a thread of fear beneath it. It’s only there for an instant, then it’s blocked. “I wish I could help you, Inspector. I don’t know anything about a lost child.”

  Giselle catches Afton's eye and makes a sharp, throat-cutting gesture. I agree with her. We'll get nothing useful from poor Polly Molyneux.

  "Thank you for your help, Miss Molyneux," Afton says. "We'll need you to stay here for a little longer, in case we have to ask a few more questions. Do you want anything while you're waiting?"

  Polly manages a wan smile. "Could I have some more tea?"

  Outside, we pause in the corridor and Afton nods to Lacey. "Take care of her. Make sure she doesn't do herself any harm."

  We don't talk about the interrogation until we're back at the Pit. I let Giselle have my chair and have to perch on the edge of Afton's desk.

  "Is she lying?" Afton demands.

  "Not exactly. She really doesn’t know about Sophie. There’s nothing in her head about the kidnap, no memory of the child, no inkling of where she is," Giselle sighs. "I've never come across anything quite like this. Her mind is so muddled I'd swear it had been tampered with."

  "Are we talking drugs?"

  "That would be one way to mess with her memory, but my gut feeling says hypnosis. Certain keywords seemed to tip her into confusion, and when you started talking about the gun and the crashed car, her mind lost all coherent threads. She honestly believes she was taking pot shots at rabbits," the telepath pauses, as if she's listening to an inner voice. "My intuition tells me that we've found the sharpshooter who stopped Sophie's limo."

  "I'm sure you're right," Afton agrees, unexpectedly. "So how do we get the evidence we need to make the charge stick?"

  "We may not be able to," I say, with a sinking feeling. "No court would ever convict Polly in her present state of mental turmoil. She isn't competent enough to stand trial."

  "Miss Molyneux isn't the prize we're after," Giselle decides. "She's as much of a pawn in this affair as the kidnapped child."

  "What about John Curtis?"

  "Everything she told us about Curtis rings true. You'll check it out, of course, but I've no doubt that all you'll find is a simple bone-digger scratching around in the arachnoid tombs on Garriock." Her eyes are abruptly cold, as cold as frost on violets at winter's end. "She was hiding something though. I caught a name from her, someone that she's fond of, someone she feels she has to protect. The impression I got was of a man with fair hair and strangely-coloured eyes, a man called Hux."

  Afton beats me to the shrug. "Hux?”

  "Let's run a search on the City database. It can't be a common name."

  Afton's eyes glitter. "Should I tell her or will you?"

  "Go out on the street and call out 'Hux', and half the men within earshot will turn around, and some of the women as well." I know more of this city's history than most true-born natives. I'd spent my first few months on planet reading as much about Prosperity's past and present as I could, in the naive belief that it would help me fit in. "There were Huxons, Huxleighs and Huxstables on the roll of first families, not to mention the infamous Reverend Elliot P. Huxstone, who founded the First Church of Prosperity."

  Giselle scowls. "Is this world still so young that people name their children in honour of a respected man of the cloth?"

  "Huxstone was never that. When he first set foot on this world, Elliot Polyphemus Hexstar had a divine vision, which told him that he should change his name and set up a church. I suppose he thought it would be easier than ploughing or prospecting. Elliot was a cheat and a charlatan, of course, but his wife, Hyacinth, was a saint. She ran the Infirmary for fifty years, and no-one was more far-sighted or compassionate."

  "Polly Molyneux? Hyacinth Huxstone?" Giselle shudders. "What kind of world is this anyway?"

  "Fix us a limited search on the name," Afton directs. waving me towards the terminal. "Confine it to the staff at the university who work with John Curtis and the residents of the estate where Polly Molyneux lives. That should give us a short-list of possibles... "

  There's a rap at the door and Lacey sticks his head around it. "Pardon the intrusion, but the Captain wants to see you. We've just received a ransom demand."

  "Run the search later." Afton's on her feet, but Giselle's faster. "Let's go and hear the worst."

  Madame Celia is with Vincenzo when we get to his office. I've seen her image on the newscasts, tall, dark-haired and elegant, playing the role of Terran ambassador to the hilt, at the opera or some charity event. Today she looks thin and haggard, lost in the horror of her child's predicament. She ignores us, pinning her attention on Giselle. There's a terrible hunger in her eyes. "Do you have good news for me? Has your prisoner told you where Sophie is?"

  "I'm afraid not, Madame Crispianou. The woman has no knowledge of your daughter."

  Another fragment of hope shattered, Madame Celia shrinks down into her chair. Vincenzo rustles a sheet of paper, the ransom demand. "This was mailed to us, posted yesterday in the north-west quarter of the city. No prints, not on this or the envelope."

  I read it over Afton's shoulder, a few lines of stark white text on matt black paper: 'I have Sophie, alive. The price of her survival is ten thousand EarthCredits and the release of three political prisoners, Lacotte, Diarman and Nzagalu. Contact will be made within forty-eight hours for your answer.' There's no name or signature at the bottom. Afton passes it to the spook and glances at me for a comment.

  "Standard font from a basic print-box. Any schoolchild could have produced it. The negative format is very hip at present. Every teenager in the city is using it for love-notes and invites to happenings."

  Judging from her expression, I've failed to earn my keep. "Who are these three prisoners?"

  "Diarman and Lacotte hijacked a space-liner last year, and Nzagalu was involved in a botched bombing attempt on Mars in which all three of her accomplices were killed." Giselle must have a phenomenal memory, or an arcane link to some vast and secret data-resource d
enied to us lesser mortals. "All three are members of minor terrorist factions based in the Aegea Cluster."

  "Any ally of such people would have no qualms about killing my Sophie," Celia says, her voice as bleak as a wet Wednesday in November. "She's probably already dead."

  "We can't make that assumption," Vincenzo declares. "Would the Mother-world agree to meet the stated demands?"

  "Earth has a policy of no negotiation with terrorists." Celia squares her shoulders. "A matter of principle. Rather than free these criminals and hand them back to their friends, I assure you that my brother would sooner see them dead. I, on the other hand, would sacrifice anything to get my daughter back, anything!"

  “We might pretend to concede to their demands," Giselle suggests. "The amount of money involved is trivial and handing it over will flush Sophie's captors out into the open."

  I'm beginning to think that no Terran can be trusted – it's beads-and-trinkets time all over again. Madame Celia seems quite taken by the deception strategy and almost smiles.

  "If that's what you want to do, we can provide the manpower to track the kidnappers," 'Cenzo offers. "Do you have any other ideas, Inspector Lamont?"

  "We have a couple of names to follow up on, and I'd like to a warrant to search some premises in Goldangel Canyon."

  "Afton, you have carte blanche to search anything you like, up to and including my bedroom. Collect the papers at the front desk." Vincenzo glances at his VIP guest. "Are we done here, Madame Crispianou?"

  Celia nods. "I think we should let the detectives get on with their work."

  I'm not sorry to leave ‘Cenzo’s office. I'm always uneasy in the presence of the powerful and great, reminded of just how close I came to being forced along that road. Call it a stroke of luck, call it destiny – a lost and damaged scout ship saved me from my preordained fate.

  I leave Afton to pick up our warrant, and go down to the basement to scrounge some imaging kit to replace my own gear, which took a dive into the gorge with our car. By the time I'm done, our chariots await, two mud-spattered all-terrain vehicles. Afton rides with the armed-response team, strangely graceful in bulky grey body-armour, cradling a laser carbine in her arms like an old friend. I climb into the hindmost vehicle. Giselle's already taken the front seat, so I get to sit in back with the pair from Forensics, Tixi and LaRue. Tixi could pass for fifteen, a small, fragile woman with bleached blonde hair and intense blue eyes. She's scared of me, watching me as a mouse might watch a snake. LaRue whistles tunelessly all the way up the hill, jingling the loose change in his pockets. The spook spends the entire journey in trance, her eyes closed, her face as smooth as still water. Am I the only person in this city who guesses how lethal she really is?

  The road on the south side of Goldangel Canyon is little more than a dirt track snaking up through stands of blue pine and crooked ironwood trees. The ATV dances up it like a skittish horse and I begin to wish I'd trusted to four hooves instead of four-wheel drive. The cut on my forehead is sore and my head's full of booming emptiness. The drugs must be wearing off. Just before I throw up, we hang a sharp left turn and crunch to a sudden halt. I can't see anything ahead of us apart from the tail-lights of the other vehicle vanishing between the trees.

  "We're there," our driver announces. "My orders are to stay back until the armed guys say it's safe."

  I expect Giselle to rebel against logic and, of course, she doesn't disappoint. "The house is empty," she declares, swinging the door open and sliding out.

  "Hey, miss, you can't go up there!” He tries to grab her arm, but he's too slow – any of us would be.

  "She can." I'm grateful for any excuse to get both feet firmly on solid ground. "I'll follow her."

  "Keep her safe!” he calls after me. That's a joke; of all of us here, Giselle is in the least need of protection. I doubt that I can catch up with her, but our spook has more sense than to creep up on a team of nervous cops equipped with serious artillery and I almost run into her, frozen at the edge of the trees. The cabin's right in front of us, the real thing, built out of bleached wood, roofed with lichen-splashed shingles, complete with a stone chimney and a porch with a rocking chair set at its western end. What a place to watch a sunset from, the view must be incredible. I try to imagine what it would be like up here at night, lonely and silent, when the sky feels so close that it leans on your shoulders like a living velvet cloak and the stars tangle in your hair.

  "What are you doing in this line of work?" Giselle whispers. "You have the soul of a poet."

  "Get out of my head..."

  "I was never in there." She sounds so sincere that I almost believe her. "Most people leak a few thoughts. I simply catch them."

  The armed-response team are working their way through the cabin, yelling out "Clear!" as they check each room. It isn't a big place, four rooms, maybe five, max. I hear the cry of "All secure!". Giselle was right, the cabin is empty. I follow her up to the porch and we arrive just as Afton emerges.

  "Take a quick look inside," my partner directs, handing her rifle back to another of the team. "Don't bother to holo the place. I just want your first impressions. I'll join you when I've wriggled out of this play-suit."

  The first room occupies most of the floor area, a kitchen-cum-living room with basic, shabby furniture. There's an odd smell in the air, hot and metallic. A brown tweed coat hangs over the back of the sofa, next to a fat chestnut leather handbag crammed so full that it gapes open. I glimpse the plastic hook handle of an umbrella, a first-aid kit and a ripe banana amongst its contents. Beside it is an open box of shells.

  "Polly-Molly-Mandy was here!" Giselle says, with a giggle. "She surely left in a hurry, called away on an urgent rabbit-hunt."

  "She was making coffee." I use a handy pot-holder to move the kettle off the hotplate. It's boiled dry, the source of the hot burning smell. "Look over there. Two mugs."

  The spook frowns as she peers into them. "One with the milk already in and the other black with a whole heap of sugar. If John Curtis is away, who did Polly meet here?"

  "Good question," Afton says, sneaking up behind us. "We need an answer. Let's find it."

  There are five doors to try, all now standing open. Two lead into bedrooms, the larger of which has a double bed. It also has a closet full of men's clothing, casual and ordinary working gear, no designer labels here. Nice patchwork quilts on the beds though, Flying Geese and Oregon Star. Next we find a bathroom with a dirty shower stall, a cracked basin and a lavatory pan yellow with limescale. There's a razor, a toothbrush and some cheap aftershave, basic bachelor's kit.

  "Dear God!" Giselle exclaims, moving over to the basin. I take a look over her shoulder, thinking she's found something significant, a hair or a bloodstain perhaps. "Coal-tar soap! That brings back memories of my childhood. My grandfather always used it. I didn't realise anyone in the galaxy still made the stuff."

  The fourth door takes us into a tiny study. The desk is a chaotic mess of paper-scraps and data-discs, with enough space in its centre to suggest that a datapad usually rests there to charge, now probably away on its holidays with its owner on Garriock. The floor is stacked with boxes, some sealed shut, some open, full of dusty potsherds, chunks of rock and splinters of bone.

  "Relics of the last dig?" Afton guesses. "Let's try the last stop, the cellar."

  The stairs are almost as steep as a ladder and go down a long way. I follow the women down cautiously into what seems to be a natural cavern in the rock beneath the cabin, ducking my head to avoid its low roof. We pick our way around the sort of junk most people keep in their box-rooms; tea-chests that never get unpacked no matter how often you move, trunks of old clothing, faded, out of fashion and too small, and a selection of rusty spades, shovels and other household tools. There are brackets to hang a ladder along one wall, but it's missing. Curtis also uses the place to store tinned food and more trays of his dusty archaeological treasures. In the far corner of the cellar is a heap of blankets and, as I get close to the
m, the skin prickles on the back of my neck.

  "Jerome?" Giselle turns to me, aware of my unease. Her eyes catch the light from the single bulb, winking like twin amethysts. "What's wrong?"

  If I still had the ridge of scales along my spine they'd be standing erect and my tail would be twitching in time to one of those two most ancient of emotions, fight or flight, anger or terror. I take a deep breath, opening my mouth as a cat would to taste the air, and there – I put a name to it. Fear, a tang of it, hanging in the stillness. There are other things too, all unpleasant; thick, musky sweat, stale urine, the salt of tears and blood.

  "Sophie was here." It isn't a guess. I can feel the ugly truth of it, feel it so clearly that my nausea creeps back. "Not recently, four, five days ago. Someone kept her down here for a couple of days, kept her alone in the dark. He did something bad to her, something that hurt her. She cried for a long time."

  "How do you know that?" Giselle's arcane senses brush across the skin of my mind, a prickly caress. "You're a flat psi-zero – you shouldn't have any psychic abilities. At this moment I'm not reading any hint of precognition, clairvoyance, infra- or ultra-reality vision or even a bloody divine revelation... !"

  "I have a very acute sense of smell, better than most humans." 'Cenzo had joked at my interview that if I failed the entry tests, he could always have me trained as a sniffer dog. "Don't take my word for it. Get Forensics down here and they'll find blood on those blankets. My money says it came from Sophie."

  Afton stirs the heap with her toe and we all see the dark stain. "You said 'he', Jerome. Are you sure it was a man?"

  "Smells like male sweat to me."

  I'm suddenly aware of Giselle's anger, as bright as a second lamp in the cellar. "What did he do to Sophie? Did he rape her?"

  "The McGuire child was raped," Afton adds. "Vincenzo believes that both cases are linked."

  "I get tears, sweat, blood and fear." I sample another mouthful of air. “No semen."

  "That we should even be thinking this –” Afton shudders. "Let's clear out of here and let Forensics do their stuff. While I have the services of the armed-response team at my disposal, I aim to search Curtis' other home in Coromandel Court. Jerome, go back and run that interrupted search. Giselle?"