So it was going to have to be the old-fashioned way: bang on the door until someone woke up and let me in. I straightened my tie, tucked in my shirt, and started hammering.
I was at it for two minutes before a light finally flicked on behind the frosted glass of the front door. My hand had gone red and was starting to ache when the door slowly opened.
It was a child. Damn, I hadn’t counted on that. She was a little Vei girl, wearing Earth-style pajamas and clutching a plastic doll to her chest. It was sometimes hard to judge ages of Vei children, but I’d guess she was about three or four.
Vei were strange-looking people, if you hadn’t seen them before. I use the term “people” loosely, because as similar as they were to us in some ways, they were very different. From a distance they looked almost human; two arms, two legs, all the appendages you’d expect, but when you got up close it wasn’t hard to tell the difference. They were generally shorter and more slender than humans, with skin an almost impossible white. The most off-putting feature by far was the face.
Their heads were round, almost spherical, and completely devoid of hair. They tended to have oversized eyes as well, though that varied from Vei to Vei.
Their mouths were what really freak people out. Shark-like, I suppose you could call them. Two rows of pointed teeth on both jaws, no lips, and mouths that stretched all the way to the side of their face.
The first human soldiers sent through the Bores to explore Heaven found the Vei equal parts disgusting and intriguing. It was less than twelve hours after the first team went through that the news stations were bursting with images of the Vei and their strange cities.
But right now, this little girl could almost pass for human, if it wasn’t for her teeth. She squinted up at me, rubbing the sleep from her big eyes, and frowned. “Who are you?”
I was never quite sure how to deal with kids, human or Vei. For the most part they resembled little drugged-up midgets, stumbling around the place shitting and puking. Usually I talked to them as if that’s what they were, enunciating my words slowly and carefully, until I sounded more stoned than them. This time, I tried treating her like I would a kitten I found in a box on my doorstep.
“Hello, little one.” My voice sounded patronizing even to my ears. “What’s your name?”
Her frown deepened, something that looked somewhat frightening on a person with teeth that could gut an elephant, even if she only came up to my thighs. “I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.”
I nodded sagely and hoped she didn’t start screaming. “I’m looking for someone. Lance Peterson. Is he your daddy?”
“My father is dead,” she informed me matter-of-factly. “Lance is my uncle.”
Christ, they bred Vei kids hard. “I need to speak to him. Is he here?”
“He’s sleeping.”
“It’s important. Can you take me to him?” I tried smiling brightly to see if that improved my odds. Judging from my general state of exhaustion it only made me look more psychopathic, but hey, I was trying.
To give the kid credit, she didn’t balk. She studied me for several moments in the same manner all women seem to have a knack for: somehow both appraising and dismissing at the same time. She was going to grow up to be yet another woman to be scared of.
Finally, she gave me a curt nod and stepped back to let me in. I took a step inside, noticed the way she was staring pointedly at my feet, then wiped my feet on the doormat. A hard woman indeed.
The inside of the house was all wooden paneling and knock-offs of abstract paintings. There were no trinkets from Heaven; most non-living objects brought to Earth degraded fairly quickly. Even Ink had a shelf life measured in weeks, and that was with all the extra precautions the dealers put into keeping it viable as long as possible.
The girl led me through the hallway, pattering along in bare feet, and I could hear the soft sounds of breathing—something subtly non-human about it—coming from the rooms I passed. My barrage on the door didn’t appear to have woken anyone else. They must have had ears made of wood.
Lance’s bedroom was at the end of the hallway, sharing walls with a bathroom and a linen closet. The girl stopped in front of it, still eyeing me with no small amount of suspicion, and pointed to the door. “I better not get in trouble for this.”
“You won’t,” I assured her, trying my smile again. She didn’t look convinced, but she nodded and wandered back to her own room.
I waited until she’d gone before I opened the door to Peterson’s room. Screw knocking. I was more than a little cranky, and a little sadistic part of me wanted someone else to suffer exhaustion like I was.
I groped around on the wall and found a light switch. Peterson’s room was marginally bigger than my own. There were no windows, just a set of drawers, some neatly folded piles of clothes, and a single bed. Peterson was snuggled up in a thick pile of blankets, facing away from me. I could just hear him snoring through his slit-like nostrils over the rat-a-tat of rain on the roof. Turning on the light didn’t appear to have disturbed him at all.
Right, that was it. If I wasn’t going to get any sleep tonight, I wasn’t going to let this bastard get any either. I stomped across the room and took hold of Peterson’s shoulders. “Peterson, you lazy son of a bitch. Wake up!”
His eyes snapped open and a little wordless scream escaped his throat. I clamped my hand over his mouth, ignoring the sharp points of his teeth for a moment. “Easy, easy damn it. I just want to talk.”
He snatched my hand away from his mouth, but at least he’d stopped screaming. He scrambled up in his bed, pulling his covers up around himself, and fixed me with a look that was equal parts confused and angry. “Franco? What…?”
I held up my hands and took a step back, already regretting my method of waking him. Probably not the smartest way to gain someone’s trust. “The little girl let me in.”
“Is this a dream?” Unlike the girl he still had a hint of an accent, an odd way of pronouncing his i’s and r’s.
“I didn’t think Vei dreamed.”
“What in the names of the Eight are you doing in my house?”
I opened my mouth and shut it again. How the hell were you supposed to ask someone to turn on the nastiest gangster in the city? Maybe coming here on my own wasn’t one of my brightest ideas.
I blamed tiredness. And police intimidation. I was usually much better prepared for things like this. It was a necessary part of being a Tunneler, at least one who wanted to survive.
Peterson was still staring at me, so I said the first thing that came into my head. “So I hear you got a gig with Shirley O’Neil these days.”
He frowned, looking even more fearsome than the girl had. “What of it?”
“Great dame, that Shirley.”
Peterson’s frown was rapidly turning into a scowl. He looked older than when I’d last seen him. He’d come to Earth so fresh and naive, and now here he was looking like he was about to pull a Glock on me.
I switched from English to Vei, hoping it would score me some points. “Look, here’s the deal, Lance. I’m running down some leads, and I was wondering if the names Doctor Dee or Chroma meant anything to you.”
His face became as still as if he’d been frozen in carbonite. He stared at me for several seconds before finally opening his mouth. “No. Not a thing.”
In general, Vei are terrible liars. Peterson was the worst I’d seen. I almost smiled, but I thought it would spoil the mood. “You don’t have to be scared. I know people who can protect you.”
“People? What people?”
“The police are—”
“The police? You’re working with the police?” His voice rose to a screech. “You brought the police here?”
“It’s okay.” I held out my hands in what I hoped was a soothing motion, but he just backed away further into the corner of his bed. “They’re not here yet.”
That was the wrong thing to say. In fact, that was probably the stupidest thing I could
have possibly said. His screech turned into a wail, and he scrambled around, tossing the blankets off himself and babbling in Vei. “No, no, no. Dead, I’m dead, dead…” He began speaking too fast for me to understand. He threw the last blanket to the floor, and I realized he was naked.
“Whoa, Jesus.” I held my hand up to block my vision and protect my delicate sensibilities. I was nowhere near drunk enough to see that. “Who are you afraid of, Lance? O’Neil? John Andrews?”
He didn’t reply. Instead, he started grabbing clothes and assorted accessories and shoving them into a huge purple suitcase he pulled from under his bed.
“Hell, just calm down,” I said. “Breathe, Lance. Breathe.” He ignored me, didn’t even look at me. I reached out to shake some sense into him. “For the love of God will you just—”
A jolt of pain flew through my back, like someone had just kicked me square in the kidney. I tried to turn, but my body didn’t seem to be working. I heard a strangled screaming noise. It took me a moment to realize it was coming from me.
The pain lanced through my muscles, and I knew I was going to fall. I couldn’t move any part of my body, and I was off balance. I toppled awkwardly, rotating as I fell. Peterson finally appeared to have noticed me; he was staring at me with his jaw dropping.
I hit the ground hard, facing the door. The little girl was standing in the doorway. She was still wearing her pajamas, but she’d abandoned her doll in favor of something more exciting.
The thing she held in her hands looked like a gun, but it was yellow, with two thin wires stretching across the room and burying themselves in my shoulder. The girl’s face was fixed in an expression of determination.
I had just enough time to swear before something collided with the back of my head and everything went black.
CHAPTER FIVE
I came to in a moving car. Something was pressing against my face that smelled of old socks and made the air stuffy and barely breathable. I opened my eyes, but it didn’t do any good; whatever was over my head blocked out the light completely. I was lying down, and my muscles ached like I’d been trampled by a crowd of drunks.
My heart thudded. What the hell had happened? I tried to piece together the last few moments I remembered.
Ah, right. That bloody little girl had tasered me. When I got out of this I’d have to have a stern talk with Peterson about appropriate toys for his niece.
I tried to stretch my arms, but it did no good. My wrists were tightly bound behind my back, and so were my ankles. I wriggled around and tried to sit up, but that just sent shooting pain flying through my head, so I gave up.
Hell. I was up shit creek without a paddle, a boat, or a pair of water wings. I tried to fight down a rising panic. If this car belonged to the man I thought it did, I was dead already. Shit.
Shit, shit, shit.
“Hello?” I said, my voice thin. “Any chance we can talk this out?”
No response. I doubted anyone could hear me. I had a pretty good idea I was in the trunk; whatever I was lying on wasn’t cushioned enough to be a seat. I squirmed again, managing to shuffle along a few inches before my head struck the inside of the trunk and sent a fresh wave of pain shooting through my skull.
“Ow,” I said. No point being stoic if I was by myself.
I could hear my rapid breathing even over the rumble of the car and the rain pounding outside. It was turning into a hell of a rainstorm. Not the kind of weather I wanted to die in, to be honest, but I supposed it fitted the mood.
All right, think, Miles. I could feel the handle of the folding knife digging into my hip, and the nightstick pressed against my ribs. It didn’t bode well for me if they hadn’t bothered to disarm me; it meant they weren’t planning on letting me live long enough to use them. But maybe if I could get my knife I could cut my bonds, and then…
Then what? I remembered seeing a TV show about what to do if you find yourself locked in a trunk. I was tired at the time, so I turned it off and went to bed. Why was it that I was always foiled by my desire to sleep?
Maybe I could get out through the back seat, if it was that kind of car, or maybe I could kick out the brake light.
Damn it, if only Tania hadn’t used the last of my Kemia, I’d be out of here in a snap. That girl had a lot to answer for.
No, that was just the panic talking. Maybe if I had a consistent income I’d be able to buy more than one bottle at a time. Here I lay, Miles Franco, freelance Tunneler, man who crossed worlds, trapped in a car trunk and struggling desperately to reach my pocket knife because I couldn’t afford a lousy bottle of Kemia.
It would have been funny if it wasn’t for all this imminent death.
I managed to touch the knife with the tips of my fingers when the car pulled to a halt and sent me tumbling over. Fat lot of good that did. The car engine stopped and doors were opened and closed. I waited and resisted the urge to start screaming.
There was a click, then a cool breeze washed over me and harsh artificial light came through the hood over my head. I caught a whiff of petrol and cigarette smoke.
“Think he’s awake yet?” a nasally voice said, the thick Vei accent obvious even through the hood.
Something hard jabbed me in the ribs, and I yelped.
“Sure sounds like it,” another man said, this voice deep and human.
Hands grabbed me under the armpits and pulled me out of the trunk. My head pounded at the sudden movement, but I’d be damned if I was going to whimper twice in front of these bastards. If I was going to die, I’d preserve the last of my dignity until they shot it right out of my skull.
Someone ripped the hood off my head. Fresh air rushed in, and I squinted against the sudden glare. It was still night, but a bright spotlight shone on my face. I leaned back against the car, trying to work out where I was. Christ, what I wouldn’t give to have my wrists untied.
I was under some sort of awning, which explained why I wasn’t getting any more soaked. Rain slashed down onto the wide concrete expanse in front of me, leaving deep puddles that cast back reflections of shattered light. Above me was a corrugated iron roof held up by unpainted wooden beams, thundering under the sky’s barrage. If I had to guess, I’d say we were at one of the hundreds of dock warehouses north of the central city. It didn’t escape me that John Andrews owned most of these docks, either officially or unofficially.
Two men stood in front of me, looking like they’d just been ripped out of a 50s gangster movie. The big one drew my attention first. He was human, six and a half feet with change, and so grossly overweight I was amazed his knees hadn’t buckled already. His companion, a Vei man, didn’t even come to my shoulder. His pale face was lined with wrinkles, and a cigarette dangled from his wide mouth.
Both the gangsters were dressed in well-fitted black suits, with black shirts underneath. On both their heads were fedora hats. Honest to God, fedoras. You can’t make this stuff up. I half-expected them to pull out Tommy guns and break into fake Italian accents.
Both of them were staring at me with bored expressions, so I decided it must be my turn to kick off the conversation. “How about this weather, huh?”
They didn’t go for it. The big one—Butch, I decided to call him—drove his fist into my stomach so hard I expected to feel his fingers tickling my tonsils. I doubled over and gasped for breath. My vision went spotty for a moment, and a fresh wave of pain rolled through my head.
All right, so that didn’t go how I hoped.
The Vei—I thought the name Ugly suited him—sneered up at me and plucked the cigarette from his mouth. “You know, it’s awful late for you to be inconveniencing us.” He took a long drag of his smoke, his gaze never leaving my eyes. “It’s a real pain, to be frank. That little maggot Peterson could have done us the favor of finishing you off himself.”
“Well hell, if it’s a bad time, you guys go home and get some shut-eye,” I said. “We can pick this whole kidnapping thing up in the morning.”
Butch’s face did
n’t move—he’d probably traded in his sense of humor along with his moral fiber—but Ugly smirked, baring his teeth. “Nah, this won’t take long. Besides, the wife snores like a kuroth. I wouldn’t’ve been sleeping anyways.”
“I know the feeling.”
Ugly dropped his cigarette to the concrete and crushed it with a shoe that cost more than my entire outfit. With a casual gesture, he reached under his jacket and pulled out a stunted black pistol.
Blood pounded in my ears, and my legs lost some of their strength. “Hey, wait a minute, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
Butch reached behind me with surprising speed and grabbed me by the arms, pulling me in front of him. I could feel his breath on my head, coming much more slowly than my own. Ugly brought the gun up under my chin, slowly, deliberately, no smirk on his face now. “Peterson tells us you’ve been talking to the cops, Miles. Can I call you Miles?”
In general, I made it a point not to argue with people holding me at gunpoint. I nodded, moving as little as possible, while trying vainly to stretch my head away from the pistol.
“Now,” Ugly said, inclining his head toward Butch, “you may have guessed that my companion and I ain’t too fond of the boys in blue. Our boss doesn’t take too kindly to them either. They’re expensive little pets, except for the few wild dogs sniffing around where they don’t belong.” He thumbed back the hammer of his pistol—a pointless gesture, given it was a semi-automatic, but effective nonetheless. “But if you be a good little boy, maybe we’ll forget all about who you work for. Does that sound good, Miles?”
“Given the alternatives, I really can’t complain.”
“Good. That’ll make things go much smoother. Now, our employer just wants to know one little thing: what do the cops know about Chroma?”
I opened my mouth to speak, reasoning that such knowledge would go public soon even if I decided to have principles and get a bullet through my brain. But something in Ugly’s face gave me pause, a faint flaring of the nostrils that I wouldn’t have noticed if I hadn’t spent a lot of time with Vei over the years. I checked myself, and frowned. “Why do you want to know?”
The Man Who Crossed Worlds (A Miles Franco Urban Fantasy) Page 4
