Echoes

by Therin Knite

  V. Manson – Case 5520

  * * *

  Client killed partner, Lionel Rampart, in self-defense during a domestic violence incident. After an argument involving suspected infidelity, Rampart left home and at some point imbibed a powerful drug cocktail that induced a fit of violent rage. When he returned home, he attacked client with a weapon, a small statuette, before attempting strangulation. Client defended herself from Rampart by injecting him with a large dose of heroin from her personal stash. Rampart died from the overdose before the police and paramedics arrived.

  * * *

  One witness, Missy Burgess, daytime maid, confirmed the details of the argument and was first on scene after the attack. Burgess’ testimony regarding the deteriorating relationship between client and Rampart was instrumental in the judicial proceedings.

  * * *

  Client was cleared of all criminal charges relating to Rampart’s death but was fined $75,000 for heroin possession and sentenced to three hundred hours of mandatory community service. Client retained all death benefits of her civil union with Rampart.

  “Here you go.” Williams sinks onto the sofa and hands me a cup of piping hot coffee. It’s some special seasonal blend, sprinkled with cinnamon and a few other spices I don’t know the names of.

  “Thanks.” I blow at the curl of steam rising from the foam.

  “So, is this a rerun of last week’s game?”

  “Huh?”

  “The show. Battle Game.” She sips her drink, smirking.

  “Oh, I wasn’t paying attention.” My head is starting to clear, and has begun to catalogue every object of interest it comes across. The frames. The coffee maker. The patio that is all too similar to the one attached to Victor Manson’s house. “Sorry.”

  “It’s fine. You’re still a little out of it. I didn’t know you’d zonk out on me if I gave you a few drugs. My bad.”

  “I didn’t know you’d invite me into your private dining room and then drug me. I would’ve warned you about my low tolerance if I’d known.” Truthfully, I would’ve run. Far, far away. “People generally don’t introduce men who turned them down to their friends.”

  “Not generally, but you’re a cutie, and I wanted another shot at you. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to have a nice chat. Plus, I do have bodyguards, as you’ve seen. If you’d pissed me off, I could’ve just thrown you out.” She opens the channel list on her Ocom and scrolls through it, choosing some science fiction station that specializes in shows recovered from the old world. Something called The Twilight Zone is today’s main feature. It’s in black and white.

  “They’re not here now, your guards.”

  “No.”

  “So you don’t consider me a liability.”

  “No.” She downs most of her mug in a few rounds, licking foam off the top of her lip. “I consider you—”

  “Should he?”

  “Pardon?”

  I point to the fourth frame. “Should he consider me a liability?”

  She goes quiet, eyes lingering on the man in the suit. Her thumbnail traces shapes on the side of her mug as she considers how to answer my question. This is the first time I’ve had a chance to show her how perceptive I am, and she wasn’t expecting it. She’s used to controlling the flow of conversation. She has her friends wrapped around her finger, ready and willing to compliment her whenever she pleases. She has control over everyone wherever she goes, whether through alcohol or drugs or sheer force of will. Williams is smart. But she is vain beyond salvation.

  Up until this point, she thought she was doing a wonderful job of investigating me. That was the whole purpose of this charade—inviting me to dance at Valkyrie, welcoming me to dinner, and now taking me home with her. I’m a “cutie” all right, but I am not her type. She would never treat me with such hospitality without an ulterior motive. And the only motive she could possibly have is suspicion. I work for the IBI, the agency that was investigating Manson’s demise, and she is one of the only Manson clients whose redacted case file involves a violent death and a lot of unanswered questions. She knows who I am, and she thinks I’m onto her.

  Onto what is the question I need answered.

  “He was my partner.” Williams drains the last of her coffee. “His name was Lionel. He died last year.”

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pried.”

  “No. You have a right to ask about relationships. Many people fear becoming ‘the other person.’” Her fingers tighten around her mug, nails pressed hard against the ceramic. A thin white line stretches across the nail of her index finger. It was recently broken.

  My coffee has stopped steaming, so I take a sip. The strength of the flavor makes my gums tingle. “What happened to him, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Drug overdose. Heroin.” She doesn’t hesitate, despite the weight of the question. She’s testing me, wants to see what I do with the answer. I’m taking her exactly where she feared I would. There’s more to her partner’s death than a domestic violence incident, and I’m going to find out what it is. I could break this ruse right now and probably cajole the truth out of her, but I’m curious to see how she combats my advances.

  I scoot closer to her. “I’m sorry. Did you know he had a problem?”

  “No.”

  “So, how did it happen? Was it at home? Or—”

  She moves. She sits her mug down, snatches my own and places it next to hers on a side table, pushes me with all her might onto my back, straddles me, and starts to kiss me passionately. The lingering effects of the drugs combined with the shock leave me helpless at first, and by the time I can muster enough coordination to respond, she’s already undoing my pants.

  To be fair, I do have an erection, which is a natural response to having someone very attractive kiss the fuck out of you and start taking your clothes off. Someone, of course, you would otherwise be willing to consent to wild sex with…if you didn’t suspect her of consorting with a guy who uses dragons to kill people.

  Because that’s my hunch: Williams’ adulterous lover is the Manson killer.

  I push her back and crawl out from under her. “Whoa! You need to hold up. I think we should talk a bit more before…before…”

  “Before what?” Her voluminous pink hair, now undone, has tumbled over her shoulders and obscured most of what’s behind her in my field of vision. Most. Not all. I can still see one of the two sliding glass doors that lead to the patio that looks ever so much like the one at Victor Manson’s house.

  Now it even has its own dragon.

  Chapter Twelve

  I become an Olympic gymnast for five and a half seconds. I haul Williams over the side of the couch, scoop her up with my one good arm, and dive through the nearest open doorway. As we bounce to a stop on the bedroom floor, her sliding glass patio doors implode, giving way to a rain of melting glass buffeted by a powerful inferno. Williams, pinned beneath me, screams at the top of her lungs, bats at my face with her open palms, and screams some more. Then the fire suppression system activates, a shrill whine echoing through the house, and a hidden sprinkler system descends from the ceiling and starts shooting water over the flaming remnants of her living room.

  “What the hell was that?” Williams shouts. “What’s going on?” She untangles herself from me and backs away, grabbing a pair of scissors off a nearby desk.

  “We’re being attacked by a dragon that’s being controlled by a murderer I think is the guy you were cheating on your partner with.” Leaving the “dream” part out seems sensible for now.

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” She waves the scissors at me, trying to ward me off.

  I don’t have to explain. I just have to point. Because the dragon has crept around to the side of the house and is now peering through her bedroom window. She whirls around, stares at the creature for a few seconds, and then shrieks, dropping the scissors in shock. I grab her arm and yank her back through the doorway into the smoky living room filled with the damp
remains of charred furniture. The smell of burning plastic and rubber assaults my nose, and I hold my breath as I charge down the hallway, Williams in tow.

  She leans close to me and whispers in my ear. “Why is this happening? Why is that thing attacking us?”

  “I think I’m too close to finding out the truth, or you’re too close to giving it to me. Both maybe.”

  “Truth. You mean about Victor?”

  “Ah, so you’re dropping the ruse? You know who I am?”

  “You work for the IBI, I know. You think I was involved in Victor’s death, right?”

  “Were you?”

  We’ve plastered ourselves to the stairway wall, Williams watching the window at the top of the landing, me scanning the fan-shaped one set into the front door. The dragon’s tail flashes in view of the door, and I nudge Williams to continue up the stairs. She’s got a grip on my arm now, and her nails dig into my skin as we tiptoe up to the second floor.

  “It was an accident,” she says. “I accidentally sent Victor a message he wasn’t supposed to see. Victor, he was a great lawyer but…not a very nice guy. What I sent him gave away an important person’s name, and he was going to give it to the press for money and ruin that person.”

  “That person being your adulterous lover?”

  She gnaws on her lip. “Yeah.”

  “So your lover ‘took care’ of Manson. Is that it?”

  “Yeah. That’s it.”

  “And his name is?”

  She shakes her head. “He wouldn’t do this to me.”

  The dragon shrieks somewhere near the back patio.

  “He wouldn’t,” she repeats in a whisper.

  “Look, this man, whoever he is, doesn’t care about you. He doesn’t care about anyone but himself. He’s going to kill as many people as it takes to protect his identity, his position, his career. He considers you a mistake. He considers you a problem. Just like Manson was a problem. And I’m sure you saw the press release on Manson: Lawyer Burned to Death in Tragic Patio Fire.” I’m being very callous, but I need to get this woman to accept she’s been lied to, or we are both going to die. “Tell me his name. I have friends who can stop him.”

  A tear streams down her cheek, smudging her makeup. “Nobody can stop him.”

  Glass crunches and wood groans somewhere in the ruined living room. The dragon is in the house.

  “For gods’ sakes. At least tell me this: Were you the one who took the hit out on me? Ingram Walker?”

  “I…” Her lips open and close, soundless.

  “Did you do it because you thought you were going to get in trouble for your role in Manson’s death? You saw me at Valkyrie and thought I was investigating you? That I knew?”

  Ten seconds of nothing.

  And then, an almost imperceptible nod.

  “So it’s all about you, isn’t it? All the goddamn time. I don’t know if anybody’s ever said this to your face before, Williams, but you are a self-centered bitch.” I grab a vase off a nearby table and chuck it from the top of the stairs into the kitchen below. It shatters on impact with the fridge, and almost instantly, a stream of fire shoots from somewhere out of sight and burns the kitchen black. “Now that we’ve established you’re a horrible person,” I add, “how about we escape? You got a pool?”

  “What?”

  “Pool.”

  “Why?” She brushes her tangled pink locks out of her face. “You want to go for an early morning swim?”

  “Actually, I want something to land safely in after we jump out a second-story window.”

  “Oh, right.” She points to the end of the hall. “Bathroom window overlooks it.”

  We reach the bathroom unseen, the dragon still prowling around downstairs, and I force open the window with as little sound as I can manage. “Long jump. But we can take it. Is the pool full?”

  “Yeah. It’ll be cold though. I shut the heating and cleaning systems off last week. It’s supposed to be drained tomorrow morning.” She climbs onto the windowsill and peers down, hesitating to take the plunge. “Lucky us, h—?”

  The dragon shrieks several times louder than before, and Williams, startled, lets go and pushes herself away from the window. I scramble forward when I hear her hit the water and hurl myself out after her, sailing through the cool September air.

  She was right. The water is freezing. That and something slimy invades my nostrils before I make it to the surface. When I reemerge into the fading night, spitting and hawking, I find Williams sitting on the edge of the pool, offering me a hand. She helps lift me out, water cascading off my new designer clothes, and we take a very short, wet break to catch our breath before scrambling up and running for our lives.

  “What do we do now?” she asks as we round the hedges at the edge of her lawn.

  “I have no idea.” I hate admitting that, but I haven’t the slightest clue how to deal with the dream dragon in real life. In the echo, I made some boots magically appear on my feet and used them to my advantage, but I’m helpless in reality. A gun, even if I had one, wouldn’t touch that thing. I need a rocket launcher or hovercopter-grade machine gun, neither of which I have access to.

  But I can get access to them…if I ask Briggs.

  “Let’s find a good hiding spot,” I say. Then I’m going to make a call that will result in me being arrested. But hey, stuck in a holding cell is better than dead.

  Williams leads me through the shadowed areas of the cul-de-sac, most of the houses dark. Either her neighbors are the heaviest sleepers on the planet, or none of them are here. Which makes sense. As a rich modder, she probably lives in a community with other rich modders, a group that is notorious for club-hopping all through the night. Lucky people.

  Finally, we settle behind a row of prickly bushes next to a three-story house that has six boats, four cars, and a vintage one-person airplane parked in the back yard. “This is Mike Rowen’s winter house,” Williams says. “He only lives here from October to March.”

  “Well, hopefully by October, there won’t be a dragon in the neighborhood anymore.” I dig around in all my pockets, searching for my Ocom. The first one I find is Martin Rickman’s, and I shove it back into my coat with a growl. I locate my own on the second try, find Briggs in my contacts, and hit the dial button. It rings. And rings. And rings.

  “He’s really going to kill me, isn’t he?” Her voice quakes.

  “You were really going to kill me, weren’t you?”

  She stiffens. “I panicked, okay? I made a mistake.”

  “Sending a hitman to kill somebody. Pretty big mistake.”

  “Do you want me to apologize?”

  “Are you sorry?”

  She’s shaking and shivering, cold and wet, dirt streaked and distraught. But even though her own actions led to this state, she isn’t ready to take responsibility and blame herself. “Not really,” she admits. “I hate you. I don’t even know your full name, but I hate you. No matter what happens now, no matter if I live through this, my life is ruined. My wealth. My reputation. I’m going to lose it all, right, because I’m involved in this mess? So, no, I’m not sorry I sicced Ingram on you. I’m sorry that he fucking missed.”

  I stare at her, dumfounded. “By the old gods. You’re a top-grade idiot. You can eliminate ninety-nine percent of all the charges you’ll be dealt if you cooperate and tell me your lover’s name. You know that, don’t you? One name. And you’re in the clear. You keep everything you own. You get minimal jail time. And that’s despite the fact you tried to off me with a shitty hitman. This guy, the one you are protecting, catching him is a thousand times more important than catching you. Legally speaking, you are insignificant. You’re a clue that will help me stop the true villain. And if you’d just play nice and act like a good little clue, you’d be off the hook in no time. Hell, I will vouch for you if you tell me your lover’s name!”

  “But…But I…”

  “What is his name?”

  “It’s…” She caves, c
hoking back a sob. “His name’s—”

  A spiked tail shoots through the bushes, cutting us off from each other. As the dragon screeches in victory, I flatten myself to the ground and roll away. The tail spikes start shearing the leaves less than a foot above my head, and pointed leaf bits rain over my face, threatening to scratch my eyes. So I clamp my eyes shut and keep rolling and rolling and…I drop off into a deep ditch, hitting the muddy bottom with enough force to knock the air out of my lungs. The impact bites at my injured shoulder, and I stifle a cry of pain.

  Williams screams. Over and over. I wait for the inevitable outcome: a burst of fire burning away Williams’ every mod, every accomplishment, every pride and joy. Her life.

  But it doesn’t come.

  Instead, one of her screams is cut off abruptly before returning three times louder, and then the sound of batting wings rattles through the bushes. Williams never stops screaming, even as the dragon soars off with her into the dim morning, higher and higher into the sky, until no one on the ground can make out anything more than a faint whine. I catch one last glimpse of her—she flails in the grip of the dragon’s claws—as I clamber out of the ditch. It looks like she’s reaching out to me, begging me to save her.

  The problem is I’m not a hero. I can’t slay a dragon.

  The day that Williams’ last frayed nerve snaps, Lionel spends the morning ignoring her from the other side of the breakfast table. Another vicious argument settled into a strained silence last night. “Suspected infidelity” burned them out far more quickly than the usual topics of debate: extraneous expenses, vanity, and a lack of intimacy in their relationship. While Missy the maid scuttles around the table and makes sure Williams and Lionel receive their respective portions of coffee, a call comes in for the latter. After one glance at the screen, Lionel slides his chair back, rises, and storms down the hallway, grabbing his coat and briefcase on the way out. His newest antique car zooms out of the garage a few minutes later.