Shadows Down Under: Shadowrun, #8

by Jean Rabe

  Benzo panted and continued wagging its tail. “I’m a good dog.”

  “Yes, I understand that,” Ninn said. “You’re a dog.”

  “I was a dog. A good doggie doggie dog.”

  “In a furniture store?”

  “I lived here,” Benzo said. “One dozen years I lived here. Good years. Two short of the ‘years that nature permits,’ according to Kipling. My friend Bernie had said that, ‘two years short of what Kipling said I should have.’ Bernie said I was cheated.”

  “Uh, Benzo—”

  “Good dog good dog good good doggie. On a thick thick pillow in the back room. Good pillow. Good dog.”

  Ninn looked over to Barega; the old man still slept.

  “What do you know, Benzo?”

  “How to play fetch.”

  “Other than that.”

  For the next many minutes, Ninn listened to the spirit talk about the store and customers, the regulars who knew to scratch behind Benzo’s ears, the cleaning crew that sometimes brought biscuits, the owner, Bernie, who died recently, and his son who had instigated the going out of business sale, pieces of furniture with big comfy cushions that Benzo would lay on at night when no one was looking. About the strolls along the sidewalk, the occasional trip to the vet and the groomer, about how marvelous and soft tennis balls felt against his tongue.

  The thing in the thickest shadows inched closer. It was built of coat hangers and twisted pieces of plastic. An old smoking pipe hung from it.

  “Do you know what that is, Benzo?”

  “That’s the bad thing.”

  Ninn pressed.

  “It was here before Bernie. Slithered in before the first storm came.” Benzo spun around, a ridge of corduroy rising on his back. He growled at it. “Slithered in years and years and years past, more years past than nature permits. Hasn’t come out in a while, though. Hoped it was gone. Hoped it had slithered back out.”

  But Ninn had summoned it. Hadn’t she?

  “What is it?” she tried again.

  “A piece of shadow,” Barega answered. “A piece of darkness from some foul one’s soul. Perhaps a collection of darkness given form.”

  She hadn’t noticed that the Aborigine had stopped snoring. He was propped up on his elbows, and he started to chant, sing-song words that raised the hairs on her arms. The swirl of darkness and coat hangers retreated. After a moment, Barega lay back down.

  “Be careful what you coax, Ninn.” He started snoring again.

  “Fetch?” Benzo asked.

  “Later,” Ninn said. She curled back up on the mattress and set her fingers on Mordred’s grip. She turned on the smartlink and closed her eyes.

  She felt the dog spirit jump up, turn around twice, and lay down at her feet.

  Ninn took one of the pain slips Dr. Tarr had given her. It was potent and set her to sleep before she knew it.

  When she woke a few hours later, the dog spirit was gone.

  Eighteen

  Something in the Water

  The Sydney Harbour Bridge used to be called “The Coat Hanger” because of its shape. It used to be an engineering marvel; stunning, iconic. Featured on postcards, travel sites, and posters, it dared tourists to climb its span, and encouraged lovers to make promises beneath it.

  It used to be shiny.

  Six million rivets, seventeen thousand cubic meters of granite blocks, nearly fifty-three thousand tons of steel, it took fourteen hundred men eight years to build.

  When the storm came eighty years ago, it took away the shine.

  Now it was called “The Eyesore.”

  Ninn had attended a funeral service here eight months ago. Cadigal’s grandfather had died on the bridge, struck by a bolt of pink lightning and fused forever to the railing. The old troll had bought an arsenal of guns, and mowed down dozens of squatters. More squatters had come to take their place. Cadigal used to drop off flowers every few weeks, bringing Hurdy Gertie with him to help fend off the rabble.

  That’s what the bridge had become since the cloud arrived—a palace for squatters. Humans and metahumans, most of them formed into clans or gangs that guarded their sections of the span, all of which was taken over in the early years of the storm when the lightning had gouged out chunks of the bed big enough for a semi to fall through…which had happened. The city was too slow to effect repairs, and so the homeless grabbed it. The politicians, rather than challenge the squatters, built a tunnel under a section of the harbor. Travel through the tunnel was safer on magically rainy days.

  Hovels, looking like big insect nests, hung from some of the bridge supports.

  Barega marveled at the collection of makeshift homes and people. It was a reasonable day to marvel at them; the cloud was so thin the sun filtered down bright, making the water beneath the bridge sparkle like big flecks of gold glitter had been tossed onto it.

  “Amazing,” Barega said. Ninn was unsure whether he meant the mismatched gaggle of people—some of who stank despite the rains—or what was left of the bridge. He waved his arm and turned, almost childlike. “Truly amazing.”

  Ninn just shook her head and asked questions:

  “Seen a big man, black like oil, freaky face, favors a heater?”

  “No, but I can sell you a heater,” was the most interesting answer. If Ninn had had the nuyen, she would have taken the cybered ork up on that. She wasn’t about to part with her last pearl for the blade, though. And she still had Mordred.

  “Hear about the Cross Slayer?” she asked as they worked their way through the clans. She held the gun at her side, raising it when some of the toughs offered to answer questions in exchange for some “up close and personal time,” clearly believing her joygirl disguise. She kept her back to the railing as she went, expecting trouble and pleasantly surprised when there was none. Maybe good weather made for good behavior. But she had noted two lumper foot patrols near the bridge ramp, and that might have helped. “The man killing singers down by Darlinghurst, heard anything? Anything at all?”

  “Sure. Some Christian tusker, wot? Going all biblical, going after men who look like sheilas.”

  “No, that ain’t it. Slayer’s a RighteousRight. Putting the not-right people out of their misery.” This from an elf with an obvious cyberleg. “Doing a little cleansin’, is all. Hate the Double-Rs, I hate ’em. But I don’t mind the Cross getting cleansed. They’re a buncha privileged throwbacks.”

  “On the news again last night.” This from a human with bright green hair. “I saw the feed in the bar. Gacked a big troll, right? Gotta be nasty to gack a troll. Good thing he’s staying in the Cross, the Slayer. The Cross can keep the wacker.”

  “Yeah, he’s in the Cross now. He’s stayin’ in Kings Bloody Cross now.” This from an elderly woman who drew out the now so long she had to take a gasping breath. “Started not far from our bridge, he did. Killed some folks not far from here one night. Three or four of ’em dead, slit, given a second grin. But that was some weeks back. Put more lumpers around here, so he had to go to the Cross to keep doing his killing. Heard they ain’t got lumpers in Kings bloody Cross.”

  Ninn pressed the old woman for more about the first victims, but got nothing else. Just as well, it was past noon now, her stomach was rumbling, and the Sydney Aquarium was way past open. Time to act like a tourist—in joygirl garb—and take a look around at the fishes.

  “Under the bridge,” Barega suggested. “There are more people there.”

  “There’s always people under the bridge,” Ninn said. “We should be on our—”

  The Aborigine gestured down the bank. “There are more people there.”

  “The aquarium closes at seven, doesn’t sell any tickets after six.”

  “So we have time.”

  “Great.” She was being thorough, might as well talk to the squatters down there. She was also jittery…been how many hours since she’d popped a slip? She had four, supposedly of the pain killer variety in her pocket, but they were different than the one
she took last night. Their color hinted strongly that they were jazz…good for giving her an energy boost, but the side effects included paranoia and disorientation. Couldn’t risk it right now.

  “Keebs, I bet the AISE reports are filled with stuff from the bridge folk. You got some of that in your encephalon, right? Why not just go through that? Might save you some time.”

  Mordred had a good point, but she’d learned from working with Lone Star in Chicago that nothing beat going after the scuttle firsthand. Besides, the aquarium was nearby, and she was going there anyway. She’d dig through those files she copied out of the coroner’s computer later.

  She started down the embankment, taking it slow for fear the old Aborigine would struggle with the grade and break something. The wooden dog capered and pranced around her feet.

  Ninn stopped halfway down. “Barega?”

  “Yes?” He didn’t look up as he answered, gaze intent on the ground in front of him.

  “You can still see the dog, right?” She noticed it had lifted a stiff leg against a tall weed, as if peeing on it. Nothing came out.

  “Dog spirit. Yes.”

  “I see the dog.” This from Mordred. He’d been oddly silent on their walk to the harbor, no wry observations or movie references. He’d been so quiet Ninn had forgotten the smartlink was even open. She wondered if maybe she was too quick to disconnect the link when he chattered; too easy to close that door. She’d try not to do that so fast anymore. “That’s really an ugly dog, Keebs, ya ken? If I had a dog as ugly as that, I’d shave its—”

  “You can really see the dog, Mordred?” It “marked” another weed.

  “Yes.”

  “Interesting.”

  The collection of furniture pieces stared up at Ninn, and a tongue lolled out from under the lip of the vase, a strip of rosy brocade fabric that maybe had been a man’s tie. Its tail wagged, and the tongue retracted.

  “Fetch?”

  “Wonder why it’s still following me.”

  “Because you have not dismissed it.”

  “Dismissed it?”

  The Aborigine’s eyes narrowed, a teacher about to scold a student.

  “I didn’t have to dismiss the spirits in the morgue, Barega. They didn’t follow me. Benzo is following me.” But she looked around, just to be sure, no misty suggestions of people from the corpse cabinets hovered. Benzo…God, now she was calling the collection of furniture parts by a name. It had disappeared for a while back at the furniture store.

  “Those spirits were tied to something, I told you.” He pointed at Benzo. “This spirit apparently had no such ties.”

  “But it was in the store.”

  “It had to be somewhere, didn’t it, Ninn? And now it is with you. It has tied itself to you.”

  “Congratulations, Keebs. Bet you always wanted a pet.”

  Ninn gazed out over the harbor. There were boats lashed together—if you could call them that, a collection of floating hovels that the living detritus not accepted by or fitting in with the clans on the bridge called home. Had the Cross Slayer come from there? He hadn’t come from the bridge…according to those she’d chatted with.

  She continued picking her way down the bank. There was a sandy stretch of ground at the bottom, bridge pilings rising from it, and more squatters had staked out parcels. It’d be relatively safe from the rain, she thought. Barega and Benzo followed her.

  “So, you can teach me how to get rid of the dog?”

  “Certainly, Ninn. All you have to—”

  “I meant teach me later. Still got some digging to do before we can take a break for booga-booga.” And maybe for a piece of jazz.

  There were a few dozen people under the bridge, most of them even more talkative than the ones up top. And the last one they talked to, a woman sitting apart from the others, was actually helpful.

  “The cats are coming back.” She was a motherly-looking woman sitting on a cushion that had been ripped from a Hyundai Shin-Hyung sedan, and she cradled a big calico in her lap. She introduced herself as Stinky Stella, and wiped her nose on her grimy sleeve, and then petted Benzo. “They were gone for a few weeks, the cats, when the killing started.”

  Stinky Stella? Talon had mentioned sharing a box under the bridge with the woman. Small, smelly world. Ninn knelt next to her, and was instantly glad she didn’t have the nose implant. The woman reeked. Bile rose in Ninn’s throat. No wonder the other squatters gave her a wide berth.

  “The cats were afraid, and that made me afraid, too,” Stella said. “Normally the cats are only afraid of the rain…sometimes the rain. Normally I’m not afraid of anything.”

  “The lightning…” Ninn mused.

  “Yeah, the cats don’t like the lightning, especially when it’s got a color. It’s the lightning what really gives ’em the willies. That’s when they cluster under the bridge. Except right around the first killings. The cats disappeared for a while.”

  “So, the killings—”

  “Got something for me to eat?”

  Ninn shook her head. “I’m sorry.”

  “I usually don’t talk to folks, lumpers especially, unless they give me something to eat.”

  “I’m not a lumper.”

  “Really?” Stella smiled, showing she was missing several teeth, and the ones remaining were various shades of brown. “So, you’re a hooker. Wait, got the word wrong. Don’t mean to offend you none. A joygirl. I ain’t got any nuyen to buy any of your joy.”

  “I’m not selling. I’m not a joygirl.”

  “Undercover lumper? No, you’re not that, either. The elf lumper what was here earlier brought me something to eat.” She proceeded to describe Draye and that he’d given her a bag of doughnuts. Ninn had a growing appreciation for the AISE; he did quite a bit of investigating, and wasn’t a drekhead about it like many other cops might be. “The elf lumper wanted to know if I’d heard anything around here…people screaming, getting knifed. The elf lumper gave me food.”

  “Listen, Stella, I—”

  “Kind woman.” Barega moved up and squatted in front of her, apparently unfazed by the stench. “Stella, this man we ask about killed my brother.”

  “Sorry.” Her face softened. “He killed cats first. Ate ’em, I think. I told the elf lumper I thought someone was down here killing cats. Lumper didn’t seem interested in that. But the guy, he left the heads. Then he killed some folks by the aquarium one night. I know that ’cause I talk to the go go gos up top once in a while. They was nervous, too, about the guy. Afraid the guy would come and kill ’em. Maybe the guy did kill some of ’em. Nobody misses the bridge people. Nobody cares if a few bridgers get gacked. Don’t matter to them none. The guy…they’re calling the Cross Slayer now, all fancy the name, like Jack the Ripper…the guy moved on. See, the lumpers came ’round the harbor, and so the guy went away. Went where the lumpers weren’t, I ’spect. Hope the guy’s still killing people rather than killing cats. I like cats.”

  “Probably likes cats better than just about anything,” Mordred cut in.

  “Bloody oath, I do!” Stella continued, “I figure either the guy doesn’t like lumpers or he’s afraid of being caught, so he’s hiding. Can’t think of much he’d be afraid of though, from the looks of him.”

  Ninn’s eyes widened. “You saw him?”

  “Sure. Sure. Up close, almost personal. I forgot to tell the elf lumper that. But then, that elf lumper didn’t ask directly. He just asked what I knew, what I’d heard. He didn’t ask what I’d seen. ’Sides, I was busy eating the doughnuts. Realized I should have told him, but he was gone up the hill by the time I’d thought it. You tell him for me, will you?”

  “Sure. Sure.” But Ninn had no intention of doing that. “What did he look like?”

  “The elf lumper? Already told you.”

  “No. The killer.”

  “Well, I think he’s the killer.”

  “What did he look like?”

  Stella’s eyes twinkled. “He was big, but n
ot a troll. I like trolls, used to have a best friend troll before the lightning took him. Troll brought me Chinese takeout and pressies once in a while. The big guy was a black man. Not black like you.” She jabbed a crooked finger at Barega. “Not black like a dark-skinned man.”

  “Black like oil,” Ninn said.

  “Yeah. Black like that. Black like the harbor gets under the bridge at night when the cloud is thick and the lights go out. Black like that. Black like forever.”

  “Yeah, that’s him.” The woman’s description matched what Ninn had seen in Cadi’s basement, but in more detail.

  “And he wasn’t friendly, the guy. Didn’t have much to say.”

  “You talked to him? A conversation?”

  “Probably should have told the lumper that.” She nodded, strands of gray-brown hair spilled out from under a stained baseball hat. “He was wading…right out there, like maybe he was looking for something in the water, little treasures. It was dark, and he had a light in one hand, shining it down and around. Sometimes people drop things off the bridge, little treasures. Pieces of jewelry, guns, soup bowls. Found me a little treasure just yesterday, I did. Something in the water that I think is worth a bit.”

  She reached behind her and brought out a pair of gloves hooked together with a rusty clip. Ninn recognized what they were; expensive, top of the line unarmed combat hardliners with a layer of densiplast set into the knuckles. “Don’t know if he found any treasures, though. He had a cat in his other hand, hanging all limp. I knew it was dead. I asked him not to kill me.”

  Ninn waited for her to go on. A seagull cried, swooped low over the water and grabbed a tiny fish, flew up where another seagull tried to steal it.

  “He said he had a kill list. Said I wasn’t on his list, so he wasn’t gonna kill me. And then he went away. I found the cat’s head the next morning. Cats was probably on his list. Never saw the guy after that. But then, the lumpers started patrolling here the next night. They still patrol. Good thing, eh? But not many of ’em are around here now. Quite a bit more than a few lumpers early early, though.”