Scowling, Sorli said, "If I have not yet convinced you of the danger, we are lost." He tapped the privacy screen around her monitor. "Your tools tell you that I do not lie. Believe them, if you will not believe me. We come to the cusp. We must act,"
"Convince me."
Sorli drew himself up. Without further argument, he turned and departed. As the door slid shut behind him, Pamela touched the intercom.
"Get Mr. McAlister on the line."
She needed a word with her watchdog.
Making himself presentable after his fight with Winston took time. John considered getting Kelley on the phone and calling off the date, but Faye convinced him otherwise. By the time he had cleaned himself up, he was running half an hour late. He snatched bits and pieces of an outfit from his closet, mostly with an eye to hiding the bruises. The only way to hide his bruised and scraped hands was to wear gloves; he hoped Kelley would take it as a fashion statement.
He was pushing an hour late when he arrived at her dorm. To his relief, she buzzed him in rather than just telling him to get lost. She came down to the lobby promptly, but stayed aloof all the way to the Northsider Club. They had missed the first set and Kim Murphey was well into her second set when they arrived, but the music soon mellowed Kelley and by the end of the third and final set, she was talking easily. Neither of them mentioned the afternoon's fight, encouraging John to hope that she had either missed it or not realized it had been he.
He wanted the evening to last forever, forever delaying the time when he'd have to deal with the repercussions of the afternoon's fight. He suggested they go to the Frilly Cow for a snack, and she agreed. When they were settled in a booth and had put in their order, he started on a topic that seemed safe.
"You seemed to like the concert."
"Yeah. It was good. It's nice to hear real instruments once in a while."
"Real instruments?"
"Yeah. You know, instead of synthesized sound. The boards are light-years ahead of what they used to be, but there's something different about a real instrument that even an individuator can't dupe."
"Maybe it's the player."
"Or the company."
The company? Had she really said that?
Their order arrived, saving John from immediately saying something stupid. Once the Cokes and burgers were on the table, their talk took a sudden turn to other, safer things like classes and assignments and professors. Eventually, the conversation rolled around to the music again.
"Yeah. The music's fine. But the lyrics." She rolled her eyes. "The lyrics are always so, like, imaginative."
"You think so? I've always been fascinated by the stories they tell. Do you ever think that there might be something more than simple imagination behind the stories in the songs?"
"Like what?"
"I don't know. Like, maybe some of the stories aren't just stories. Like, maybe they're some kind of distorted history."
"History? With all those witches and ghosts and magic talismans and stuff?"
"Why not?" Kelley quirked an eyebrow at him, so he tried another tack. "I mean, couldn't stuff like that be symbolism for other things?"
"I suppose." Her agreement was hesitant.
"Suppose it was. For the sake of argument. Don't you have to wonder what might be behind those stories?"
She looked dubious. She was clearly beginning to think he was an idiot. If he shut up now, she'd know for sure. His only hope was to keep talking and bring the conversation back to a place she found more acceptable. But how? Since dropping the subject cold would just freeze ideas about his weirdness in her head, he'd have to work himself out into safer areas.
"Give me a minute, here. If you suppose that there is a real story behind the song, you have to suppose that there are real events and real people in it, right?" She nodded dubiously. "Given that. And given that there isn't anything like magic in the real world . . ." That seemed to score points. Keep talking, boy. "A lot of seemingly magical effects can be explained by chemistry and psychological manipulation, participatory hallucination, and stuff like that. You get a bunch of people believing in a thing and telling each other about it, and then they start believing that it really does exist and when they see anything that could by the furthest stretch of the imagination be that thing, it is. That's the way a crocodile becomes a dragon. It's imagination at work, but it's not making it up out of whole cloth, you see?"
"I suppose."
"Right. It's the same sort of thing with the people in the stories. You take someone like Tam Lin. Here's a guy, a landed lord, that nobody has seen for a while. He's, like, disappeared. The song says he went to Faery, but who knows where he really went? Maybe the Faery riff is a cover story, to hide the fact that he was off doing something he wasn't supposed to be doing. Remember, the old-time folk believe in this Faery stuff. Who'd ask what he was really doing? Point is, he comes back and finds somebody, Fair Janet, has taken over his turf. Maybe he's been gone so long that he's been declared legally dead. His problem: he wants his turf back, but can't do it legally. Her problem: she's pregnant, and won't or can't tell who the father is. Maybe she doesn't know. Anyway, she needs protection. Maybe from the father himself, maybe from her father. This Tam Lin cooks up a scheme. By getting married, he gets back his claim on the turf, she gets to keep it too, and the kid gets a father. The Faery stuff gives it all a fancy gloss."
"You make it sound almost possible."
"No almost about it."
"So who's the Queen of Faeiy?"
He wished he knew. He also wished he had an answer for her.
A shadow fell across the table between them, chilling the conversation. John looked up to see a tall man partially silhouetted against the Cow's lights. The light leaked around from behind the stranger lit enough of his long face to show his somber expression. It was an official business kind of expression. John didn't recognize the man, but he got the impression that he should know him, or at least what organization he represented.
There was no corporate affiliation pin on the lapel of the stranger's long leather coat. The coat was dark on the shoulders, as if it was wet, but it hadn't been raining. If it had been, his hair, white-blond and finely styled, would have been plastered to his head.
The stranger waited several heartbeats before he spoke.
"Excuse me. I'm looking for John Reddy."
Police was John's first thought. Winston, his second. Was this about the fight? Had Winston.. . died? The man's intense stare didn't leave any doubt that he knew he'd found John Reddy, so there didn't seem to be any point in denying it.
"I'm John."
"I'd like to ask you a few questions."
"You a cop?" Kelley asked nervously. Her sidelong glance at John suggested that she had seen at least part of the afternoon's fight.
"Not exactly, miss. But I am part of an ongoing investigation."
"You with the feds?"
"I'm not really at liberty to say."
"Oh, man." Kelley looked frightened. "Look, John. I gotta go. Okay?" She started to shuck into her jacket, then looked nervously up at the cop.
"This doesn't concern you, miss," he said, and Kelley looked visibly relieved.
She gave John a look that was a cross between pity and sympathy. "I'll, like, I'll see you around."
She slid out of the booth, skinned past the cop, and practically ran out of the Cow. And that was the end of it. Thank you, Mr. Federal Policeman. Then again, maybe you just finished off what I had already started. In any case, here's another date shot to hell, another big score for John.
"May I sit down?" asked the man pointlessly as he sat in Kelley's vacated seat. Flashing something that looked like a badge and a federal ID card, he said, "My name is Bennett."
Mr. Bennett was not your usual federal investigator, or so John supposed. Weren't those guys supposed to be inconspicuous? Beyond his slick good looks, noticeable enough in any crowd, this guy was tall and thin like John, and John knew from personal experience
that such a physique did not blend easily into a crowd. Bennett's eyes were as clear and gray as John's, but they had a hard quality that would have frightened John if he had seen them staring back at him in a mirror.
"They pick you special to come talk to me?"
"Excuse me?"
John waved a hand up and down. "Your look. The pale-scarecrow effect. Not too many people with our phenotype. This a coincidence, or what?"
"I don't believe in coincidence," Bennett said quietly. "Matters of appearance are trivial. John, there is a very serious matter to hand."
It had to be Winston. Had Mitsutomo disowned him? Was he being turned over to some kind of federal rehabilitation program? "Look, Mr. Bennett, I'm really sorry. It was, like, an accident. I didn't mean to hurt him."
"Hurt him?"
"Winston."
"Ah, the other student. That's not important." Bennett pulled a photograph out of his pocket and tossed it on the table. The false three-dimensional image showed a woman with long hair. "Ever seen her?"
John stared stupidly at the photograph. What was this? Bennett wasn't here about Winston? It was something else entirely. What was going on? Bennett had to ask again if John had ever seen the woman before he paid attention to the image in the pic.
"No."
"Are you sure?"
The intensity in Bennett's voice made John look up. The federal agent was staring at him. The ice in those gray eyes made John uneasy. "What did she do?"
"It's not so much what she has done as what she might do." Bennett gathered up his photograph and tossed a business card down to replace it. When John picked it up, he saw that there was nothing on the card but a number. "I would appreciate it if you would call me if you should happen to see this woman. Please feel free to call at any time."
Knowing that Bennett was not after him was strangely liberating. John felt light-headed, cocky. "What's this all about?"
"I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to discuss that."
" 'Not at liberty' seems to be your chorus. What can you discuss?"
Bennett ignored the question. "John, this is a very serious matter. I'd appreciate it if you would take it seriously. This woman is potentially dangerous. Call me if you see her." He slid out of the booth. "And don't try to do anything yourself."
Bennett walked out of the Frilly Cow, leaving John alone. The waitress, who had never bothered to come for the cop's order, stayed away as if John had been contaminated by Bennett's presence. John's head was full of questions.
Who was Bennett, and why had he come to John?
Bennett's looks had to be more than coincidence. John knew he had relatives on his father's side somewhere, even if his mother never talked about them much. He'd never met any of them. Whenever he'd asked his mother, she had always said it was too painful for her to spend time with them. John had accepted that answer. Sometimes it had been better to have a mysterious, dead father. One could always make up suitably heroic pasts for an unremembered father.
So Bennett might be a relative.
His mother had once said something about one of his relatives being some kind of cop. Just now, he couldn't recall which side of the family this cop was supposed to be on, but he remembered the reference. Sometimes people called special investigators "cops," as if they were ordinary policemen. Also he'd heard about federal agents claiming they were undercover detectives when they couldn't get away with the old "I work for the government" dodge. The special ones had to keep their real jobs quiet. Maybe Bennett was John's cousin, a special investigator on a secret federal mission, who had come to seek out a relative because there was no one else he could trust. Only John would be able to help him find this woman and save the country from some dire peril. Maybe she was a mole for the Sino-Asian Alliance, or maybe she was a connection for a Latin cartel.
This was exciting.
He wondered who the woman was and what she had done. Wait a minute: Bennett had said that what she might do was more important. John wondered who she was and what she was going to do.
This was better than a date.
Wasn't it?
He looked at the empty seat across from him.
It was better, wasn't it?
CHAPTER
5
The sign said that the Schmidt Institute was a Psychological Trauma Center, but Holger Kun knew better. He knew a nut house when he was in one. Better than most people. This place made the back of his neck itch. And the insides of his elbows. He suppressed the urge to scratch. Not good form, that. Made the orderlies notice. They knew. They knew.
The woman at the reception desk gave him directions to the research department. Having no desire to get lost, he followed them precisely, even though it meant waiting five minutes for the elevator. He could have burned off some of his nervous energy climbing the stairs, but she had said, "Take the elevator to seven." Explicit directions. He followed them.
The entry to the research department was secure. Holger buzzed and waited for the orderly inside the first door to open the lock. Once inside, he showed the man his pass. The man's mouth twitched and he spent an inordinate amount of time reading the pass. Finally he nodded and, using the controls at his desk, closed the outer doors. The inner doors wouldn't open until the outer panels were locked again. A decent enough system, though far better for keeping people in than out. But then, that's what this system was supposed to do.
A blast of chemical stink hit him when the inner doors opened. Underneath it, he could smell the vomit and the piss and all the other foul odors that went with these places.
"First left, then last door on the left," the orderly said just before the inner doors closed behind Holger.
Those doors wouldn't open again until the orderly gave them the command. Or until Holger did something about them. But there wouldn't be any need for that, would there?
The doors along the corridor were all fitted for security and observation. They had heavy locks with keypads, pass-through drawers, and peepholes to supplement the monitors set into the walls beside each frame. Holger avoided looking at the monitors.
The rooms were well insulated; he heard nothing save the sound of the air-conditioning equipment.
He took the turn. The door he was looking for would have been obvious even without the orderly's directions. It was the only one that was open.
The room was bigger than he expected, part of it out of his sight around a comer. There were several workstations scattered around, but only one was occupied. The woman seated there was middle-aged; her hair, cropped tight to her head, was more gray than brown. She wore no makeup to soften the lines of her face. From what he could see beneath the obligatory lab coat, she was well formed, if skinny. She matched the ident file perfectly.
His new boss.
Yeah, but he didn't have to like it. His request for transfer to another department had only gotten him an internal shift to Spae's team. A demotion, too, since he was Spae's team. The doctor was in no better odor with the big butts than he was. He knew why he was on their shitlist, but her file didn't show what she'd done to piss the bastards off. Spae had been one of the Department's first recruits. What had she done to fall from favor?
He stepped to the side of her chair.
"Dr. Spae?"
She made a noise without bothering to look up from the console she studied. After a moment, he decided that she probably had meant her noise as a confirmation that she had heard him. Self-important whitecoat.
"I'm Kun."
This time she looked up. She showed no sign of recognition.
"From the Department."
"Kun?" The light of understanding lit in her mismatched green and blue eyes. "Ah. The new bullyboy. Sit down. I'm working now, we'll push the papers later."
Holger found himself a place where he could keep an eye on both the door and the unseen portion of the room, pulled a chair over to his chosen spot, and sat. There wasn't much you could do with whitecoats. At least not when you were under orders to protect a
nd assist them.
A whitecoat rounded the corner from the other part of the room. The stethoscope around his neck said M.D., and old-fashioned to boot. The frown of annoyance on his bearded face was old-fashioned, too.
"What are you doing here? Let's see your authorization."
Holger just stared at him. They didn't like that.
The doc blustered up, armored in his importance. Holger let him blow. Well before he got on Holger's nerves, Spae noticed.
"It's all right, Kevin. He's Department."
"Oh," Kevin said.
Bright boy, the doc.
Naturally, it turned out that the doc had come to talk to Spae. About a patient named Lambe. Holger listened closely; Lambe was the sleeper they were supposed to be investigating. From the way Spae was talking to this Kevin, he knew almost as much about the Department as Holger did. Certainly more than Holger had known when he had requested transfer to the then newly formed Department M. Back then, all he'd known was that the Department was where all the hotshots in the European Community Special Services were headed. Supposed to be the fast track.
Fast track to hell.
He cut off the memories. This was no time to dredge them up. This place was too much like where he'd spent the last two years. Focus, he ordered himself. Focus on the current mission. There is nothing else.
Like hell.
Hell was where you lived when you died.
You and all your friends.
Friends die.
And go to hell.
Like hell!
Do you like hell, Mr. Kun? Is that why you stay there? No, Doctor. I hate hell. Very good, Mr. Kun. We're making progress.
On hell?
Like hell!
Focus! The mission! Nothing else!
He pictured his orders, grabbing for the memory as if it were a rope and he was in water over his head. He hated water. He didn't think much of his orders either.
Assignment: Dr. Elizabeth Spae, thaumaturgic theorist.
Holger Kun to assist as resource specialist and expediter.
And bullyboy.
That part was never in the orders.
But then, there was a lot that wasn't in the written orders. The Department was a covert group, which meant they put nothing in writing unless forced to. Paper trails made covering your ass more than usually difficult.
Robert Charrette - Arthur 01 - A Prince Among Men Page 6
