by DD Barant
A set of headlights appears in the distance. An eighteen-wheeler, shifting gears as it approaches, slowing down.
“Showtime,” Charlie says.
EIGHTEEN
As the truck passes under the bridge, the two thropes drop down onto it. I can hear the double thump from where I’m sitting a block away. One of the thropes is already scrambling over to the cab when we pull in behind them, Charlie at the wheel.
Two large Agency SUVs pull across the road in front of the truck, blocking it in. Red and blue lights flare into brilliance and two enforcement lems step onto the pavement, arms cocked to hurl six-foot steel javelins through tires or even the engine block.
The truck screeches to a halt. Charlie and I are out of the car in seconds. The thrope on top of the cab freezes, caught red-pawed, but the one still on the freight box tries to make a run for it, leaping toward the rear—and landing directly in front of Charlie.
Charlie lifts one hand to shoulder level. Shows the thrope the shiny silver-coated ball bearing he holds, rolling it slowly around with his thumb and middle finger. Smiles.
“If you run now,” Charlie says, “you won’t run later. Or ever again.”
The thrope reverts to human form, going from hairy predator to a skinny barefoot guy wearing baggy pants and no shirt in seconds. “Hey, this is all a misunderstanding,” he says. He’s got a wise-guy accent—how about that.
“Yeah, yeah,” I say. “That’s me, little Miss Understanding. And what you need to understand is that you’re under arrest. Get down on the ground with your hands behind your neck.”
I walk around to the front of the truck while Charlie cuffs him. The other guy has also decided to be reasonable and has climbed down from the cab, standing in the glare of the truck’s headlights with his hands in the air in fully human form. He’s wearing baggy cargo shorts with oversize pockets and a warded bandolier, loaded with wooden stakes and silver-edged throwing knives. He looks Latino, with short-cut black hair and a thin mustache. His bare chest has more scars than you usually see on a thrope, too.
He doesn’t seem particularly upset at being arrested, staring straight ahead. His eyes have that dead look that means he’s disconnected himself from the situation, a trait shared by psychopaths and professional soldiers.
He smells out of place. Foreign. What I’m picking up is probably the result of a different diet from a different culture, suggesting he hasn’t been in the country long. But there’s more to it than that.
He also smells dangerous.
I don’t really know how else to describe it. It’s something pheromonal that makes the hair on the back of my neck literally stand up. This guy is a killer, about as far from a guy who boosts trucks as a major-league pitcher is from a kid in a sandlot. He doesn’t belong here, not by a long shot.
“What’s your name?” I ask him.
No answer. His eyes flicker toward me, then back, just enough of a response to acknowledge he’s aware of my presence. Nothing else. I try again, and this time I might as well be talking to the truck.
We take the thropes into custody, and when they’ve been taken away we lock up the driver, too. He looks as frightened as a ten-year-old caught shoplifting, and I know he must be much younger than that. We’ve got to take him in; he’s the weak link, the one most likely to talk.
But I hate myself for doing it.
The lem’s name is Billy Beta. He’s the sandy color typical of most lems, but under the harsh glare of the fluorescents in the interrogation room it’s almost white. He sits in a chair bolted to the floor, hands in his lap, eyes downcast. He looks vaguely ashamed, like a dog that’s made a mess on the carpet.
I interview him alone. I start by sitting across the table from him, looking through some papers, not talking. Most people, that’ll amp up their antsiness, make them fidget. Lems, of course, are different; they tend to be naturally still, so all Billy does is sit there like a rock.
But I can see the worry in his eyes. And after a few minutes he says, “Can I go home now?”
“No.” I pretend to study some more documents. Billy, of course, has no documentation; about the only pieces of paper connecting him to the rest of the world are two forged pieces of ID—union card and driver’s license—and the company-issued credit card they gave him for gas. But he isn’t necessarily educated enough to even realize he needs anything else.
Lems don’t have a childhood, as such. They come into the world fully formed, able to walk and talk and think. They don’t know anything about the world around them, but they learn fast. It takes them around two weeks to pick up the basics of civilization, including language—but that’s usually two weeks spent doing intensive training in everything from object identification to behavior protocols. Illegal lems are lucky if their creators park them in front of a television and slip in a Sesame Street DVD.
What Billy has been taught to do is lie.
“Did I do something wrong?” he asks. He doesn’t sound like a kid; he sounds like a slightly apologetic, raspy-voiced man in his mid-thirties. I wonder what animal was used to animate him; my files say illegal lem operations often use medium-size animals like sheep or goats.
“Yes, Billy, you did.” I give him a long, cold look. “You got caught.”
“I’m just a truck driver,” he says. I’m sure they made him rehearse that one. He says it again, for emphasis. “I’m just a truck driver.”
I’m also sure his creators have hammered home the penalty for being an illegal lem. Billy may not be educated, but that doesn’t mean he’s stupid; his survival instincts are just as strong as any living being. He’s about as close to a true innocent as I’m going to find outside a nursery, and if I do my job the way I’m supposed to he’ll be thrown away like a defective appliance.
“Here’s the way things are,” I say abruptly, putting down my stage dressing. “Your bosses lied to you. They told you that all you had to do was drive the truck, slow down when you got to the overpass, and not resist when the two thropes stole the truck. They told you not to talk to anyone unless you had to. They told you they were the only ones you could trust. But they lied.”
He looks at me, opens his mouth, then shuts it again. His jaw clenches. Yeah, I’m leaning toward goat. Or if I’m really unlucky, mule.
“But here’s the thing. They don’t give a damn about you. You’re just a tool to them, and when they’re done with you they’ll—” I stop. When they’re done with you they’ll sell you, whereas when we’re done with you, we’ll destroy you.
I take a deep breath, let it out, then go on. “It’s your bosses I’m interested in. The ones who told you what to do, what to say.”
“I know what a boss is.”
“No, you don’t. You know what an owner is. All a boss can do is fire you—an owner can do whatever he wants.”
“Like kill me?”
“We won’t let that happen.”
“So you own me now?” He’s not being sarcastic. It’s an honest question.
“No. Listen to me, Billy. Listen to me very carefully, okay?” I put as much sincerity as I can into my voice, and he reluctantly nods. “You don’t belong to anyone. You’re a truck driver. You live on your own, at the address on your driver’s license. You work for a company called Reliable Trucking. Right?”
So far, he’s with me. “Yes. I just drive the truck.”
“But the people who own the trucking company are criminals. They tried to get you to break the law. They threatened you. So you did exactly what you were supposed to. You did what a regular citizen would do.”
“I did?”
“Yes. A regular citizen would report the crime to the police. The police would arrest the criminals and take them to jail, where they would never bother regular citizens again. All the regular citizens would be safe.”
He thinks about that. “Safe,” he says. “No more … bosses. But—” He looks troubled. “No more bosses, no more truck. And I—”
“—drive the t
ruck, I know. There are a lot more trucks in the world, Billy. Reliable Trucking doesn’t own them all. You’ll be able to get another job, and a better place to stay.” Because, of course, the address on his license is bogus.
“I’m not sure,” he says. “That sounds … good. But I’m not like you—I don’t know all these things you do. I wouldn’t know how—”
“That’s okay. I have a friend who can help. He’ll get you into a safe house, make sure you’re protected. All you have to do is tell him what you know about your former bosses.”
I stand up and open the door. Charlie walks in. “Hey, kid,” he says. “You all right?”
“Yes.”
As I step past Charlie into the hall, he whispers, “I thought you were supposed to play the Bad Cop. What are you gonna do now, bake him some cookies?”
“Thought I’d go find some puppies to kick. Also, shut up.”
I close the door softly behind me.
He talks to Charlie for a long time. I spend it grilling one of the thropes, the guy with the Jersey accent who tried to bolt. Unsurprisingly, he has nothing to say and demands a lawyer. I keep at it for a while, but he’s Mafia to his greasy core, and even facing a ten-year stint in Stanhope doesn’t faze him.
I’ve been saving the Latino thrope for last. Letting his paranoia stew for a while, wondering what I’m getting from the other guy. When I finally walk into the interview room, we’ve had him for a couple of hours.
He’s manacled to the table, but he still manages to look like he’s lounging, legs crossed in front of him, body language relaxed. So much for making him nervous. He gives me a slight smile when I sit down.
“Well,” I say. “You’re something of a mystery, aren’t you?”
He meets my eyes, but there’s no confrontation in them. Mild curiosity, no more.
“No ID, no prints in the system. Do you even speak English?”
No response.
“Of course, that doesn’t mean we don’t know who you are. What your friend is saying more than makes up for what you aren’t.”
His smile gets a little wider. He knows I’m bluffing.
“He’s impressed, that’s for sure. But then, he’s an amateur compared with you. Hell, even I’m a little impressed.”
The smile shrinks. It’s not much of a victory, but I’ll take what I can get.
“But only a little. You ex-military types are all the same. Think you’re death on two legs because you’ve had some training and seen some action. Big deal. Anyone can be tough when they’ve got a whole army behind them.”
It’s a calculated insult, and it hits home. His eyes get flatter, his smile disappears entirely. Pack loyalty is part of a thrope’s genetic makeup; add battlefield camaraderie to that and you’ve got a big, shiny button with PUSH ME written on it projecting from his forehead.
But I only get to push it once, because right then the door opens and a well-dressed pire steps in. I can smell the lawyer coming off him from across the room. His suit is the deep, smooth black of money with no conscience, and his eyes are about the same. I guess you could call him handsome, if evil were your thing.
“Special Agent Valchek? I’m Mr. Ortega’s legal counsel. Here’s the necessary forms.” He tosses a few sheets of paper down on the table in front of me. “If you’d be so kind as to free my client?”
I pick up the documents and examine them. My prisoner’s name is apparently José Ortega, and according to what I’m reading he’s to be released immediately. He’s a Panamanian national on a diplomatic visa—that’s all the information I can glean.
“Hold on,” I say. “He’s under arrest for armed robbery, and is a suspect in an ongoing investigation into organized crime. You can’t just traipse in here and hand him a get-out-of-jail-free card—”
The lawyer pulls out and displays a professional smile. “I’m afraid I don’t traipse, Special Agent Valchek. And I don’t mind waiting while you verify my paperwork.”
“I’ll do that,” I snap, and stalk out of the room.
But I’m just dragging my feet, and he knows it. Twenty minutes later Ortega is free, and I’m in Cassius’s office demanding to know what the hell is going on.
“It’s out of my hands,” Cassius says. “Political pressure from over my head. Whatever connections Ortega has, they run deep.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I fume. “Since when does the Mafia have enough clout to jerk around the National Security Agency?”
“Since someone in Washington doesn’t want Panama angry at us. Someone who probably owes somebody else a favor. This is politics, Jace; the Gray Wolves are masters at cutting deals and collecting favors, and they just called one in. It happens. The question is, why is this one thrope so important?”
“I don’t know. But I’m going to find out.”
I meet with Charlie in the break room. He gives me the rundown on what Billy Beta told him.
“It’s like this. He’s six, maybe seven weeks old. Knows enough to get around in public without drawing attention to himself, answer a few basic questions. Mainly, he knows about driving a truck.”
“Yeah, I got that.”
“But the thing is, a new lem is like an information sponge. They soak up everything around them really quick and don’t forget any of it. They can tell you all kinds of stuff, you just have to know the right questions to ask.”
“Oh, the right questions. Silly me, I had this whole list of left questions I was going to bombard him with.”
“Turns out they were using him as a driver on more than just the one run. Most of the time, he was hauling meat in reefer trucks from a meatpacking plant out in Bellingham.”
“Yeah? To where?”
“Restaurants, mostly. Including the one our friend Phil Ulzano got whacked in.”
I nod. “Makes sense. They’ve got the workers, might as well put them to work. Probably get higher prices for experienced lems when they sell them off.”
“Now, here’s the really interesting part. He also made regular runs to the city morgue.”
That one stops me short. “The morgue? What the hell for? Jesus, have we stumbled onto some kind of cannibalism ring, too?”
Charlie shakes his head. “I don’t think so. Pire corpses aren’t edible, they mostly just instantly rot or turn to dust. Thrope flesh would be instantly identifiable to another thrope—no way you could slip it into a dish without them knowing.”
“Sure, but what if that’s what they were paying for? That biker gang we dealt with in Alaska were known to eat other thropes.”
“Yeah, but those were zerkers. Half beast, half drug addict, all outlaw. You can’t compare them to ordinary thropes.”
I shrug. “Hey, a few days ago I didn’t know there were thropes willing to eat hamsters. And now—” Now I’ve developed a craving for deep-fried kangaroo, so anything seems possible.
“Nah, I really doubt it. I know you organic types like to consume all sorts of bizarre flesh products, but cannibalism is really rare. Goes against pack instincts, or so I’m told.”
“So why the visits to the morgue?”
It’s Charlie’s turn to shrug. “Beta said he was dropping crates off, not picking them up. Maybe somebody wanted to give their side of beef a decent burial.”
I pause. “Wait. That almost makes sense. A lot of lems are animated by the life force of cattle, right?”
“Sure. Meat goes to the marketplace, soul goes to the lem factory.”
“So why aren’t lem factories all right next to slaughter-houses?”
“Because they don’t have to be. Biothaumaturges collect the life force and store it in temporary containers before transporting it to the factory. Tricky process, though—that’s why skilled lem activators are in such high demand.”
“Maybe Beta wasn’t delivering meat to the morgue—they already have plenty of that. Maybe he was delivering lem juice.”
Charlie considers that. “And then it goes from the morgue to the lem factor
y? They have to be getting the stuff from somewhere.”
“Yeah, and what better place than a choose-your-own-live-entrée restaurant? Siphon off the life force, serve up the carcass, ship the extract to the factory.”
“But why via the morgue?” Charlie asks.
“I don’t know. Equipment, maybe? Good cover for hauling dead things around in crates? Or maybe they just needed another cutout between the two points, like the Mix and Match club for the prostitution ring. Muddy the water in case they’re busted.”
Charlie tilts his fedora back on his head, something he does when he’s thinking hard. “Or maybe they just didn’t want a lem driver knowing the whereabouts of a lem-production facility. Old habits, right?”
Right. Lems being able to reproduce is the big bugaboo of thropes and pires alike, some kind of atavistic fear of an unstoppable tide of sandy Frankensteins avalanching over the whole world. And considering that not too long ago Charlie and I prevented an evil shaman from using lems to do pretty much that, I can’t say their paranoia is entirely unfounded.
I finish my coffee and get to my feet. “Come on. I think it’s time we paid a visit to the city morgue.”
If there’s one thing I know about Tair, it’s that he never does anything without his own interests firmly in mind.
So while it might seem like I’m constantly haring off on tangents instead of chasing my primary target, what I’m doing is perfectly logical. I’m following the money. Tair just isn’t wired to sign up for a doomed cause; if he’s helping the Don run around town killing people, he has very good—and no doubt profitable—reasons for doing so. So far I’ve uncovered the outlines of a pretty massive operation, one that ranges from international pire trafficking to hijacking to illegal lem production, all of it linked. What I haven’t figured out is how Tair thinks he’ll come out ahead in this; all he’s done so far is to piss off the largest organized crime syndicate in the country and get the NSA hunting him. A lot of money is no doubt changing hands, but I can’t see how Tair is planning on getting his paws on any of it.
