What it came down to was, who did I believe? The Brotherhood's receptionist or a troll ganger? At the moment it was a toss-up. So the first thing to do was track down Fitz.
No, the very first thing was to eliminate the possibility of an innocent error. I found a public phone booth, stuck chewing gum over the video pickup, and called the Brotherhood again.
I got another receptionist, this one dark-haired and dark-skinned, but with the same flashing smile.
"Thank you for calling the Universal Brotherhood," she said, echoing the party line. "How may I help you?"
I smiled back. "Can you tell me the name of the person in charge of your free clinic?"
"Why, sure," she replied. "That would be Dr. Phyllis Dempsey. She just replaced Dr. Boris Chernekhov, and-"
"Could I speak to Dr. Dempsey, please?" I said. She hesitated. "May I ask what this is in reference to?"
I shook my head. "Sorry, it's personal."
"I am very sorry," she said, "but I'm afraid it's against policy to transfer personal calls. I can connect you to Dr. Dempsey's voice-mail system and you can leave a message."
"I'll just leave a message with you," I told her. "Tell Phyllis that my wife found out, and the drek really hit the fan . . ."
The receptionist's eyes opened wide. "I... I'll c... connect you right away," she stuttered. "Hold a moment." She left me grinning at the same recorded sales pitch for the Brotherhood. I'd read about that gambit in one of the hard-boiled detective stories Patrick Bambra had loaned me years ago. It's good to know that some things never change.
Dr. Phyllis Dempsey wasn't long coming onto the line. She was a statuesque black elf, with tightly curled hair cut into a businesslike flattop. She had a full, mobile mouth that looked as though it would smile easily, but right now her lips formed a flat line and her chestnut eyes sparked with anger. "All right," she snapped, "you've played your little game with Glory, and probably started some gossip-which I don't need.
So you can just tell me why the frag I shouldn't have Lone Star trace your nasty ass for phone intimidation."
I had to grin. Good, honest anger was refreshing, even though it was directed at me. I was thinking that under different circumstances I could get to like Phyllis Dempsey. "I'm sorry for the subterfuge, Doctor," I said placatingly. "It was a cheap trick. But I really needed to speak to you. Live, not just by message." I had my momentum up and kept on rolling, right over her attempt to reply. "I got a phone call this morning that something happened to my sister and that a friend delivered her to your clinic."
The hard line of the doctor's mouth softened incrementally. "You called earlier, didn't you?" she said.
"Candy said some doting brother was asking about a nonexistent patient."
"I thought it might be a mistake," I told her. "File fr... screw-ups happen, even in the best of organizations."
That raised a minimal smile. "Yes," she agreed, "file frag-ups do occur. But I can promise you, not this time. I've been here since midnight last night-thank god I'm back on regular evenings starting tomorrow.
Plus, I checked the oh-four-hundred shift report. So I can personally vouch for the fact that we've admitted nobody new. Rare, but there it is."
I sighed. "Thanks, doctor," I said. "I believe you."
A real smile now, tired but sincere. She was silent for a moment. "If what you say is true, I can imagine what you must be going through and I honestly hope you find your sister." Then her voice and face hardened again. "And if you're some kind of scam artist, I hope you get geeked in an alley." The screen went blank.
I chuckled as I continued my stroll along Twenty-third. I always claimed to like women with strong personalities, with fire. Phyllis Dempsey definitely qualified. I made a mental note to track her down when this was all over- if I lived that long.
But aside from all that, where did her story leave me? If I believed the good doctor-and I did-then it led me right back to Fitz the Night Prowler. So it was back to the same business as before-talk to everyone, being as loose with my credit as I could, but this time with the focus on the troll. It wasn't so easy this time because I didn't want Pud to find out I was tracking Fitz, or worse yet, run into the young ork while I was nosing about. We'd parted on friendly enough terms. But dogging his chummer's tracks wasn't a particularly friendly thing to do, and three red-eyes-even with egg-don't buy as much good will as they used to.
I spent the morning walking the streets of the Wild-wood Park district of Puyallup. Lots of leads-a three-meter-tall troll with an Iroquois and an attitude isn't easy to overlook or forget-but none led anywhere useful. During my wanderings, I saw Pud a couple of times, but he was always alone and, luckily, he didn't see me. (In fact, I got the idea that he was as interested as I was in locating his big chummer.)
It was almost 1400 when I discovered I had a shadow. Maybe I'd have spotted her sooner if I hadn't been so tired, maybe not. She was a young ork, probably in her early teens, which meant she had the physical development of a twenty-year-old human-a big twenty-year-old human. I'd never seen her before, but I did recognize the meaning of her brightly dyed crest of hair and the fake leopard skin collar on her bike jacket. Why was a Night Prowler trailing me?
I watched her for a few minutes, never letting on I'd spotted her. For an amateur, she was a good shadow. Seemed to have a natural talent for it. I remembered the Surveillance Tradecraft instructor I'd suffered under at the Star. He'd have killed for a student like this girl.
Of course, that still didn't answer the question of why she was watching me. I mentally reviewed my conversation with Pud once more, and finished even more convinced that he'd told me what he believed was the truth. This shadow, then . . . Did it mean there were different factions within the Night Prowlers?
Not unheard of. Gangs breed politics and infighting almost as much as do corporations. Still not letting on I'd spotted the tail, I continued westbound on Twenty-third, all the while considering my options.
I think it was memories of Dr. Dempsey's directness that made up my mind for me. All right, then.
The straightforward approach it would be.
Feigning an intense interest in a window display of Fiberwear clothing ("The Future is Disposable"), I casually scanned the street up ahead. Maybe twenty-five meters in front of me was the entrance to a commercial alley, flanked by two tall buildings. Perfect. I picked up my pace a little. Not enough to appear suspicious, but sufficiently to extend the distance between me and the ork girl. My plan was simplicity itself: duck into the alley and find cover, luring my shadow in after me. Then I'd take her-non-violently if possible, and definitely non-lethally-and play a quick game of twenty questions.
The alley was ten meters away, then five, then ... I darted around the corner, flattened myself against the wall. I took in the alley with a quick glance. Couldn't have been better, a dead end with a dumpster and piles of drek. Long enough that I could be confident of no interference from the street, and with no way out other than the street. Perfect. I trotted further in, looking for a good spot to hide.
Movement up ahead. I guess my mind was operating in "combat mode." Out the corner of my eye I saw something move in a pile of trash, and without thinking I spun to the side. The report of the heavy pistol and the spang of the round ricocheting off the alley wall were simultaneous. An ambush. I should, by all rights, be dead, but somebody was either clumsy or impatient. I dragged out my Manhunter and sent a slug down the alley, more to keep my would-be assassin's head down than with any hope of hitting anything.
Then I turned and bolted. Gunfire erupted from behind me-more than one barrel, that was for sure-and lethal wasps buzzed past my ears.
I sprinted out of the alley, taking a hard left back onto Twenty-third. I looked over my shoulder as I ran. Pursuit hadn't emerged from the alley yet, but my original shadow-little miss ork-was legging it my way, brandishing a hogleg as long as her arm. Without slowing, I half-turned and slammed a bullet into the parked car beside her. She shriek
ed and flung herself into the cover of said punctured car. That's when I heard the heavy, booted running footsteps of my ambushers echoing out of the alley. Thank god, should she exist, that the Prowlers were mainly a thrill-gang. If they'd been a go-gang, I'd have had to contend with bikes as well as guns.
Of course, it doesn't pay to overgeneralize, the scream of a high-revving engine reminded me of that. I couldn't see the bike yet, but I knew it was coming. Okay, change in tactics. A few moments before, the sidewalks were fairly busy when I'd ducked into the alley. Now? Deserted, chummer. It seems the people of Puyallup rival Barrens-dwellers in their ability to pull the quick fade. With no mobile cover-read "pedestrians"-off the street was better. Another alley, maybe?
No, up ahead was something even better. It used to be a bike dealership, but like many establishments it had succumbed to the negative effects of an economic downturn and all that drek. An up-and-over door, no doubt leading to the workbays, a single human-sized door for customers, and a small, painted-over display window. I flung myself through that window arms up to protect my head and face, already tucked for a rolling recovery. The glass shattered into a million fragments. I landed on my shoulder, the momentum taking me into a graceful roll that brought me up into a squat. It would have been perfect except for the service desk that I butted into with a mighty lick, splitting open my forehead and exploding a bunch of fireworks behind my eyelids. I forced back the darkness that wanted to take me, and struggling to my feet, made my weaving way into the darkened service-bay area.
I looked around me, the last firework stars still drifting through my vision. The place was perfect: dark, with a high ceiling, and only two doors. One to the service counter (with the forehead-shaped dent in it), the other presumably to the back alley. I considered simply bolting out the back right now, but I couldn't be sure more Prowlers weren't waiting out that way. Besides, if I hung tough here and played it right, I might still get my game of twenty questions . . .
I picked my position carefully, behind one of the big metal posts that supported the ceiling crane that hung overhead. I squatted down, switching my attention and my aiming point between the two doors. After my experience in Westlake Center, nobody was going to sneak up behind me again.
Hushed voices from the front of the shop, broken glass grinding under boots. I steadied my gun against the pillar, at the last moment remembering to turn off my sighting laser. For this range, open sights should be good enough, and the laser would give away my position in the dark.
A small figure darted into the doorway, perfectly back-lit so he looked like a pistol-range silhouette target. I brushed the Manhunter's reactive trigger twice. The heavy slugs slammed into the center of the figure's chest, probably right into his body armor. That was fine, I wasn't after fatalities here. The figure stumbled back and disappeared. Another figure, another two shots, and the doorway was clear again. Time to change positions. I triggered another four rounds, this time pumping them through the thin walls on either side of the door. Confusion was what I wanted, and judging by the yells and curses, confusion is what I got.
I darted across the open space and squatted down behind another pillar, closer to the back door.
There were lots of shushing sounds from the service area, then nothing. In the sudden silence I heard a faint, metallic creaking.
Above me. I looked up. It was little miss ork, crawling along one of the rails that mounted the crane to the ceiling. Needing both hands to keep her on the rail, she had her gun clenched between her teeth. Jesus, she's a wraith, I thought. The amateur tradecraft on the street had been all a put-on. This was what she could really do. She'd somehow sneaked into the building, and climbed up there-again, somehow- and was getting into perfect position to put a round down through the top of my cranium. Eat that, body armor.
My pistol came up instinctively, leveled at the bridge of her nose. Our gazes locked, and I saw her eyes grow wide. There was no way she could get to her gun in time, and she knew it. I saw the realization of inescapable death burst into her consciousness.
Of course I couldn't pull the trigger. I spun aside, took two running steps toward the back door. Four heavy rounds followed by my boot slammed into the lock, and the door burst open. I sprinted through and into the alley. If there'd been any Prowlers there, I'd have been meat. I was expecting some kind of impact as I turned left and took off down the alley. Another alleyway-no, more a narrow accessway-opened to my right. I took it without thinking. There was a wall ahead, a rusted ladder bolted to it. I went up that ladder like I had a rocket pack.
I was on the roof of a low building, the expanse broken only by an elevator block and a couple of small, cylindrical ventilators. I stopped for a moment to get my bearings. Seventeenth Street. That meant my car should be that way. I turned to my right and jogged across the roof. I'd just passed the first of the ventilators when a figure stepped out from behind the elevator block. It was Pud the Prowler, a cold expression on his face and a Beretta 200ST in his fist. Its muzzle was steady, point of aim apparently my upper lip. I turned to ice. The Manhunter was back in my holster. I'd never have managed the ladder without two hands free. And not a chance I could draw it before Pud squeezed the trigger. (The irony in the similarity of my position with little miss ork's wasn't lost on me, I just wasn't in the mood to appreciate it.)
"Tell me one thing," Pud said quietly. "Why'd you do it?"
Slowly-very slowly-I extended my open hands at waist level. "If I knew what you were talking about, I might have an answer for you," I told him.
"Why did you kill Fitz?" he demanded. "He was my chummer." Tears glistened in the ork's eyes, and I knocked half a decade off my estimate of his age. Young or not, the gun was rock-steady, and his finger was tense on the trigger. Another few grams of pressure and that'd be it.
"I'm sorry," I said, trying to pour sincerity into my voice. "I didn't even know he was dead."
"Yeah, right," Pud spat out. "The other Prowlers say you've been looking for Fitz all day. Looks like you found him, huh?"
I started to feel a little hope. Pud's gun hadn't moved a millimeter, but the fact that he hadn't pulled the trigger yet was something. I remembered how much faster orks reach physical maturity. Pud looked to be in his early twenties, but he was probably only fifteen or so. He'd probably never geeked anyone before, or if he had, only in the heat of a rumble. Shooting me down in cold blood was different. Was he hoping I'd talk him out of it? With my peripheral vision I checked out my options. The cylindrical ventilator was close, but it wouldn't offer me more than a moment's cover. If I wanted to live, I had to talk fast. And no bulldrek, the truth and nothing but, hoping Pud could tell the difference.
"I was looking for Fitz, yes," I told him calmly. "Like I was looking for you earlier. I wanted to talk to him."
"About your sister?" he snarled. "That doesn't scan. Go to all that trouble just to say thanks?"
"No," I took a deep breath and took a risk. "I lied to you. The Brotherhood clinic says my sister never arrived. I want to find out what happened. That's why I'm looking for Fitz." I paused, gave him a moment to think. "What happened to your friend?" I asked.
For the first time the gun trembled a little. "Got his throat ripped out," Pud said harshly, "over in the park. The other Prowlers, they heard you been looking for Fitz, they think you did it."
"But you don't," I said softly. "If I'd geeked him, why would I still be looking? That's what I was doing when they tried to dry-gulch me."
Pud shook his head, hard. "I-don't know," he almost cried. "You're confusing me."
"I just wanted to find Teri," I pressed. "I just wanted to find my sister."
Pud snarled. The gun barrel shifted, and he clamped down on the trigger. The little autofire pistol spat, the bullets shredding the construction plastic of the ventilator beside me. Fragments lacerated my cheek and my hands, but I didn't move. The Beretta clicked empty, and Pud glared into my face.
"Get the frag out of here," he hissed.
<
br /> I got.
Chapter 13.
I managed to hold it together until I got to my car, and then I got the shakes. Close calls, too many and too close. Just a few seconds difference in the timing and little miss ork would have drilled an extra set of nostrils into the top of my head. And if Pud had been a tad more hard- assed, he'd have emptied his Beretta clip into my face. I was getting too old for this drek.
As I cruised home, the question on my mind was, of course, who killed Fitz? It wasn't me, and I didn't think it was Pud-or was it? Now there was a paranoid thought, but it still didn't narrow it down much. And that led to the next question: was the troll's death connected with Theresa's disappearance? Maybe Fitz hadn't taken her to the Brotherhood clinic after all, and somebody had offed him to make sure her true destination never came to light. The questions seemed only to create more murk and shadows.
It was a relief to return to the familiarity of my own front door. The beeping of the telecom greeted me as I stepped in. I dashed over to it, almost punting an empty whiskey bottle through the window in my haste. I hit the Receive key. "Hello," I gasped.
A wizened face appeared on the screen. "About fragging time," Buddy grumbled.
I sat down at the telecom and keyed on my video pickup, "Thanks for calling back, Buddy," I said.
"Got anything?"
She looked pained at my lack of faith. "Course I got something," she snapped. "I got you a line on Crash-cart. Want the file?"
"In a minute," I told her. "Just give me the highlights."
Buddy scowled. "Scan the file, then ask questions." Her image disappeared, and the screen filled with text. I scrambled to open a capture file and store the incoming data.
There wasn't that much to it. Either Buddy hadn't managed to find much, or else she'd edited it down to show only the important drek. (That worried me a little. Who could be sure from one day to the next just what Buddy was going to consider important?) But I couldn't do anything about that now, so I started reading.
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