by Mark Lingane
"You need to face your fears," I said, coughing up smoke.
"Easier said than done."
I looked at her. She was someone I knew very little about. Down in the darkness, the skinny blond things had wanted to kill me, that was true, but only in a you're-in-the-way kind of way. They'd had a definite target in Angelina. Their anger had been intense, way beyond defense; it was revenge. There was no doubting the manic and hateful look in their eyes. I wondered what they knew that I didn't.
"Do you think anyone noticed, or can we sneak away without telling anyone? The cops are going to want a mountain of paperwork. Let's get out of here before people realize explosions aren't contagious."
She was right. The slowhands would stymie everything. We needed to flash the feet back to respectable streets. And I was thinking of the real respectable ones. I knew Angelina didn't want to believe someone would sell the rood, but I had to be sure.
We agreed that she would chase down potential collectors. She had big guns, a dark, scary outfit, and a demeanor that would get people responding. She agreed to call me at my office at sunset with any news. It gave us both a few hours to come up with something.
I was guessing that Levi was after the rood, since he'd killed Hugh for it and taken a shot at me. The Vinyl tallied up as his main hangout. With reality trying to make some sense of the current circumstances, he'd be using the rood like some hokum stick to spook his underlings into line. There was still some mileage left in the mob aspect, and it was worth chasing up. At least it gave me something real to sink my teeth into.
28
The Terrace was quiet. I recognized a few old faces, shady characters on the black market always looking for a deal. They nodded as I strode past, looking for an opening for a potential sale, a bribe, or general company in their loneliness. But I kept my head down and barged past them.
The usual vagrants that hung out in front of the Vinyl were missing. The place was eerily empty. Even the building itself sagged in some anthropomorphic way; the cool, brutal kid in school suddenly finding out he smelled bad and no amount of bullying was going to bring back the followers.
The side gate was open. The wind blew down the alley, scooping up leaves and tumbling them out onto the street. At the entrance I glanced back over my shoulder; the street suddenly seemed very empty. I made my way down the alley and into the strange, antiquated, cobbled courtyard, also deserted. The metal door was unlocked. I reached for the handle and pulled the door open. My fingers felt wet. I turned them over. They were red. The handle on the inside was the same, covered in blood.
The main room was quiet, empty, and neatly ordered. The stairwell was also quiet. I slowly crept down the staircase, unable to detect anything below. The gloom and quiet wrapped around me; all I could hear were my own footsteps and breathing.
At the base of the steps was the familiar crucifix room where I'd spent a joyful afternoon hanging around. The three crosses were still mounted against the wall. I wondered what the significance was of three crosses. Surely one would have been enough for the show. Maybe they were trying to form a band.
The gloom was intense. There was strange-smelling smoke in the air; a hint of fruit gone bad. I found the light switch and flicked it on. The lights flared then exploded, leaving me in complete dark while my eyes tried to recover from the brief intensity of light.
I went back up to the main chamber and grabbed two large candles. I scouted around and found a matchbox with two matches. The candles flared and I went back downstairs, now with dancing shadows jumping out at me as I descended.
There had been a meeting in the crucifix room. Tables had been arranged in a group, looking in one direction. A large book, call it a tome, lay open on the table at the front of the grouping. As I approached I became aware of something on the wall. I raised the candle. The light crept up the wall to reveal words: names written in chalk on the ancient brickwork. They were written in groups, with lines connecting some of the individual names. Some names I recognized as notable people in the government, or public figures. At the moment it didn't make much sense to me.
I turned back to the table and examined the book. There was a tag in one of the pages. On the cover was a leather patch with the letter A printed on it. That at least answered one question from the pawnbroker's shop. The book was so old the pages creaked as I turned them. I wasn't completely sure they were made of paper, and the feel of them made my skin crawl.
A genealogy tree, printed in red, covered the pages. I didn't recognize any of the names except for the last one: all the names were crossed off except for Angelina's. There were heavy dents and scratches next to her name, some almost like animal claws. They really didn't like her.
I caught a glint of light from the wall, something reflective at height. Scrawled in still-wet blood was the name Lucy. Who was Lucy? And why didn't she deserve a last name? She must've been pretty important; the letters on the wall were big and written in obvious anger, as though the person who wrote them was obsessed. You'd have to be concerned if you found a small room somewhere with press clippings and distant photographs of the mysterious Lucy.
Why was Lucy, whoever she was, important enough to have her name scrawled on the wall in this dungeon in front of a group of people? Maybe she was a suspect or the object of hate. Or maybe she was in a vocal group, but that was the domain of teenagers, and while most teenagers would have given their indifferent attitude for a bedroom like this, I doubted that was the answer. My guess was that Lucy was the enemy.
Then I noticed two other names on the wall, much smaller. Mina's was there. And mine, in the center of a circle with five points around it, punctuated by a big cross. It looked like they didn't like me either.
I turned my attention back to the book, flipping the leaves back to the first page. There was a long text, in what looked like Greek, printed in large, gothic lettering. Someone had typed up a translation on an old IBM typewriter, by the look of it, and placed it next to the page. And someone had added handwritten notes on top of the translation: There will be a new union, and the mixing of blood from two [something I couldn't make out] will release a new evolution. The chosen [above this was a scrawled "M" and "s"] in conjoined unification under the dark moon will bring forth the power. The channel will be open [the word "rood" appeared to one side] and whoever holds the channel will be the deity in the eyes of the evolution. And all shall kneel before him and do his bidding.
The problem with demented cults, and this one was pretty demented, was they often came up with elaborate stories that verged on fantasy just so they could get the dames. Power, wherever you looked at it, was the aphrodisiac that attracted the people who thought they needed the aphrodisiac in the first place. And it corrupted everything. I blamed marketing.
I took a step forward and my foot slipped. There was blood on the floor. The blood led to a body lying face down in the red pool. I turned him over to reveal Mr. Bird in a sharp grey suit. Italian styling. His dark hair was swept back off his forehead, held in place by a combination of hair product and bodily fluids. I flicked open his jacket and had a search. A thin wallet was secured, briefly, in a hidden pocket. I eased it out and clicked it open.
Before I had a chance to look more closely I heard a deep, disturbingly familiar growl behind me. I spun around. In the corner of the room were dark eyes staring out from the shadows. I didn't wait. I fled, slamming the door closed behind me. I leaned against it. On the other side I heard the scratching of claws against metal. The growling continued, rumbling through the door and deep into my bones.
I made my way out and back to the office to calm my nerves.
29
The phone rang, adding to my headache-making list of problems. At the end of the line Angelina careened between topics with her usual irrepressible energy. She'd come up with many people who were eager to buy the hoodoo stick, she told me, and others who would buy the gold records, their value rocketing after the discovery of Hugh's dead body. But no one was g
iving any clues about whether they'd seen the rood. She said she would continue checking and hung up.
I had a couple of contacts on the Terrace that I could shake down. I packed away the booze, dusted off some brass assistance, and got ready to lock the office.
There was a knock on the door. I begrudgingly allowed an entrance. The door creaked open and Laura looked in. My stomach twisted. I stumbled to my feet. She looked terrible. She was emaciated and barely had the energy to stand. I carefully helped her into the visitor's chair. I wondered why she was here, especially after recent events.
"I didn't think I'd see you," I said.
She coughed lightly. "That's a funny thought to have. I wanted to talk to you."
I prepared for the punch. It was inevitable. She wasn't a dime dame, and therefore was out of my league. I'd always known that anything she saw in me was going to be fleeting. I swallowed, and my heart sank into my boots.
"My nightmares have started again."
I blinked. This was unexpected. "About the dog?"
"The beast. And the pain's returned." She clutched at her chest and coughed again. Her breathing was shallow and her head fell forward. She was barely conscious. Then I remembered.
"How are you and Mina doing?"
She lifted her head, invisible strings reviving her as though she was an abandoned marionette puppet discovered by a teenager who enjoyed it momentarily before discarding it because of its low credibility factor.
"Oh, fine. She's so much fun, and it's been great to have her around while I've been bedridden. She makes me laugh so much, and her jokes are so rude. And sometimes after a few drinks, well, she gets very friendly." The strings went limp again and she sagged.
I tried to block out the images from my mind. They brought down a dark veil over my world. I couldn't understand why she was tormenting me.
"What's the matter? You don't look happy."
"It's nothing, a bad day," I replied.
She continued talking about Mina. "She sure is a night owl. She stays up most of the night, but she sleeps late, which suits me fine at the moment." She coughed again and her eyes went wide. "Oh, dizzy."
"Yeah, she loves the night all right."
"A funny thing happened yesterday. A funeral procession passed by, one of the traditional ones, and the followers were singing, 'Dropkick me, Jesus, through the goalposts of life.' And Mina got really angry. I'm not the best of singers, but the language she used to express her displeasure was pretty bad. I realized then that I didn't really know much about her. So when she was asleep"--she glanced over her shoulder and whispered--"I looked in her purse."
She fumbled in her bag, extracted a small piece of paper, and handed it over. "I found this."
It was a photograph. Really old. It made sepia look like the new kid on the block. It was a picture of Mina with some guy standing behind her. They were on a boat. I turned it over. There was nothing on the back. I flicked it over again and stared at Mina, lying on a deckchair on the deck of one of the super-steamers that had powered across the Atlantic in the old days. I tried to make out the lettering on the stack, but all I could see was TITA. The rest was blurred. I wondered why Mina looked the same in this photograph as she had yesterday.
"You said you hadn't met her before," Laura said, her voice a combination of police inquiry and hurt lover.
"Yeah," I muttered, pressing out the creases.
"Then why are you in the photograph?"
I blinked. I looked at the picture again. I hadn't even noticed the chump standing behind Mina. I looked at the chump. "It's not me. He's better looking."
"Have you looked in the mirror lately?"
"When the razor dictates."
"You shave? I assumed grooming was just the icing on the cake."
"It can't be her. Or me."
"It's you. It's her."
I shook my head. "It's probably her parents."
"I've asked her about her parents, in fact, heaps of questions about her past, but she refuses to talk about it. She says she lives for now. Carpe diem and all that."
"Carpe what?"
"'How much better it is to endure whatever will be! Whether Jupiter has allotted you many more winters or this one, which even now wears out the Tyrrhenian sea on the opposing rocks, is the final one be wise, be truthful, strain the wine, and scale back your long hopes to a short period. While we speak, envious time will have fled: seize the day, trusting as little as possible in the next day.'"
I stared at her. She was full of surprises.
"I went to a very good school." She coughed and lolled forward. She closed her eyes and swallowed.
"I always preferred 'Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,'" she went on, "but that's the kind of thing Mina would cover in innuendo." She was forcing her voice; it was becoming ragged and hoarse around the edges, barely more than a whiskey whisper. She opened her eyes and looked up at me through her thick eyelashes.
"Well, Mina seizes things all right." I gave her a smile.
"She sure does. I can't tell you what she did last night." She laughed, but it was quickly replaced by a violent cough. All color drained from her face.
"I'll get you some water." I stood up.
"I miss you," she said. "Everything's getting so confusing. And strange. Reality's mixing with my dreams and I can't work out what's true and what I'm imagining. I feel like darkness is creeping in over my world from the edges. I wish you would come ..." She collapsed forward onto the desk.
I picked her up. There was nothing of her. I laid her down on the stretcher and tried to think what to do. Her father was the best bet, but I had no idea of his number. I called Watcher, holding the phone in both hands. The woman who answered sounded concerned, but said he was unavailable. All I could do was carry her home in my arms.
I hailed a private diesel dimbox and laid her on the back seat. I climbed beside her and put her head in my lap. Diesel-cab man wasn't happy. With less than an ounce of concern for his fellow human being, he kicked us out when I indicated the turn for our destination, suspecting her to be on the verge of vomiting. He flat out refused to go one imperial inch farther. I held her in my arms and carried her to the apartment.
I kicked on the door. There was no answer. I placed her feet on the ground and reached down to slide the key out from under the pot. I shouted out once we were inside, but the apartment was silent. I called out for Mina. No response. I noticed signs of a struggle; a couple of things had been knocked over.
I laid her on the bed, which was unmade. I could smell Mina's perfume, which she must have poured over the pillows, as I placed them under Laura's head. Her forehead was on fire. She tossed from side to side, and I wondered if she was agitated by the scent. I went into the second bedroom. That bed was also unmade. Who slept in here? The pillows didn't smell of Mina, so I grabbed them and placed them under Laura's head. She calmed down under the neutral smell.
I looked through the medicine cabinet, but it was completely empty, stocked by Misses Hubbard. Nothing but a toothbrush remained. I went to the phone. It was dead. I needed a doctor. I searched for family contact numbers, or anything that gave a clue to outside connection. Nothing. Not even any photographs. I didn't believe she denied her family, even if the connection had been frosty. The other option was that they'd been removed.
I reached into my jacket for her purse; there had to be something in that. I didn't have it. I must've left it at the office. I could've slapped myself on the forehead. I didn't like the idea of the photograph just lying around, especially with my visits from the trashmen. I had to find a drugstore, pick up the photograph from my office, and come back with the cavalry.
I locked the front door, pocketed the key and ran down to the main street.
The man in the drugstore gave me a strange look when I described Laura's symptoms, but eventually he handed over some unnamed tablets after making me sit in the hearing-aid-beige chair for an interminably long time. I also picked up the photographs I'd taken in Li
mbo's foyer. I flicked through them. Most of the faces I didn't recognize, except for the last three.
I raced to my office, and as soon as I was through the door I spotted Laura's purse on the desktop. There was a scuffling at the door. I turned around. A middle-aged man glanced through the open doorway.
"I'm just leaving," I said.
He stepped into the office. He looked nervous; his eyes were dancing around the room, and his hands were wringing his hat nervously.
"I know you," I said.
His hair was still grey. He drew his hand, which was shaking, over his thick strands, but he stood tall. He had the look of a man who had seen a lot of bad things. It was like looking in a mirror, except I had better hair.
"You were the dancing man at the Stylus."
The Stylus was an age ago. In many ways I wished it was two days ago, or even a week ago, when I was about to get thrown out of the office.
"I'm sorry for that display," the man said. "Grief got the better of me. I'm Derek Mitchell." He looked around nervously, dusted off the chair with his hat and sat down in the visitor's chair.
Apparently my message hadn't gotten through. I sighed. I sat down and scanned his body. My guess was he was an ex-service guy, once as stiff as his excessively starched and pressed uniform but now directionless, and conflicted by an inner discomfort about being outside of the system and inflicting it on his child--except he'd said his daughter had been killed.
"I'll tell you the story," he said.
"Make it quick. Give me the headlines."
"I retired recently. I was planning on moving down here to live closer to some friends--some old buddies from the force."
I gave him a nod and pretended to make notes.
"My daughter was looking forward to it especially. We've been moving around for years; every three years I get a new posting. You don't get much chance to make friends like that, and it's important for children to have a sense of belonging. It created conflict between us and we hadn't really spoken in recent years. I had hoped our move down here would bring us together."
