Phoebe Harkness Omnibus

by James Fahy

  Doctor H. Bolton – Criminal Psychologist, as the overlaid title at the base of the screen proclaimed her, had the placid sympathetic face of analysts everywhere. “Clearly we are all saddened by this shock event,” she said to camera. “Our city has lost one of its most powerful guiding lights, and in such a senseless, unprovoked way, on a night which was intended as one of celebration. So sad. But the real question we must ask is: what would drive a man to such a killing? Sadly due to his own death at the scene, we will never be able to ask what Mr Spencer’s motivations were. We may never know. But it raises important questions, about work stress, about proper staff screening, and about the pressures and mental effects of living in a walled city.”

  The screen cut back to Merriweather. “The question on everyone’s lips, following the death of Marlin Scott, is how will Oscar Scott, heir to his father’s business empire, cope with filling the great man’s shoes?” Images of Oscar faded in and out behind Merriweather as she spoke to camera. They were mainly paparazzi shots showing Oscar getting in and out of limos at various parties, usually with some interchangeable girl or guy hanging on his arm. In several of them, he looked unflatteringly tipsy.

  “Some critics have cast doubts at the troubled socialite’s suitability to take over the full running of Scott Enterprises, and many high profile investors are calling for a board of trustees to be formed, although at this time, there has been no official word from Scott Enterprises themselves with regard to Oscar Scott’s future involvement. He himself he has remained behind closed doors and unavailable for press comment since his father’s death. A statement released to general press the day following the assassination requested that the family be given time and privacy in which to mourn.”

  I stared up at the screen. Marlin was dead. I really had killed him. And Oscar was the new king it seemed. And most surprisingly, nobody thought it had been me. The security guard had taken the fall. Surely someone must have seen me shoot the mad old bastard? Why was guard taking the fall?

  “Joining us here in the studio today is Cabal spokesperson, Veronica Cloves,” Merriweather said chirpily. My attention snapped back to the screen. The camera angle had changed, and now revealed Cloves, sitting relaxed in a leather swivel chair opposite Merriweather. She was wearing a peach satin blouse with a billowing cowl neck, her bob of hair feathered and her makeup done in flawless fawns. She was smiling sweetly at Merriweather, exuding Judy Garland vibes.

  “Always a pleasure, Poppy,” Cloves said.

  “Servant Cloves, lovely to have you,” Merriweather fawned. She steepled her hands on the desk thoughtfully. “I think, in times of flux like this, the people look for stability, a friendly face, and you have always been a constant link between them and our noble leaders, Cabal.”

  I stared at Cloves on screen, bewildered. Considering the last time I had seen her she had been swearing at me, gripping a gun in one hand, a catatonic Tribal in the other and facing imminent death, she looked as though she had just returned from a relaxing spa break.

  “So sweet,” she said with a convincingly warm smile. “I think I speak for all of Cabal, Poppy, when I say how very sad we all are by the senseless, truly senseless loss. And of course our hearts and our support go out to young Oscar and his new responsibilities during this difficult time.” Cloves’ hands fluttered to her chest. It was a very natural movement, I wondered if she practised it in the mirror at home. ‘Cloves’ and ‘flutter’ were not words which sat together comfortably in my head. “Marlin Scott meant a great many things to a great many people. His impact on the way we live now can scarcely be calculated.”

  “He has certainly left a legacy,” Merriweather agreed. “What are your thoughts, given the recent upheavals and tensions between the human and Tribal portions or our populace, as to how Oscar’s future, and the future of Scott Enterprises, might pan out?”

  Cloves clasped her hands together on her knee, her coral nails flashing in the studio lights. “Well, I for one have high hopes,” she confided warmly. “Oscar may be young, but he is of Scott stock, and I think we’re all going to be surprised at how he steps up to the bat in the wake of his sudden inheritance.”

  “Some would say he has had quite a chequered history,” Merriweather said. “Often linked with more than one of what the tabloids call the ‘brat pack party generation’. He seems always to be in the gossip magazines, and of course there have been darker, I must point out unsubstantiated, rumours which suggest that his involvement with the hostage situation last year was linked to the vampire underworld. Indeed, some would suggest he has Helsing tendencies.”

  Cloves didn’t flutter a single eyelash. “Well, of course, any young man in his powerful position is going to socialise with everyone he can, Poppy – it’s networking!” She laughed lightly, making Merriweather smile. “But seriously, one must be allowed to sow one’s wild oats when young. When push comes to shove, I believe Oscar may prove more than equal to the challenge set down in his father’s shadow. Many a strong plant grows in the shade they say.” She waved a hand dismissively. “As to the unfortunate kidnapping issue, yes we all remember that. A terrible business, but I doubt that it has left any lasting scars for Oscar. I’m afraid when you’re the son of the most powerful man in the world, ransom is an occupational hazard.”

  “You don’t think it may have coloured his feelings toward the GOs?” Poppy prompted. “He has been allegedly linked with them in the past.”

  Clove nodded. “I think Oscar may indeed prove to be more liberal and tolerant of the varied GOs of our city than his father’s hard-line views, but…” She shrugged. “…such is the nature of the next generation. Perhaps the way forward is indeed in stronger bonds and in further cooperation and interaction with our neighbours. If Oscar chooses to spearhead that, well, I, for one, believe we could achieve great new things as a society.”

  “Much as Cabal is doing with your GO liaison programme,” Poppy said helpfully. “Congratulations on your promotion by the way.”

  Cloves smiled her warm, disarming camera smile. “Oh yes, we are all very excited about the new programme. As you know our initial trials with the GO liaison ambassador, headed by Dr Harkness of Blue Lab, showed great promise. I’m delighted that Director Coldwater and the other board members have seen fit to expand the programme, and of course it’s a great honour and more importantly a big responsibility for myself to be given the reins of this small team. We have a larger budget now, of course, which is extremely helpful, and after the success of the Botanical negotiations, I am aiming for great things with the other sections of our GO society too.”

  What the hell was she talking about? Coldwater was alive too, clearly, and had managed not to be court-marshalled for bankrolling Scott’s mad experiments? The only people who could have ruined her were Cloves and myself. I’d been unconscious for a week, and Cloves, well, Cloves didn’t appear to have dropped Coldwater into any hot water. In fact, suddenly she had a promotion and a larger budget. What a coincidence.

  “Tell us more about the Botanical situation,” Poppy asked. “Before the bombshell of Marlin Scott’s death, things were rather at a head there. What changed?”

  “Well, as you know, the issue was always about power,” Cloves told her, and the viewers at home. “Or rather a lack thereof. The old power plant outside the city was failing. We were all familiar with the constant brownouts. The energy crisis wasn’t going anywhere. Marlin Scott’s proposal to build a new plant at the Botanical was controversial and no one can deny it ruffled a lot of feathers, particularly with the GO rights groups.”

  “And this is no longer the case?”

  “Well, thanks to recent funding from Cabal, and a full investigation into situations at the now fully automated old plant, Director Coldwater has headed a regeneration of the site, and I’m pleased to report, that any issues we had were entirely reversible.”

  “So the old power plant is being revamped then?” Merriweather asked.

  Cloves nodded enthu
siastically. “Of course, access to the plant beyond the wall is highly secure and extremely restricted. We are confident that with the current redevelopment, there will be no need to look at any further land disputes, which is good news for everyone involved, surely.”

  Merriweather glanced down briefly at her notes. “Some might say, GO rights protesters for instance, that Scott was merely warmongering, using the power plant he wanted to build to exact influence and control over the Tribal population, rather than directing efforts into fixing the issues at the old site as you say.”

  Cloves smile flickered almost imperceptibly. You wouldn’t even have seen it if you hadn’t been looking for it. As it happens, I was. I always was. She rallied with ease though.

  “We can only speculate as to Marlin’s intentions, Poppy,” she said dismissively. “I wouldn’t want to presume, and the man is dead after all. The gutter presses will no doubt have their wicked fun digging up every rumour, as is their want, but you and I know that is not the noble course of true journalism, which is always to report the facts…as we see them.”

  She actually leaned forward and grabbed Poppy’s knee for a brief squeeze. It was a casual, friendly, indeed almost theatrically luvvie gesture, and although Poppy smiled and nodded in agreement, I wondered to myself how hard Cloves’ grip had been. Probably not quite hard enough to dislocate it.

  Merriweather was going to pay for that once the cameras stopped rolling, that was for sure.

  The screen went blank. In its dark glossy reflection I saw myself, propped up in bed, and at my shoulder, Veronica Cloves in the flesh. She had entered the room without me noticing and flicked the Datascreen off. The Cloves having a relaxing chat in Merriweather’s studio, all soft edges, warm smiles and autumn palettes was rather a contrast to the Cloves here in Blue Lab. She was all in black, some kind of quasi-Japanese military pantsuit. It made her look a little like a spy movie villain. And she wasn’t smiling warmly. She was frowning at me in interest.

  “Not live feed,” she nodded at the screen. “Obviously. They keep re-running that memorial crap every half hour. That’s what it feels like anyway.” She sighed. “The press is determined to make the late great Marlin Scott into a canonised saint before his rotten old corpse is cold in the ground.”

  She clasped her hands together. The leather of her gloves squeaking. “You’re not dead then, Harkness,”

  “Are you here to finish me off?” I asked, looking her up and down. “You look like a cenobyte.”

  “A what?”

  “Never mind,” I shook my head, peering back at the screen. “It that true? He’s really dead? And we stopped the fireworks? And no one even knows…what he was trying to do.”

  “Shot by one of his own bodyguards,” Cloves said, in a thoughtful voice. “Odd that, what with you and Scott Junior crashing the party like you did, and then one of his own men, turning on him, just like that. Very odd.”

  “Are you asking me if I shot him dead?” I asked, my voice toneless. I felt numb. I was still looking at her dark reflection in the Datascreen.

  She looked at me in a guarded way. “What would you say if I did ask?” she said after a moment.

  “I’d say yes. The truth is complicated, but…”

  “Then I’m not going to ask,” she said. She surprised me by perching on the end of the bed. “Marlin Scott was a powerful man, with some very powerful friends,” she said carefully. “It’s probably for the best that the deranged man who shot him is dead himself. He wouldn’t have lasted long if he wasn’t already, if you understand my meaning.”

  “Did he have family?” I asked of the security guard, in a quiet voice. Cloves shook her head. “I did a background check on New Oxford’s latest villain. Single, no kids, no significant other, didn’t give to charity, wasn’t a blood donor, never created any great art or cured a disease. Just a dull hired gun who liked to gamble a little. No great loss to humanity as far as I’m concerned.”

  He was still dead because of me, I thought. Well, because of…whatever had happened. The thing had gotten inside him…the Bonewalkers…I knew deep down that’s what it was. They had known Scott’s plague was going to kill them. So they had worn that man like a puppet. They gave me his gun, then they told me to kill Marlin Scott. And I had. Without blinking.

  I hadn’t killed the security guard. But I hadn’t stopped him taking the fall for me either. Something occurred to me.

  “Oh God, does Oscar know…I mean, does Oscar think I shot his father?”

  Cloves rolled her eyes. “There was little love lost between Oscar and Marlin Scott. I don’t think he cared who…”

  “The man was still his father,” I cut her off, staring at her. “Does he think…?”

  “I’ve no idea what the new king of our city thinks,” Cloves admitted. “Frankly, I’ve had other things to worry about, and a hell of a lot of cleaning up to do. I had a feeling you would pull through though. You’re hard to kill, Phoebe Harkness. It’s like your own superpower.”

  I sat up fully, pushing the pillows under my back. “Must be a habit I picked up from you.”

  “I suppose you want to know what happened after you checked out,” she sighed. I nodded grimly.

  Over the next hour, Cloves filled me in. Sofia had found her and Director Coldwater. The Pale ate lead. Kane, I was told, was dead. Chase Pargate? Well, that was a mystery. He hadn’t been found. He had disappeared into the night, along with Voynich Manuscript and all its enigmatic secrets. Cloves had an APB out, but she didn’t sound hopeful.

  I don’t know why I was remotely surprised when she told me in no uncertain terms that the entire incident had been smokescreened. Coldwater was a Cabal Director after all. Answerable only to the other board members. As far as it went, nothing had happened at the power plant. A clean-up crew had discreetly scrubbed the place surgically clean. There would be no evidence. Of either Coldwater’s involvement, no matter how duped she’d been, or of Scott’s. Total whitewash.

  “She can’t get away with that,” I argued. “I mean, come on. Someone’s got to answer for it. Does she really think Cabal can just hide whatever they want from the world?”

  Cloves looked at me wearily. “Harkness, trust me. You don’t know Coldwater. You have to tread carefully here. Sure, she’s all softly spoken and chirpy small talk, but trust me when I say, the woman has…power.” She raised her eyebrows significantly. “You do not want to mess with that feathered bob of a fury. The last Cabal agent who spoke out of turn against her? Well, let’s just say he’s dead.” She looked sidelong, thoughtfully. “Well, until recently that is.”

  I swallowed hard.

  “So you will fall in line and swallow whatever bullshit I put on your plate,” Cloves said, almost affectionately, in her own horrible way. “That way, you stay alive and free and doing your good works. Know what side your bread is buttered on.”

  I opened my mouth to protest, but her stare was so fierce, I closed it again. That was a fight for future Phoebe.

  Cloves mentioned offhand that in exchange for her ‘help’ with recent administrative tidying, Director Coldwater had seen fit to promote her. This didn’t surprise me in the least. She was now the head of the GO Liaison Team.

  “Team?” I asked warily. Cloves looked sinister and very pleased with herself. “We’ll talk more when you’re rested. You actually get a couple of days off, Harkness. Don’t knock it. Lots of our city’s monsters are only breathing now because of what you did.”

  She turned to leave. “Kane’s daughter survived,” she said offhand as she reached the door. “I wonder if she’ll return to the fold? They need a new alpha now that, well… Now that there’s an opening.” She looked back over her shoulder. “Although in my opinion, she’s got a run for her money. Sofia, the gun toting psychopath who came to our aid? She’s ambitious.” She left the room without looking back. “One to watch.”

  I sat up on my elbows. “I don’t know if I can let Coldwater get out of this mess with her hands so
clean,” I called. “I don’t have your…moral compass…Cloves. You think you know all of Cabal’s dirty secrets. What about Cambridge? Firebombing a city? For the greater good? Even your lord and master Coldwater might balk knowing about that.”

  Cloves didn’t answer immediately, although I heard the clop of her shoes halt. “Oh Harkness,” her voice floated back. “Coldwater knows. Who on earth do you think ordered that bombing?”

  I didn’t reply.

  “Don’t judge by covers,” Cloves said. “You don’t know the half of it.”

  43.

  It was dark when I left Blue Lab, hours later and still feeling bleary. I probably should have stayed, rested more, healed, but I wanted the hell away from Cabal, at least for a while. I had a lot to process and I just wanted my own bed.

  There was someone waiting for me in the courtyard across from the entrance. I’d had a fleeting image of it being Allesandro, leaning against his motorbike in the growing shadows, his arms folded. But it wasn’t my vampire. It was a young woman, wrapped in a thick fur coat against the cold. Quite possibly the last person I’d expected to see.

  “Hello Doctor,” she said.

  “Elise,” I replied warily. What on earth was the bride of Dorkula doing stalking my workplace? “Did he send you?” I walked across to her in the lamplight, my hands thrust in my pockets against the cold. “What’s with him? Phone calls to Tribals to help at the power plant, and now what? Too good to actually see me himself?”

  “He’s gone,” she said flatly, cutting me off. Her eyes were cold.

  “Gone?”

  “That’s right.” She gave a tight, unfriendly smile. “And before you get any high and mighty ideas, it’s not because of you.” She looked uncomfortable. “Well, not just because of you. There are other things he had to attend to.”

  “Gone where?” I was very confused.