Every communique from him was transmitted anonymously, lacking even the usual hacker handle. The guy dropped his messages into Charley's box and picked up any replies from random cyberspace locations, each week posting his new "address" to Charley. That kind of sourcing had made Charley suspicious at first. The guy was a regular ghost in the machine. Because he was a friendly ghost, Charley had dubbed him "Caspar," a combination of spook and wise man.
Caspar was a reticent fellow, apparently satisfied by his good deeds; he'd refused to step forward for the reward he'd earned for providing data in the Billingsford case. In fact, Caspar had demanded that his participation be kept quiet, under threat of deserting Charley. Charley had gone along. Good contacts were priceless, even when they were cyber-cowboys; a smart cop kept his good contacts happy. And Caspar was a good contact.
The "112" was Caspar's case number; Caspar had assigned modus numbers to each collection of data he thought was related. Offhand, Charley couldn't remember what 112 was about, so he called it up.
Dead streeters.
Not an unusual piece of business for Charley, but not necessarily business for the Special Investigations. Looking at the official case file tags for all the previous entries, Charley saw that only one had been referred to SIU, and that one wasn't on his caseload.
Right.
What was Caspar seeing here?
Dutifully he logged in the new stiff and set up a data transfer from the morgue records. He read them as they dumped to his file. No witnesses. No suspicious circumstances. Routine autopsy scan listed myocardial infarction as cause of death, heart attack; not unusual with an age of sixty, approximate. Routine genetic typing in progress, to be matched with missing persons. On the whole, nothing to warrant SIU attention.
Even Caspar chased a few wild hares.
Streeters were found dead all the time, and the taxpayers of the New England Cooperative didn't like seeing their money squandered on justice for nonproductives and unregistereds. His console started buzzing, reminding him that there was plenty for him to do which would be satisfactory to those fine upstanding citizens who paid his salary. He closed the file and answered the call. It was the manager of the Norwood Hilton, reporting another incident of poltergeist damage.
Jerry Constantine liked debunking. Too bad it was only his hobby and not his job. There was nothing quite like the thrill of showing up a charlatan for what he was. It gave Jerry a real sense of victory, a sense that he had done something that the world needed. There were too many nut cases peddling their nonsense and booga-booga foolishness to too many gullible people. Tonight he was sure he had a live one.
The carnival's advertising didn't use any pictures of "The Wild and Wonderful Fairy Goblin." Of course. That was a normal teaser. Gotta pay to see it. Gotta pay, gotta pay. Of course, you gotta pay; money was all that was behind these scams. Jerry insisted the admission booth take his card; he wanted a record that money had been taken for this fakery.
Jules from the office had been out here last night and had seen the fairy goblin. Jules had done nothing but rave about how strange it was all day. Everybody listened to Jules. All the talk had just made Jerry mad. Jules was supposed to be bright. Hadn't he just gotten the promotion Jerry had been promised? God, that Jules was an idiot! Busting this scam would have been fun all by itself, but being able to show everyone at the office just how stupid Jules was would make it even sweeter.
"All right, folks. The doors are about to open," the barker said.
Jerry was ready!
"Stay quiet, folks, and please don't tap on the glass," the barker's assistant said as the line filed past her. "Please keep moving. Lots of people want to see the wonder of the fairy goblin."
/ wonder how many people will want to see it after I'm through. But Jerry didn't say that aloud. He'd have plenty to say in a bit though; after he'd seen the fairy goblin.
The passageway was dark and filled with music—some crystal-loving, cosmic shit—all carefully calculated to add to the mystery. A recorded voice was dumping bilge about the supposed lifestyle of the fairy goblin and how difficult it had been for the carnival to obtain and how selfless they were being in offering the public a chance to view the wonder. Jerry wanted to barf.
This scam used the one-way window shtick. The rubes were supposed to be hidden from the strange wonder, watching it while it couldn't see them. A little added voyeuristic tit-illation. Good for business. Jerry had seen it before.
Jerry was a little taken aback when he reached the window. He had been expecting a dwarf or a kid in a heavy makeup job, but the fairy goblin wasn't that. It was too lean; even a starving kid wouldn't be so skinny. And the proportions were a bit off for a human. The damned thing was naked, not that it mattered much—it was pretty hairy down there—but that would make the scam harder to play in the Bible Belt. Did they have a different version for more straitlaced rubes?
The carnival scammers had taken an unusual tack with their fairy goblin. He had to concede that it was clever not making it look like a post-Froudite keebler. Having it not be what people expected gave them an edge; maybe it was a little less commercial, but it caught the debunker off guard. Good move, but not good enough to stop Jerry. He gave the fairy goblin a good look over. He didn't care about disgruntled rubes pushing past him and complaining about him hogging the tiny window.
The fairy goblin was about the size of a twelve-year-old boy, but far leaner and more muscular. No, cute wasn't their goal in this exhibit. Again he silently congratulated the planners of this fraud on their cleverness.
The fairy goblin had a gaunt, narrow face, that Jerry found oddly attractive despite the slightly jutting jawline. The big, dark, slanting eyes and the long, pointed ears gave it a lupine look. It looked very real, very alive.
He was having a hard time figuring out how they'd done it, until he recognized that the window was the answer. It wasn't a window at all. It had to be a holoprojection screen. He was impressed again. The guy who programmed the holovid was good, real good. The texture mapping and the interplay of lighting was superb, with a subtlety Jerry had never seen before.
"Keep moving, folks." The attendant had come and singled Jerry out; he'd outstayed his admission fee. "Lots of folks want to see the wonderful fairy goblin."
Jerry nodded and moved on. He wanted to see the wonderful fairy goblin all right. He wanted to see the real thing. He hadn't been able to spot any projector lenses; so they had to
be working it from the other side of the wall. That meant getting backstage.
Once out of the tunnel, he left the line of rubes and their dim-minded babbling about the amazing fairy goblin. No one saw him slip through the door into the back. Maybe the scam-mers weren't so clever; they'd left the door unlocked and they didn't have anybody watching the place. Good luck for Jerry.
It didn't take him long to find the projection booth. It was big, big enough to actually be the fairy goblin's living quarters that he'd seen through the window. Did the size have something to do with the success of the tech that they were using? They were trusting a magnetic-key lock to hold their secrets. Clearly they hadn't counted on Jerry. He dug his unscrambler from his pocket and slipped the contact card into the slot. It didn't take him long to spoof the lock. The bolt clicked open, offering him access to the scammers' secret.
He opened the door and his smile melted from his face. There were no lenses, no projectors, no computers. Just the lairy goblin, looking at him with its deep, dark, hungry eyes.
Grinning at him, it showed its pointed teeth.
CHAPTER
7
Resigning from the Department wasn't as simple as walking out, Spae discovered. She should have guessed that her display of pique—let alone her improved magical ability— would have repercussions. She shouldn't have done it; she knew better, but her temper had gotten the better of her, and now she had to live with the consequences.
She'd been barred from access to the underground facilities, including he
r workshop. That was criminal; almost everything in that lab was her personal property. When she'd logged a demand that her property be returned, the synth secretary who'd responded had said that there were a few forms. So far they'd transmitted thirty different forms for her to fill out. The forms were now "in process," which she knew from past experience was bureaucratese for lost. Fortunately she'd brought some of her most important items home from the workshop the night before for a private ritual. She suspected she'd never see the rest of her equipment and books unless she reentered the fold.
Which she was not about to do.
She'd had enough of those pompous asses, and she knew they were not fond of her. Still, they weren't about to let her go. She'd learned that when she'd tried to arrange transportation out of Chardonneville. Every airline she'd tried rejected lu-r requests for tickets on international flights, citing an invalid passport. They all offered to process a passport application and append her ticket purchase, of course. She hadn't bothered. What good would it do to file a new one? The Department would get it canceled as soon as it was issued—if it was even issued at all.
When she'd set her sights on a less-distant escape she'd found they had anticipated her. By what couldn't have been coincidence, the cross-country buses had changed their schedule the day of her resignation and no longer stopped at Chardonneville. There were no rental car offices in the tiny village, and she was not yet ready to stoop to auto theft. She had been furious. Once she had calmed down enough to think, she had actually considered walking out of the village. When she calmed down further, she realized that such a method wouldn't be practical either—or any method for that matter— if they wanted her to stay as badly as it appeared, she would only force them to get physical, and she doubted she'd win that sort of confrontation.
At least they weren't being total barbarians. She was still able to move freely around the village, and so far her cottage remained inviolate. At least as far as she could tell. The electronic systems continued to say that no one had entered, but those systems had been installed by the Department and were suspect. Her wards agreed, but even with her increased understanding of magic, she wasn't sure that they were completely reliable.
Chardonneville made a small world. By her third day of village arrest, she was contemplating mayhem.
The perscomp buzzed as she was pouring her second cup of morning coffee. She was going to ignore it, but she noticed the incoming ID: Essenbach. Curious, Spae tapped the code to accept, but left the transmission on audio only. Essenbach's face appeared on the monitor. She stared expectantly at the screen for a moment until she realized that Spae wasn't transmitting video.
"Dr. Spae?"
"I'm here."
Essenbach looked a little confused. "Is there something wrong?"
"That's a stupid question."
"Yes, 1 suppose it is, considering the circumstances. I meant something more immediate."
"What is it you want, Doctor?"
"It's been several days since we heard from you. I was concerned about you."
"How kind."
"I know we haven't been close, but 1 like to think we have a good professional relationship. We have a lot in common."
"Such as a certain interrogation room?"
Essenbach pursed her lips, clearly upset, but Spae didn't know whether the woman was concerned about what had happened or merely because Spae had upset her conciliation speech.
"I'm not happy about that, Dr. Spae. It was not an approach that I thought warranted."
"So you didn't participate."
Essenbach had the decency to look guilty. "1 am sorry about what happened. I know you've been under a lot of stress lately. I just wanted to let you know that I understand. I also wanted to let you know that I think the Department's being a little off base in their treatment of you."
"Just a little."
"More than a little, really. You are one of the best hermetic scholars I know. Your expertise is invaluable, and we need you in the program, now more than ever. I was hoping to convince you to reconsider your resignation."
Not likely. "Magnus put you up to this?"
The question seemed to catch Essenbach off-balance. "He doesn't know I'm contacting you."
"Don't bet on it."
"What do you mean?"
"How long have you been with the Department, Dr. Essenbach? A little less than five years, I think. Have you ever done any field work for the Department?"
"What has that—"
"Have you?" Spae sounded strident, even to herself.
"I worked with Dr. Dagastino on the Cornwall Project."
"That fiasco doesn't count. Have you ever been on a real sleeper hunt? I mean out in the streets or the boonies or the nuthouses. Have you ever even seen a sleeper before he's gone through orientation?"
"No, of course not. I'm a psychometric realization specialist. The sleepers, per se, are not my field. Why, other than Magnus, I don't think I've ever met one."
"The sleepers aren't the issue. It's what's going on around them. It's the people around them, the ones that want to use them."
"I don't understand."
"Exactly my point. You've spent your time buried in your workshop and in the library. As you said, we have a lot in common. I did a lot of head-hiding myself, but I have had the real world brought rather forcibly to my attention. In the last couple of years, I have seen a lot of the people you're dealing with and how they operate. In the last few weeks, I've gotten a pretty clear view of their care and concern. If they don't have a tap on this line, the weather forecast is for snow in hell."
"Magnus wouldn't permit it."
"Think he's too noble for it? If he hasn't fallen under their sway it's only because he was playing these sorts of games before any of them were born. The settings, costumes, and props change, but the play remains the same."
"Well, I can see that you are still overwrought. Perhaps we can have a more rational discussion when you've had more time to think things through. I'm sure you will—"
Spae cut the connection.
"I'm sure I will, too."
She called up the perscomp's atlas program and requested a detailed local map. She studied it until her stomach reminded her that there were more immediate things.
Wanting some fresh air, she decided to take her lunch at the cafe. She sat alone, as befitted a Departmental pariah, an island in a tiny sea of a half-dozen occupied tables. With a full stomach, a cup of cappuccino on the table before her, and a reader in her lap, she was as content as she had been for days.
She should have looked as though she was reading, idling, wasting time, but she was in fact contemplating the layout of the road net and memorizing the salient points. Someday, she'd be leaving.
Although she was not yet ready to depart, her walking stick, the one she'd taken to the otherworld, leaned against her knee. She felt better for its touch against her skin. Her ankle maintained contact with her heavy canvas shoulder bag. The satchel was stuffed with irreplaceable equipment and materials, things she hadn't felt safe enough to leave at the cottage. She didn't completely trust this truce between herself and the Department.
A man stepped up to the table. Expecting to have to shoo away the waiter again, Spae was surprised to see a stranger. The dark-haired man wore a flannel shirt, light-colored twill slacks tucked into crumpled socks, and scuffed ankle boots. He had a rucksack slung over one shoulder and carried a walking staff. Everything was covered with a light layer of dust, as though he'd been tramping through the countryside. It was a look she'd seen before, typical of the sort of vagabond students that wandered the countryside on their wanderjar hikes, but this one seemed a little older than the ordinary student.
"Excusez-moi, mademoisellehe said. "Quesque c'est s'asseoir place?"
Spae shook her head at his abominable French. He took it for an answer to his question, smiling a thank-you and swinging his rucksack down as he pulled out a chair to seat himself.
"Je ne sais tout
pas I'habitude, ah, accepter sa part de la table," he said.
"Not much used to French, either."
"You speak English!" His face lit up. Fie really did have a nice smile. "How delightful!"
"I'm sure."
Her abrupt comment shut him up and she went back to her pretended reading. When she reached for her cup, she noticed he was staring at her. He had deep brown eyes. She took a sip of her cappuccino. Before she put the cup down, he spoke again.
"Have we met before?"
"No."
"You look awfully familiar."
"Your lines are more lame than your French."
He laughed, shaking his head. "I'm sorry. It wasn't intended as a line. I really do think you look familiar. But you arc quite right about my French not being what it ought to be. I don't seem to be able to communicate at all with the locals. Is my pronunciation that bad?"
"Not so bad. They'll understand what they need to."
"So you say they're having a joke at my expense?"
"Most definitely."
He frowned in semiserious disapproval. "Not very friendly of them."
"They're not the most friendly lot."
"You talk as though you're not one of them."
"Not exactly."
He regarded her speculatively. "Your walking stick suggests a hiker, but despite your somewhat overstuffed shoulder bag, you're not dressed for hiking. And there's no car or bicycle parked by the curb in front of this, the only cafe in the village. The obvious conclusion is that you live here, or are at least visiting here for a prolonged stay."
"You're very inquisitive."
"Sorry. I don't mean to offend. As I tried to say before, I'm not quite used to this European custom of sharing tables with strangers. Where I come from, one shares tables with friends, and with friends a lively interest in their doings is usually considered positive. So if I've offended, please excuse me. I will consider myself rebuked. Perhaps we can find other things to talk about so that I can enjoy the good fortune brought to me by following the local custom of forced companionship."
robert Charrette - Arthur 02 - A King Beneath the Mountain Page 11
