“No. They’re incomplete.” In the past few months, Kieran had watched me work cases, listened as I talked about E.E.I.s. But I’d never explained Revenant Regression Syndrome. I never thought I’d have to.
I did now, briefly, trying to keep the emotion, the fear from my voice as I outlined the difference between revenant talents and telepathy. The latter still functioned, fine, because it represented a live mind link. It was the former, the ability to read images from the dead, that was disintegrating. R.R.S. was the only explanation.
He immediately disagreed. “It’s stress. You shouldn’t be involved in this case. Contact the Division, have them send out another P.I..”
“Not until I know for sure if it’s me, or…” I let my voice trail off. There was nothing else it could be but my own failure. The decaying of my talents, and my mind.
“Come back to bed. Get some sleep.”
“Not yet.” There would only be nightmares. Better to work.
“You want some tea, then?”
“Ice water.”
He went back to the suite’s large living room. I heard the clanking of glassware and the soft thump of the bar ‘fridge door.
Most of Truedell’s clothes were still in his suitcase, neatly folded. Shirts on the left, pants on the right. All nice material, but a limited choice of hues. Black, white or gray. I don’t know why that bothered me. Kieran’s closet was full of black, white, gray or dark blue.
Only a gray robe hung in the bedroom closet. Granville had said he’d booked the suite for four days, had already been there for two. I wondered why he hadn’t unpacked.
His discarded clothing was as neatly arranged on a nearby chair. I sipped the ice water Kieran brought, ran my hands over the soft shirts, dark pants. E.I.I.s called to me with snatches of sound, a scent of flowers, the tart taste of a glass of expensive red wine. But no faces for the voices in Truedell’s memories.
No description of his killer with the Racker 750.
Kieran was asleep on the sofa when I came into the living room to put the empty glass in the sink. I kissed him lightly on the forehead. He stirred but didn’t wake, safe in his dreams while I chased a nightmare.
I went back to Truedell’s bedroom, sat on the edge of the bed, the same way he had when the murderer had grabbed him. Realized I may not have a description, but I did have some things. Height. Shorter than Kieran, who was well over six feet. Broader in build than Pavin Truedell. Large, strong hands, rough textured. And an odd, pungent odor when he spoke.
And he had spoken. Right before he’d killed Truedell. I clutched the edge of the bed as he had and listened.
~~
“I don’t carry much money,” I whispered harshly. “But take what I have. It’s in the top drawer of the dresser.”
“I’m not here for the money.” He paused, then hissed out my name. “Snake eyes.”
“I don’t understand.” But I did. His use of my name told me this wasn’t a robbery. My visitor was a professional assassin. Question was, who or rather which Syndicate had sent him?
“Liar. You were warned.” He shoved me away from the bed. “You freaks think you’re so smart, so special. You’re just freaks.”
~~
The E.I.I. collapsed at that point, because Truedell had been forced out of the room, into the living room, and shot at point blank range there. I knew it all because that was the first E.I.I. I’d taken in when I touched his body. He’d been murdered, no, assassinated. Because of something he’d been warned about. Because of something he was. A freak. Which meant nothing and everything. It was a common term, ingrained in the vernacular of so many strata, from theater to crime to music to sports. It wasn’t the term I listened for again, but the murderer’s voice.
If living inside Truedell’s memories for the past three hours had taught me anything, it was that each voice had it’s own unique intonation, inflection, cadence. It was something I’d known but not paid much attention to before. But Truedell had been fascinated by voices, just as he’d been fascinated by the music of the piano. If he were a freak at all, he was a sound freak, I realized. He’d loved sounds.
With no images to go on, no images to distract me, it was all I had to work with. The sound of his murderer’s voice.
I would know it if I heard it again. Revenant Regression Syndrome might try to claim my mind. But I’d solve this case first.
The leathery faced man in the Taythis District Police Department uniform stepped back as I headed for the lifts. “Ma’am. Guests are required to wait in the main dining room.”
Iago’s detectives were evidently engaged in a room to room search. I flashed my badge briefly at him as I passed. “Good idea. But I’m not a guest.”
The main dining room held about forty people. Their anger, their annoyance and their fear flowed over me like a turbulent tide before I even reached the elegant, beveled glass doors, now flanked by two more officers in T.D.P.D uniforms. I put up the mental wall I’d learned to erect years ago, living on crowded deep space stations, with four thousand, not merely forty, people thinking, feeling, screaming, crying constantly in my mind.
Their emotions dampered, but never completely silenced, I listened. Voices rose and fell. Soft music filled the quieter spaces. I thought of Truedell. He would’ve been as interested as I was, but for a different reason.
A buffet to tempt every palate lined the far wall. I opted for a cup of hot tea. The cups were a delicate flowered porcelain; my tea brewed through a silver strainer. I could smell a hint of chocolate lacing the coffee nearby. No synjav, here.
No happy faces, either. Guests, some in bathrobes bearing monograms, some still in evening dress, clustered unhappily around tables topped with pale pink tablecloths. Iago’s detectives stood out like drab pigeons in a cage full of Keprian peacocks.
“Insulting! Outrageous!” A man’s voice, high and strident, cut across the low rumble in the room. No hush followed his outburst. Evidently this kind of thing had been going on for awhile, uninfluenced by the soothing piano music in the background.
I ignored the complainer, too. His wasn’t the voice I was listening for.
Nor was anyone else’s. I wandered, sipping tea, catching threads of conversation. Listening for a distinctive low growl, a barely imperceptible drawing out of the vowels. Heard only the educated and cultured versions of the five most common dialects in the Intergalactic Conclave. And much discontent.
Damn it all! I was sure he’d be here. There hadn’t been time for him to travel down ten floors and out of the hotel. Security cameras showed no one exiting the building in the few moments between the time of Truedell’s murder and the sealing of the hotel. If I were an assassin, the place I’d want to be was in a crowd, one of the guests. What was it Truedell’s mentor, Dionosio, had taught him? There was anonymity in a crowd. But also watchers. I tried to be one of the watchers.
The music changed, more upbeat, a little louder. I turned. A young man, pale hair pulled back at the nape of his neck, ran his hands over the keys of a large black piano in the corner of the dining room. One of the guests, bored, passing the time? He wore a tuxedo, not unlike the ones the casino dealers wore. No, not a guest. I’d seen him earlier, playing in the lounge.
So had Truedell. This must have been the musician he’d so enjoyed. He was young, late 20s at most, with bright blue eyes.
I wondered if he’d noticed Truedell with someone, or if Truedell had spoken to him, complimenting him on his skill. I hadn’t picked up any conversations like that in his E.I.I.s, but I no longer had the faith in those, or in my deteriorating abilities.
The music stopped at the end of the light tune. I put my empty teacup on the tray of a hovering ‘droid server. A woman with short, dark curls and a pale blue bathrobe stepped into the aisle as I was halfway to the piano, raised her hand.
“Derek! You said you’d play Shadow Rhapsody after your break. Don’t forget.”
So the musician’s name was Derek. He nodded slowly, rising. The dark-haired wom
an turned, almost plowed into me.
“Sorry!” I steadied her. She looked tired, frazzled. I fully understood. “I hope he plays your song.”
“He was supposed to before. But he takes a break every twenty minutes of so. Goes into the bar for a smoke.” She wrinkled her nose. “Filthy habit. I didn’t think people did that anymore. Must be something artsy.”
Archaic was more like it. Few people smoked since nicotine addiction, along with every other malady and affliction, had been eradicated.
But I was less concerned with Derek’s habits than his memory. Had he seen or spoken to Truedell?
The bar was almost deserted, except for a ‘droid tender stacking glasses, and another wiping down trays near the door.
Derek hoisted himself onto a stool at the bar, faced the door. He caught my approach when I was a few steps away, a half-smile on his lips.
I matched it with one of my own. “I heard you play in the lounge earlier. So did a colleague of mine. He was very impressed. I don’t know if he got a chance to tell you.”
“Most people come for the tables, not the music. But thanks. When did you say you heard me play?”
His voice was deep, somewhat raspy and had a barely perceptible drawing out of the vowels. His breath, I noticed as I leaned on the bar to catch his words, had a pungent, sharp, unusual odor.
I glanced at his hands. Thick, strong fingers, possibly callused from hours of practice. They toyed with a long cigar case, tapping the metal cylinder against the bar. Derek smoked cigars. The odor that had puzzled Truedell hadn’t been from something his killer had eaten. But something he habitually smoked.
Adrenaline shot up my spine, tingled through my limbs. I froze my smile in place. Straightened. My mind raced. If I could get to my gun, tucked in the back of my pants, I might be able to take him by surprise.
But I also might not. He was a trained assassin. I was only a lowly mind fucker. Better to let him return to his piano, let Iago’s people handle him. I’d answer his question, then leave, alert the detectives. “Yesterday, before dinner. We heard you play yesterday.”
A hand grasped my shoulder. “You Dr. San Jenro?”
It was a uniformed officer, a broad shouldered woman who mangled my name. She stood behind me, a comm unit in her hand. “You’re that psychic who saw Truedell’s memories, right? Lieutenant Iago’s looking for you.”
Shock. Cold, harsh, ripping. The tapping noise behind me halted, almost infinitesimally, then started again. Faster.
Anger. Burning, boiling as shock mixed with rage.
It came from Derek, from the murderer behind me. Knowing what I was. Believing I’d come after him because of what I’d seen through Truedell. Not knowing I’d seen nothing and hadn’t suspected, until a few seconds before, who he was.
I grabbed the cop’s arm, whipped around.
Derek stood, the small dark Raker 750 in his hand. He fired, the high whine not much more than a hum.
I dropped to the floor as the charge flared by me. He fired again, caught the cop as she reached for the laser pistol on her hip. She spun, flailing, her weapon flying from her hand.
Her pain arced, laced my mind.
I rolled under a table. Her pistol had skidded under a nearby chair. I lunged for it just as she gasped out, “Officer down!” into her comm unit.
Derek’s boot came down hard on my wrist as my fingers grazed her pistol. Fire raced up my arm. I yelped, painfully. He fired again. The cop’s body jerked. But her harsh gasp was cut off by a loud wail, a keening death cry. The ‘droids had activated the security alarm.
“Don’t move!” I felt his pistol pressed in the middle of my shoulder blades, then something scrape against the skin of my lower back. My own pistol. Derek must have seen it when I dove for the floor.
“Get up!” He grabbed my hair, dragged me to my feet. Instinctively, I swung at him, a backhanded blow, catching him in the arm. He locked me in a stranglehold, almost crushing my throat.
“You’re getting me out of here. Now.” His voice was that same low growl Truedell had heard.
He shoved me forward, one hand clenched in my hair, his gun in my side. We were halfway to the emergency exit when three uniformed cops filled the doorway to the dining room.
“Hold it!”
“No, you hold it.” He yanked me against him, his arm around my throat again. “Or she dies.”
He meant it. Everything I felt from him told me that. He absolutely intended to kill me. Even if they let him go.
But I was already dead. R.R.S., once it sets in, spreads quickly. Six months, maybe eight. Kieran would be a widower twice. With a chilling clarity I realized that was my only regret. Not my investigative career that I’d clung to, putting it even before my recent marriage. Not my few, close friends in various departments, who I felt understood who and what I was. Only Kieran. I’d never been so happy as I’d been with him.
I held onto that thought. Repeated it as Derek backed quickly towards the exit. Hopefully, one of my people from Division 1 would be here by tomorrow to read the E.I.I.s.
Tell Kieran, tell him. Tell him I loved him. Tell him I’m sorry.
Derek stopped just short of the plain metal door. “If you’ve got anyone in that lobby,” he shouted, “she’s dead.”
One of the detectives raised her comm unit to her face, spoke rapidly into it. “It’s clear.”
He kicked the door open, shoved me through. The large lobby was deserted, its silk and velvet sofas vacant. Crystal chandeliers twinkled. No one, human or ‘droid, stood behind the ornate reception desk. Thick, hand woven carpet muffled our hurried footsteps.
My heart pounded, my throat was tight. Anger, mine and Derek’s, rushed through my system. I dropped all mental barriers. I would know my killer. I would leave my detectives something to work with.
“Why’d you kill Truedell?” It was a stupid question to ask as he dragged me through the lobby, but that was the point. It was stupid. I didn’t expect an answer, not verbally. But it had to elicit some response in his mind.
“Quiet!” That same harsh tone, same distinct sharp odor.
I latched onto his thoughts, listened. They blazed through his mind in a rush as he tried to push them away. He knew what I was. But I caught some of what I needed.
~~
“He’s been warned. Ignored us. We take action, now. That’s your job, Derek.”
“Makes no difference to me, Mr. Dionosio, but I thought you said he was the best.”
“He was, when the rigged the games in our favor. But he’s taking side contracts. Thinks it’s owed him.”
“Because he’s a mutant?”
Silence. An uncomfortable one. “You know about that, then.”
“I heard talk. You know how it is.”
“Do your job, Mister Valand. That’s all I’m asking. Just do your job.”
~~
Dionosio was not only Truedell’s mentor, but Derek’s boss. And Truedell was a mutant. I’d heard whispers of illegal genetic manipulation in some of the fringe worlds. Wasn’t quite sure how it fit here, but my people would find out. They would read my E.I.I.s and track Dionosio. Track Derek.
Tell Kieran I loved him.
Four, no six cops trailed us at a distance as Derek crab-walked me towards the main lobby doors. “Stay back,” Derek yelled and they hesitated. “If these doors are locked, she’s dead.”
The doors whooshed open as we approached, auto-sensors reactivated. The early morning air was cool, mist-filled, smelled of leaves and fields and forests. The pavement of the small parking lot crunched under my boots. Derek jerked me around. I stumbled. He picked up his pace, gun hard in my side. A dozen or so hovercars filled the lot. He headed for a row on the right.
A black hovercar, a generic rental, sat in the shadows, middle of the row. Derek slammed my back against its side, his left hand on my throat, his gun pointed at my face. “Thanks for your help, Doc.”
I didn’t close my eyes, even though my heart pou
nded and my ears seemed to ring from fear. I would give my people something I couldn’t get from Truedell. The face of a murderer, as seen through the eyes of a dead woman.
Tell Kieran I loved him.
I memorized every feature of Derek’s young face, his intense blue eyes, the cleft in his chin, the off-center part of his pale gold hair.
The dark hole, small, rounded but flaring outwards from the center of his forehead.
His head whipped back, his shoulders arcing. His hand on my throat spasmed, flailed. I dropped to the ground. It hadn’t been fear ringing in my ears, but the high, searing whine of a ZAL-4. A sniper’s rifle, highly sensitive. Few could handle it. I knew of one man who could.
“Jynx!” Footsteps pounding, still distant, coming closer.
I sucked in a deep breath, forced down the bile rising in my throat, held my hands out over Derek’s still, lifeless body as the chills started. Felt his E.I.I.s gel.
And I saw. I saw. Dionsio’s craggy face, thinning gray hair, gnarled hands. A gilt-edged desk and behind that, large windows with a panoramic view of Galdaron, a major city on Taythis. I had a location now, for the Syndicate that had killed Truedell. And more.
I had images from the dead. Clear, beautiful, vibrant, detailed images. Notations Derek made in his own datapadd on his last break. Names, sig-data, addresses. Derek was more than an assassin. He was a musician, trained to memorize, trained for detail.
I was shaking, crying when Kieran wrapped his arms around me. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine. Kier, I can see, I can—”
“You could always see. Iago commed me after you went downstairs. They did the autopsy on Truedell. He was blind, Jynx. You saw nothing from his E.I.I.s because he couldn’t see anything. He was blind.” His hand trembled as he gently wiped the tears from my face.
Blind? That was impossible. Blindness in all its forms had been cured centuries ago.
“Mutant,” I said as Kieran pulled me, unsteadily, to my feet. “Truedell was some kind of mutant.”
“Iago knows. She tracked information linked to the name you gave her: Dionosio. He called Truedell Snake Eyes because his hands, his fingers were receptors. He could feel the design of a card, know what it was without looking. And he could affect the balance of a pair of dice because of a chemical he could secrete through his skin. Dionosio used him for that.”
Snake Eyes Page 2
