I raise my hands. We’re tripping up on semantics here.
“Your body …Why was your body back there?”
Lissa looks out the window. “I—I don’t know. Whoever’s doing this is using Number Four and shipping Stirrer-possessed Pomps around via the upper offices. And they’re using my body. Shit, shit, shit.”
I really want to hold her and tell her that this is going to be OK, but I can’t do either, because I really don’t believe it, and the Lissa I might possibly be able to hold without pomping is behind us somewhere, and she would kill me without hesitation.
This relationship is complicated.
“The upper offices? Can you really do that?” I think about Number Four, and those labyrinthine upper floors.
“You can if you know what you’re doing. It’s dangerous if you’re not an RM, but people do it from time to time—saves on airfares. I’ve heard that you can enter any one of Mortmax’s offices through them. It’s probably how the Stirrers got into the Brisbane office. They could have come from anywhere.”
“We’ll work this out,” I say.
She glares at me. “How, Steve? Just how the hell are we going to work this out? I’m dead. My body’s walking about the Hill, inhabited by a bloody Stirrer. It’s not enough that I’ve been killed—whoever is doing this is rubbing my face in it. You were right, as much as I didn’t like it, the Hill’s the only place we had a chance of finding out what’s going on.”
“Which was exactly why it was being guarded,” I say. “They knew we had to get there. And my parents were there, too. This isn’t just about you.”
Lissa shakes her head. “Who deals with Stirrers? It’s freaking insane! You can’t deal with Stirrers. They’ve nothing to offer but hatred and hunger.”
Apparently someone has, and quite successfully. I don’t understand it any better than Lissa does. The idea chills me and I’m even more afraid about this whole thing. But at least it explains why Jim McKean was shooting at me. I couldn’t work out how I might have pissed him off. There are others with whom it almost wouldn’t have surprised me (Derek being one of them) but Jim hadn’t made any sense.
“We just need to keep moving,” I say.
“No point in running.” The voice startles me, coming from behind. It’s all rather too pleased with itself. I jerk my head around.
There’s a dead guy sitting on the rear seat. He looks at me, and then at Lissa. When he sees her the wind comes out of him. “Sorry, darl,” he says, “they got me too, just out of Tenterfield.”
That’s it. I’m dead. I don’t see how I stand a chance.
The guy with us is Eric “Flatty” Tremaine, state manager of the Melbourne office, which puts him almost as far up the ladder as Morrigan. He’s a friend of Derek’s—maybe his only friend—and another paid-up member of the Steven de Selby Hate Club.
I notice the way he’s looking at Lissa, and the way that she’s looking back. There’s definitely a history there. I catch myself; I’m not going to survive this if all I’m really thinking about is Lissa and her previous relationships. But it does no good. Jealousy, wearing Eric Tremaine’s smarmy face, has brought matches and it’s lighting them up inside of me.
“So what’s going on, Flatty?” I ask, and for the first time Eric seems truly aware of me, even though my presence must have drawn him here. He gives me a wide, almost manic grin, and slaps his knee.
“Steven de Selby. Wonderful, so you’ve managed to stay alive. I wouldn’t have put money on it. You never really struck me as the sharpest knife in the drawer.”
“Enough of that,” Lissa says. “Play nice.”
“Who’s behind this?” I demand. I don’t have time for point scoring, even if I am still hunting for some sort of witty comeback.
Eric shrugs. “I don’t know. All I can say for sure is that they’re very good at their jobs, and they know a lot about ours.” He glances significantly at Lissa. “Why the fuck are you hanging with this loser?”
“You tried to call Mr. D?” I ask, ignoring the insult. After all, he has just died.
“Of course I have.” Eric nodded. “Line was busy, which makes sense for a couple of reasons.”
“Yeah, everybody would be trying to call,” I say. Though, to be honest, I really hadn’t thought of it. Thinking about Mom and Dad had been occupying my mind more—that, and the running. Besides, Mr. D is… difficult. I take a deep breath. “Maybe I should try him. Can’t be too many Pomps left.”
Tremaine makes an ineffectual grab at my arm—his hand passes through my flesh and he’s nearly dragged through me with it. His face strains as he struggles to stay in this world, and part of me can’t help laughing at such a basic mistake. I have to respect his strength of will, though, because he pushes against the pomp, his form solidifying.
“No! You don’t want to do that!” he says, once he’s managed to stabilize his soul. “I tried to call him just out of Tenterfield. The buggers got me there on the New England Highway. They’re obviously using the phones to find us. Please don’t tell me you’ve got yours on.”
“Oh.” The blood’s draining from my face. I switch off my phone, and then slide it into my pocket.
Eric gives Lissa an “I told you so” look. His gaze, when it returns to me, is condescension stirred with pity. He doesn’t expect me to live much longer, either.
“You’re going to have to talk to Mr. D, but not now,” he says. “I suspect he’s out of the loop somewhat. He has to be, I can’t believe that he’d let this happen.”
“Someone has,” Lissa says.
“Yes, and I have my theories, but they’re just theories. Steve, you’re going to have to talk to him face to face. Draw him out of wherever he’s hiding, or being held.”
“You think he’s being held?”
“He’s hardly on a fishing trip now, is he?” Tremaine says archly. “He’s too intimately connected to all of us. Every death must be filling him with pain and anger. For something like this to succeed you’d need to remove the RM as quickly as possible, before you start trying to kill Pomps. You know how Mr. D is. He knows when one of us dies, and he’s always there. Let me tell you, he wasn’t there for me. This has to be an inside job.”
He lets that sink in.
“Then how am I going to be able to talk to him?”
“There are ways that can’t be stopped. If you know what you’re doing.” He looks at me.
I take a deep breath. Maybe I should just pomp the prick. I’m a little threatened by the thought of one-on-one time with Mr. D. I’ve only ever met him a few times, and they were with my dad.
“Mr. D’s not that bad, really,” Lissa says, and I realize that she is almost touching my hand with her own. At the closest point her form is wavering. It must be uncomfortable for her, but she holds the position. I’m the one who pulls away in the end. Tremaine gives her a look, and I smile like the cat who got the cream.
“If you say so. I’ve just never had much to do with him.”
“Regardless, you’re going to—and soon,” Tremaine says with all the nonchalance that a recently dead person can muster. “Maybe too soon.” He points out the rear window.
There’s my dad’s body, driving his red Toyota Echo, not too well, but well enough to be gaining on the bus. But this is the least of my worries because Mom’s body is on the passenger side, and she’s scowling in a most un-Mom like way and pointing a rifle at me.
“Shit!” I drop to the floor behind the seat as the rear window explodes.
9
There is a carpet of gleaming glass before me. I’m sure I’m breathing the smaller fragments of it into my lungs. It doesn’t help that I’m almost hyperventilating. Another shot blasts a hole in the back seat next to my head. I’m feeling like a cartoon character. I know the double-take I give that burning hole, stuffing everywhere, must look almost comical. I’m surprised I haven’t shat myself, but of course there’s still plenty of time for that…
The bus driver brakes: a
ll that commutery tonnage comes crashing to a halt and we’ve got a whole domino effect, of which I’m painfully a part, passengers tumbling and screaming. Then the red Echo slams into the back of the bus. I’m thrown forward onto the broken glass from the window. It’s safety glass, but those little beads still hurt when you fall on them.
Metal screams and I’m yelping as the back seat deforms inward. The rear side windows shatter. There’s glass and seat stuffing everywhere.
The Echo’s horn is droning in an endless cycle like a wounded beast, and there’s the sharp, stinging odor of fuel. I shake my head. I try to slow my crashing breaths. I want to rub my eyes, but there’s no telling what I’d be grinding into them.
I reckon I’ve got about thirty seconds, maybe a minute, before they’re out of that car. It’s going to take much more than a collision with a bus to stop them. There’s bits of glass in my hands but no deep cuts; it hurts like a bastard, though, which is actually a good thing since it distracts me from the headache regrouping in my skull.
“Are you all right?” Lissa asks.
“Can anyone in that bland suit be all right?” Tremaine says.
I’d be better if he shut up. I’ve never been a fan of Tremaine, but then again, he’s never been much of a fan of me or my family, either. He sees us Queensland Pomps as a bunch of slackers and, sure, I may have gotten drunk at a couple of training sessions, but the guy’s about as boring as they come.
“You and your taste.” Lissa shakes her head.
Tremaine gives her a smug smile. “Darling, it was yours for a while.”
“We all have to regret something, Eric.”
I glance at these two—Lissa scowling and Eric giving her the sleaziest, most self-satisfied smile I’ve seen outside of a porno. Bastard. Oh God, Lissa and Flatty Tremaine!
I’m jealous: bloody burning with it. But there’s no time for this. I scan the bus; people are slowly recovering from the shock of the collision. I was the only one who had a moment’s warning, and I’m still as shaky as all hell. There’s a few nosebleeds, but that seems to be the worst of it. I have to get out of here fast, or someone is going to die. It may not be me, but it’s sure as hell going to be my fault. I run for the front door of the bus.
“Have to get out,” I say.
The driver’s on the radio, calling it in. No one seems to know a rifle was involved. Everyone is shaken but not as disturbed as they should be. The driver waves at me irritably. “No, you’re staying on the bus until I say so. Council policy.”
Fair enough, but not today. I reach over, turn the release switch. The door sighs open.
He grabs my arm; I tug my arm free, and bolt for the exit.
“What? You! Get back—” I hear him slamming down on the switch.
I’m almost through and the door closes on my leg. It’s a firm grip and I’m hanging, suspended by the door. I yank my leg like some sort of trapped and clumsy animal, and something gives because I’m dropping onto the road, the ground knocking the breath from me.
“Smooth,” Tremaine says.
“Screw you,” I manage, which is stupid because I shouldn’t be wasting any of the breath in my lungs. Blobs dance in my vision.
“And ever so charming.”
I give him the finger. Tremaine raises an eyebrow. Lissa’s watching the bus.
“Get up,” she says. “Get up, get up.”
Winded, I lie there on the side of the road. Even with the adrenaline coursing through me that’s about all I can manage. I stare blankly at the looming city with its skyline of genuflecting cranes. I’m on the verge of slipping into manic, gasping chuckles. The sky is lit up by the city, everything’s calm… and I’ve been shot at—twice—by my parents.
“Get up,” Lissa says. “Now.”
At last, after what really can’t have been more than a few seconds, breath finds my lungs.
“I’m trying.” I get very unsteadily to my feet. Which is when the bus driver comes crashing through the door and tackles me.
I’m back down on the road. More cuts, more bruises.
“Get the fuck back in the bus!” he growls, his arms wrapped around my legs.
“No, I can’t!” I scramble, kicking and twisting and flailing, to my feet.
We circle each other. He’s taking this personally, his face beet-red, his hands clenched into fists. The driver is a big man. I’m not, just tall and thin. He also looks like he might practice some particularly nasty form of martial art that specializes in snapping tall, thin people in two.
“I don’t want to have to fight you,” I say, mainly because I don’t want to have to fight him.
“Then get back in the bus.” The way he says it suggests there’s no gentle way of getting back into the bus.
He advances, his eyes wild, obviously in shock, or just extremely, extremely pissed off. I lunge to the right, then sprint around the side of the bus. He crashes after me, swearing at the top of his lungs. There’s not much room to move—we’re hemmed in by traffic, though none of it is moving that quickly, on account of the accident and the show we’re putting on. We get around twice; I’ve got the edge on him, speed-wise, which is kind of meaningless because all I’m going to do is end up running into his back.
There are cars pulling up everywhere. Some industrious and extremely helpful guy has stopped and is directing traffic, and there’s a woman over at the crumpled, smoking Echo. She sees me and starts waving at me to come over, maybe to help. I yell at her to get away. Someone is moving in the car, and I suspect that someone is going to have the rifle. Every passing second improves his or her hand-eye coordination.
The bus driver’s boots crunch on the gravel behind me. “Get back here, you prick!” the bus driver yells. I glance around to see how close he is. He catches a mouthful of smoke and bends over, coughing. The air is positively toxic. For a moment I worry that he might just drop dead. But at least he’s not running after me anymore.
“This is all going so wonderfully,” Tremaine says, startling me. I ignore him.
I pull my sunglasses over my eyes and sprint-sneak over to the helpful guy’s car, a green hatchback. I feel like an absolute bastard. The keys are in the ignition, which is a relief. I start up the car, and shoot down Coro Drive, fishtailing around the bus, and nearly smash into oncoming traffic. I straighten the hatchback at the last minute, not knowing where in Christ I’m going.
In my rear-vision mirror the bus driver is roaring away at me between coughs, the helpful guy with him. He’s not looking that helpful now, and I don’t blame him. I feel awful, like I’ve mugged a nun.
“Was that wise?” Tremaine is grinning at me, now also in the rearview mirror. I’ve never seen a dead guy looking so full of himself.
“Shut the fuck up.”
“It’s so nice to see that you can keep your cool in a crisis.”
Tremaine’s lucky he’s dead already. “Well, only one of us is still alive,” I snarl.
Low blow, but true. Tremaine is a prick, and being cruel to him is the least of my crimes today.
“What the hell else was he supposed to do?” Lissa asks him.
They flit around each other in the back seat of the car, two aggressive and luminous blurs.
“Not breaking the law might have been a good beginning,” Tremaine says prissily.
Yeah, I could have fled the scene on foot. Not having the police chasing me as well as Stirrers would have been a good idea. But the Stirrers would have caught up with me for sure. I needed to get out of there fast, even if that meant stealing the Good Samaritan’s car. I glance back at Tremaine. “Next time we’ll follow your plan. Which was… Hey, didn’t we already ascertain that you were dead?”
“You’re deadest.” Tremaine clenches a fist in my face. “That’s what you are. Which really doesn’t surprise me, you bloody hick Queenslanders.”
“Come a little closer, and I’ll fucking pomp you, dead man.”
“Oh, shut up,” Lissa says. “Both of you shut up.”
Four blocks later, and heading back into Paddington away from the city, I ditch the car (leaving whatever money I have on me in the glove box for the owner’s trouble) hoping that there are no CCTV cameras around. There’s nothing to connect me to it. I should be safe, particularly when I shave off my beard, which I am going to be doing very soon. Clean-shaven, I’ll look like a different person; certainly not the kind of guy who would steal a car, anyway.
OK, so that’s the story I’m running with, because I have to believe something.
I walk another four blocks looking for the right bus. I must be a sight: bloody hands, torn pants and edgy as all hell, glancing up and down the streets, ducking for cover at the slightest noise. Any second I expect a bullet to come driving into my brain or worse, into my back, driving me to the ground where I’ll writhe like road-kill. If I’m going to be killed I want it to be as quick and painless as possible.
Finally, the bus I’m after is trundling down the street. Why does public transport travel at such glacial speeds when people are trying to kill you? I flag it to a stop, flash my pass and get on board. The driver barely gives me a second glance.
“Where are you going?” Lissa asks.
“My question exactly.” Tremaine’s voice drills into my skull.
“Home,” I say, keeping my voice low and spinning toward the dead couple. “Is that all right with you two?”
Lissa slaps her forehead disdainfully, and looks at me like I’m an idiot. “Surely you wouldn’t be so stupid as to—”
“Exactly. Surely I wouldn’t be,” I say. “There’s a back way—well, it’s actually someone’s yard. They’re not going to expect me to go home, anyway. They’re going to expect me to go to Mr. D.”
“He has a point,” Tremaine says, which immediately makes me suspect my own logic. “Besides, you can bring Mr. D to you.”
“I don’t like it.” Lissa frowns.
“Any more than you don’t like being dead?” Tremaine winks at me. He’s certainly taking a bipartisan approach to pissing people off.
The Business Of Death, Death Works Trilogy Page 7
