“I know you and the others stole the Raptus from the dig site, so don’t play games with me,” she hissed, slamming him into the police car. “Where is it?”
How on Uos had she known the relic’s name? Did everyone else know about this thing but him? How had he been surrounded by a conspiracy yet never twigged to it? Chet stared at her, made stupid by fear and shock. “What?”
She maneuvered him so one arm held him up, bracing him against the car. Then she wrapped her free hand around his neck and squeezed. “Listen, you little dium, the Raptus is mine. I didn’t spend hundreds of thousands of gilt on the dig site for chew sticks and clocks. Where is it?”
Chet wheezed with what little air he had, struggling for breath. As his vision grew dark, he realized with the rational part of his mind that he’d felt safer with Knife’s hand around his throat than with Clementina’s. Knife had just wanted to make a point: she was a professional and had known precisely when to stop. Clementina didn’t. He could see it in her eyes, her reddening face. Spots erupted in his vision... he was passing out...
“What are you doing?” someone yelled. “That’s our suspect!”
Chet was released. He fell onto the pavement, choking. Abyss, he’d been throttled for the second time in as many days—he was going to have some spectacular bruises.
Clementina and the officer were talking above him, but he couldn’t focus properly. He blinked his watering eyes as Clementina turned and walked away. What? Why hadn’t the police officer arrested her for assault and battery? Chet’s indignation broiled as the officer hauled him to his feet. Bulky and bistre-skinned, the new officer seemed oddly uncomfortable in his uniform.
To Chet’s surprise, the officer began leading him away from the car. “What are you doing? Where are you taking me?”
“Hush. I’m getting you out of here, Chet,” the guy murmured in his deep bass. He was carrying a large paper bag in his other hand, marked “evidence.”
Chet stared as he was hustled forward. The policeman’s uniform exactly like the others, only he wore his hat scrunched down to his ears. No sideburns, no hair peeking out from under the cap. Moreover, one of the cords was located right beside Chet, as was the Raptus.
“Journey?” Chet whispered with disbelief.
“Yeah. Come on, they’ll be back any minute.” Journey hustled him into the nearest building, an archaeology lecture hall with faculty offices in the basement. Chet knew the building inside and out.
“Can you get these cuffs off? I mean, can you shape your fingers real thin and break the chains in half or something?”
“I don’t have extra-human strength,” Journey growled in his deep voice. “I’d shatter bones doing that, and Pelin doesn’t heal bones. I got this guy’s keys, though, when I stripped him. Whoops!”
Journey swiveled around and walked the other way, but not before Chet saw the officer at the end of the hall. Fortunately, he was faced the wrong way. He’d been positioned like a man guarding something.
“Go left,” Chet said in an undertone. “Now go right, straight down this hall. There’s a stairwell we can take.”
“Where are we headed?”
“Down to the steam tunnels. We can’t get to the economy parking lot that way, but at least we can get out of this quad.” The invisible bond to one of the others seemed to point downward. The other... Chet frowned, uncertain. He couldn’t properly concentrate while hustling with his hands cuffed behind his back, but whoever it was wasn’t in the archaeology quad anymore.
“Won’t the police expect us to take those tunnels?” Journey said, glancing behind them. Chet could see the whites of his eyes.
“Don’t know, but better than nothing.” There had been two police cars and one security car, meaning... what? That there were four officers and two security guards out there? Or three, since Journey seemed to have taken one down, or whatever, for his clothes. They had to have called for backup, though, which would be arriving soon.
Chet and Journey turned the corner, and a policeman was standing right there. He was in the process of lighting a cigarette. “Hey, what are you doing, Myers? The kid’s supposed to be locked up in the car!”
“I was told you wanted him,” Journey said evenly.
Myers? Journey had apparently copied the appearance of the officer whose uniform he wore, which made sense. Chet had known Journey for only a short time, but it seemed to Chet that this current face and figure wasn’t his style.
“Aw, Abyss with that. Take the kid back up,” the officer growled. “We can’t screw up this scene or admin will be all over us.”
“Right.” Journey swiveled and led Chet back the direction they’d come. “That was close," he whispered.
“Take a left up here. We can still get to the staircase via a roundabout corridor.” Chet had often used that particular corridor while coming in and out of Professor Tibbet’s office.
“Chet, look.” There was a smear of blood on the floor near the corner, leading in the direction Chet was taking them.
He hestitated, then swallowed his fear. “Come on, we’ve got to keep going.” They either went this way, or they didn’t get to the steam tunnels.
They rounded the corner. Even though he was prepared for a gristly scene, Chet’s mouth opened, and he felt blood drain from his face. Journey gasped, his hand reflexively touching his heart, an effeminate gesture belied by his current appearance. Chet couldn’t believe it. He just couldn’t.
Professor Tibbets sat against the wall. There was blood all over the floor, smeared and marked. By the mess, it looked like Tibbets had dragged himself into that position. His chest was bloody, marring his perpetual tweed suit.
He was dead.
Chapter 11
Getting Away from It All
“Oh, Pantheon," Journey said as they tiptoed around the body. “Oh, Pantheon.” He sounded far too effeminate to be a policeman, now, though his voice was still low.
Numb and sick to his stomach, Chet took the lead. Journey trailed behind, not even pretending to be an arresting officer anymore. They trotted downstairs, and Chet led them through the double doors marked “Do Not Enter.” The utilitarian corridor was silent and dimly lit by emergency lighting.
Chet stopped and leaned against a wall, unable to continue. His teacher, his mentor, was dead. Professor Tibbets had been a swell guy, completely affable. He’d never once expressed concern about Chet’s non-affiliate status. Now he was gone. His body had looked so awkward, sprawled on the floor. Something inside of Chet wanted to protest the careless, almost accidental nature of the scene they’d just witnessed. Professor Tibbets had deserved to be more than a corpse, killed before his time.
Blood. There’d been so much blood.
Chet swallowed. “I think I’m going to be...” He barely had time to take a breath before throwing up. Coughing, his throat burning, Chet slowly straightened.
“You okay?”
“Not sure. I guess so.”
“Turn around, Chet. Let me at those cuffs.” After a few false tries, Journey found the correct key to free him.
Chet rubbed his hands and arms, chilled through. He could feel the invisible cord to the nearest person; whoever it was, they’d begun heading their way. They were on the same level, he was certain. Was the other person lost in the steam tunnels?
“Come on,” Chet said, heading toward the sociology-anthropology lecture halls. By the loosening of the bonds, he was certain both Fenimore and Knife were in this general direction.
“Who would do that to poor Veyaon? He was a kind, generous man who wouldn’t hurt a dium, not even if it was gnawing on his face.”
His voice was a light alto, and Chet glanced back, startled. Journey was shapeshifting even as Chet watched. His skin color rippled back to flaxen, growing taller and skinnier in the process, though he stayed male. Now Journey looked much as he had last night. He stripped out of the button-down police shirt to reveal a white undershirt, but didn’t discard the hat; the wig was
nowhere to be seen. Myer’s clothing was loose and baggy on him now, too short for his stature—Chet could see a sliver of Journey’s midrift between his shirt and trousers. He carried the purse with the Raptus openly, the paper bag having been abandoned.
Chet licked his lips. Barring a random killing... almost any of them could have murdered Tibbets. “I know Fenimore has his blade, but does Knife carry any weapons?”
“Several. He even has a concealed gun. I know Knife doesn’t have a problem hurting people while on Pelin’s business, but we aren’t on Pelin’s business. Knife isn’t a sociopath, you know.”
“Um, you don’t say.” Chet shot her a sideways look from the corner of his eye. He’d never thought Knife was a sociopath.
Journey shrugged. “All I’m saying is, she doesn’t enjoy murder. For that matter, I’ve killed men in my time.”
“This lifetime, too?” They opened another set of double doors, paused, then entered the next set of steam tunnels. Somewhere in the distance he heard the rumble of pipes and a water heater turning on.
“Mmm. I survived the war, you know. You do things in war that it normally wouldn’t occur to you to do," Journey said thoughtfully, his voice distant. “But I know it wasn’t me. I don’t think it was you.”
“Good great Pantheon, Professor Tibbets was all that was standing between me and being expelled because of you guys. Plus, he was a fantastic person and a good teacher. Why on Uos would I kill him?”
“Motivation is a problem for all of us. What about if it wasn’t one of us, though? What if it was Clementina?”
Chet chewed the idea over, wiping sweat from his brow. It was getting warmer now that the corridor led upward. They were probably near the boiler by the sociology faculty offices. “How do you figure?”
“What if she saw this as an opportunity to finger evil, perverted Flame for murder? The timeline works. She spots us, calls the police, murders poor Veyaon, then has enough time to meet the police in the quad.”
A dark shadow stepped out from behind water and sewage pipes down the corridor. Chet jumped, heart in his throat.
“Did I hear right? Tibbets is dead?” Knife said quietly.
“Where have you been?” Chet said, glaring.
“Don’t snap at me, boy. We got separated running from the police. This place is a maze. Finally thought to follow this bond thing to find you.”
Chet let Journey do the explaining. The forth cord—Fenimore’s—was definitely straight ahead and up a level. Apparently he was in the faculty parking lot nestled between buildings. Chet turned and led them through another set of double doors and up a stairwell. The problem was that Journey was right: they all had a problem with motivation. Journey could even be covering his own guilt. He and Tibbets had been old friends, or so it seemed. Maybe Journey had slept with Tibbets, too, when Tibbets had been younger. That would fit Journey’s modus operandi. Yet Chet could have sworn Journey’s reaction had been real.
But what did he really know about these Flame? He’d known them three days.
They emerged from the quiet building to the secluded faculty parking lot. After a few seconds, Fenimore emerged from behind a vehicle and loped over.
“Where have you been?” Fenimore was wild eyed and stranded looking. He seemed relieved to see them, his hair escaping the ponytail in puffy, frothy curls.
Journey explained again. Chet ignored them, watching Knife—he seemed to be casing the joint, or something like that. Chet had never seen someone do such a thing, but the phrase fit his behavior. Knife was looking over each vehicle the way a ceros thief looked over a herd. He paused beside a large luxury sedan.
Chet recognized it. “That’s Professor Clementina’s car. One of them, anyway.”
Knife grinned and fished a leather wallet out of his pocket... only it wasn’t a wallet, it held tiny metal tools instead of money. “Thought these female professors don’t have the salary of their Literati counterparts.”
“I believe she married into money,” Chet said, watching with fascination as Knife picked the car door lock. “Her husband’s family controls copper mines in the mountains.”
“In that case, she can afford to lend us her ride.” The door clicked quietly, and Knife opened it. “Come on, get in.”
They piled inside except for Knife, who knelt under the steering column. He extracted another tool from the leather wallet and unscrewed a front panel, then ripped through the wires inside. He touched two wires together, and the car started.
Chet shut his gaping mouth. He really had fallen in with bad company. These were the people that mothers warned their children about. Well, not his mother, but mothers in general. Stealing cars, possibly murdering people and having sex like crazy... Chet couldn’t help but grin at this last quality, despite his deep-set unease with sexuality, especially his own.
“Want to try for the rental car in the economy lot?” Knife asked. Chet nodded and gave directions.
Fenimore looked at them in disbelief. “Is it worth the risk?”
“Yes!” Journey and Chet said simultaneously. Chet didn’t want to lose his books much in the way he didn’t want to lose his right arm. Journey apparently felt the same about her things, too.
Except the economy parking lot was being used as overflow for the numerous police cars that had responded to the murder investigation. Policemen were walking between the lot and the archaeology quad. There was no way to enter without being seen. No way to retrieve their stuff. An officer glanced up at them even as he filled out paperwork on his dash.
“Shit,” Chet said, wanting nothing more than to sink down in the seat.
Knife said, “Everyone, stay calm. Look bored.”
Chet closed his eyes, waiting for lights and sirens to blaze up behind them. Nothing happened. Knife gently steered them down the hill, and they passed not one but three more police cars, sirens wailing.
“I can’t believe we got aw—” Chet paused as they rounded the corner. Police were putting up barricades even now at the base of campus. A checkpoint crossing.
Knife glared at him. “You realize this is your fault, right?”
Chet swallowed and glanced at Journey in the backseat. He was the most conspicuous member of their party, with his police hat and bald head beneath. Journey knew it, too. He slipped to the floor of the car. Chet watched as he flattened out; it was a bit like watching pastry dough being rolled out. After a moment, Chet realized Knife was changing, too. The shape—and color—of his exposed skin was shifting, morphing. Chet stared, wondering what the results would be.
“Face forward, Chet,” Journey hissed. “Act like nothing’s wrong. Fenimore, take off your sweater and drape it over my head and arms, then put your feet on me like I’m the floor.”
“Try to stay calm, everyone. This is going to get hairy,” Knife said. Even his voice was changing—it sounded familiar, somehow. They were about a hundred feet from the officers.
This couldn’t work. It would never work. Chet faced forward with wide eyes and a smile plastered on his face. What had Knife changed into? Who was he now? And how could the police possibly miss the lump—the flat lump, but still—of Journey on the floor behind them? Chet could feel cold sweat, something he’d never felt before, as Knife brought them to a complete stop.
“Morning, officers," Knife said in an entirely different tone of voice. Abyss, his voice was familiar.
“Step out of the car, please.”
“Yes, sir.”
Chet stared at Knife’s back, jittering with unease. Knife seemed shorter in his new form. Chet glanced back and caught Fenimore’s eye; Fenimore looked cool and collected. He either didn’t understand the severity of the situation or—more likely—he’d experienced worse. Chet swallowed and tried to emulate Fenimore’s nonchalant attitude.
“What seems to be the pro—hey!” Knife cried out. The officer had grabbed his hair—the wig—and swept it off his head.
“A Flame!” Both officers drew their guns and trained th
em on Knife, who’d raised his hands above his head.
“Yes, I’m Flame. But I’m also a student here.” Knife had finally turned so Chet could see his profile. Chet gaped. He knew that face, knew it well. Knife continued, “My initiate name is Oak, but on campus I’m known as Steve.”
“There are no Flame at Semaphore University.” The officers seemed hesitant, the tips of their guns wavering.
Knife made eye contact with Chet. “That’s my friend and former roommate in the front seat. His name is Chet Baikson. Could he step out of the car to verify my identity?”
The second officer moved around the stolen vehicle, his gun now aimed at Chet, and nodded once. “Keep your hands visible," he muttered as he opened the passenger door.
Chet rose from the seat, hands raised in the air. He was shaking. “Um, hello.”
“Chet, tell them," Knife hissed.
“Okay, yeah. This is Oak, but I still call him Steve," Chet said valiantly, gazing at Knife. Knife short as Steve, but he was rounder: his belly protruded, and he had a bit of a double chin. Was it because he was usually taller than Oak? Maybe he had more mass. Chet continued, “Oak’s a graduate student in the law degree program. We’ve known each other for three years, from before he initiated to Pelin last summer.”
“What else?”
“Don’t you guys know a student when you see one? Look, his last name is Irkshie and his student ID number is 772A-3-9G34,” Chet went on, warming to his work. Of course he knew Steve’s ID, as Steve had let him cheat off a test that first year. Chet was heartened that he still remembered it in the heat of the moment. Knife isn’t the only one who can pull this trick. “You don’t have to take my word for it. Why don’t you call the law department on campus and ask them? Abyss, ask Professor Espies. Oak, aren’t you’re taking a test in Espie’s maritime-trade class tomorrow?”
Knife nodded, hands still raised in the air. To Chet’s surprise, he was crying and shivering, as if he really was scared out his mind. Despite the extra weight, he looked exactly like Oak when he was crying. “Y-yes. P-please don’t hurt me. It’s not a crime to be Flame! Not even outside W-Wetshul.”
The Artifact of Foex Page 11
