"Keep it down," he drawled. I couldn't place his accent, but it was slow. Sloppy. Like he was talking through a mouthful of cotton balls and tripping over his own tongue.
"I get a telephone call."
"When you're officially charged, yes, you get a call," Muffie said; his smile wasn't a perfect row of white teeth like Bouchard's. It was broken, full of wide gaps, and his teeth jutted off in awkward angles. His breath rolled out like a cloud, reeking of fish.
"I was arrested."
"Aye," said Muffie. "You were arrested."
"You have to charge me to arrest me."
Muffie disagreed. He slapped the club against the bars. I stepped back in surprise, blinking. It only encouraged him. He leaned close.
"That's a good boy," he slurred. "You stay back and don't crowd the bars. It's unruly. Know your place, don't you be quoting Lovatine law like you understand how it works. You were arrested under suspicion, not formally charged. When you're arrested under suspicion we can hold you for five days, and then you'll get your telephone call. If we don't formally charge you, you'll eventually be released..." Muffie grinned his undertaker's grin before finishing, "...at the detectives discretion, but we both know there's not a chance in hell of that happening, don't we, killer?"
He sneered and I glared; we stared at one another like this for some time, but it was Muffie who rolled his eyes and lost our silent competition. "Don't try that tough guy routine with me, killer. It doesn't phase me. I've faced off with harder men than you. Now, you just settle down and wait for Bouchard and me like a good little killer, see? You behave and we'll see you get some breakfast in you." He wrinkled his nose. "Maybe see that you get a shower and a fresh jumper as well." His sallow eyes looked me up and down. "I think prisoner red will suit you just fine."
I slammed my hands against the bars and shouted a few obscenities as Muffie disappeared into the station, leaving me to pace a nearly empty drunk tank. I was getting restless. Feeling frayed at the edges. I needed a meal, needed sleep. I was exhausted. No windows were visible from the drunk tank, but the station did feel lighter. Had I been there all night?
I sat on an empty bench and tried to nap, but sleep didn't find me despite how my body ached for it. My insomnia only frayed me further. I stood, paced the small cell, and then sat again. Wondering what my next plan would be.
I couldn't stay there.
If they formally charged me I might have got my telephone call, but would I really be able to contact Wensem? He said he would be unreachable. Besides, he didn't even own a telephone. Who else? Who else could vouch for me?
Wilem, Black & Bright.
My payment.
I was with Wensem, but they paid me. I regretted not getting the receipt when the receptionist had offered it, but remembered her scratching the payment into a ledger book.
Bell Caravans. Waldo Bell. Wensen dal Ibble.
They'd have records of me collecting my caravan master fee and my bonus. It'd be hard for Bouchard to refute that evidence. I wondered if they'd take my call, if the receptionist would even listen to me.
Probably not.
I paced some more. Exhausted, I decided it would be better to visit them in person. You can't hang up on someone standing in front of your desk. Maybe August could get me in to see one of the partners? Wilem? Black maybe? August had contacts. He had said as much before I took the Wilem, Black & Bright job.
I moved near the door of the cage.
A plan began forming in my mind. I would have to act quickly. Escape seemed insane, but what other option did I have? It was either fight my way outside and try to clear my name, or risk prison for two murders I didn't commit.
"Back away from the door," said a voice, snapping me out of my daydream.
A pair of uniformed officers stood just outside the cage door. A drunk beggar was hanging between them. One scowled at me when I didn't jump at his command.
"The door. Away. Now," he commanded, drawing a club with his free hand. I stepped back cautiously. This was my moment. I needed to time it right.
"Move it, drunk. Come on, I don't have all day."
The man that hung between him hiccuped and rolled his head back, a long moan belching from his throat and a stream of drool dripping from his lips.
"I think he's going to puke," said the other officer nervously.
"You hear that, buddy? This fella is going to puke. Now step back so he's not puking on me."
I stepped back again. Enough to appease the officer. He grumbled thanks and pulled a set of keys from his belt and unlocked the door. It swung open with a long metal-on-metal creak.
The two cops, drunk slung between them, stepped one foot inside the cage, cocking their shoulders. It was clear they were going to throw the poor bastard forward and slam the door behind him.
I pushed against the drunk right as they started to release him. He reeled and fell backwards into the officers, the contents of his stomach an arching rainbow. The three went down in a tangle of limbs and a spatter of vomit. The drunk's loud moans were broken by a hiccup.
I leapt the tangle and landed on my heels, feeling a hand try to grab my ankle. I kicked backward, connecting with the jaw of one of the officers. His club clattered from his hands and I scooped it up, pushing forward on the balls of my feet and taking off down the hallway in a sprint.
I could hear cops shouting from behind me.
"Escape! We have an escape! Drunk tank! Escape! Bar the doors!"
Another officer appeared before me, a look of shock on his face. I pushed him through an open door, sending him sprawling.
"Get down!" came a command.
Muffie came into view, club in hand, a panicked look flashing across his face.
"I knew it was you, you son of a bit–" I hit him with my stolen club, catching him across the nose and jaw and sending him spinning. I dropped and shoved my shoulder up until it connected with his gut, lifting him slightly and sending him falling backward. He yowled in pain. I could feel the air gush out of him as he went down, and heard the smack as the back of his head slapped on the tile.
"Stop or we'll shoot!" came a command from behind me. "Stop!"
Right.
I didn't stop.
I plunged through an open door and into the lobby of Lovat Central Police Headquarters. A mass of stunned cops greeted me with blank stares. Looks of shock and bewilderment crossed their faces. What idiot brazenly attempts to escape from the drunk tank—the drunk tank of all places—surrounded by police?
I seized the moment, slipping over a nearby counter and landing on my feet. I heard boots pounding on the tile behind me.
"Stop him!"
"Get down!"
"Stop that man!"
Arms and hands reached out to stop me, quick instincts working through confusion. I jerked away, roughly pulling free.
I passed through another open door and was sprinting toward the lobby entrance as the sound of gunfire opened up behind me.
Pop. Pop. Pa-pop!
I tried to duck, wondering if it really made me a smaller target or just a slower one. Hard to know when my education on police evasion came from the police procedural serials.
Slugs zipped past my ears and I could smell gunpowder. My heart pounded as glass shattered and burst around me. I considered dropping to the ground, but knew if I did that I'd never get out.
Almost to the door.
Red hot pain exploded through my left arm.
I was hit.
In slow motion, I watched a shower of my own blood spatter across the floor. I slowed and stumbled as the pain hit my brain. My arm felt on fire.
Escape! My brain shouted. I stumbled, correcting myself before I fell through the glass doors that lead to the streets outside. I could feel blood run down my arm, and I slapped my right hand over the wound. I didn't need to leave a blood trail. I needed to escape.
More gunfire shattered the air behind me. I started with every shot, expecting another slug to bring me down.
None did.
Civilians stared at me awkwardly. I was filthy, I stank, and I was stumbling down the street with a bloody arm and a crazy look in my eyes. I'd stare at me too. I probably looked like some fever-mad pitch addict.
I ignored the crowds; the more distance I put between myself and the police, the better. I sprinted away.
Pushing past stunned civilians and a few equally stunned cops.
Pushing through and out into open streets.
Pushing toward freedom.
SIX
Taking the stairs two, sometimes three at a time, I sprinted away from Lovat Central PD. The bullet hole screamed at me with every step. I could feel the warmth of my blood as it gurgled from the wound and down my arm.
I ignored the pain as best I could (which wasn't very well) as I flew down the caged stairwell descending from the fifth level down into the fourth. The stairwell had been close to the station, but I gambled that the officers in pursuit of me would expect me to take a public lift rather than the stairs.
I had won the hand.
The sub-floors of Lovat Central Police Department hung like a stalactite from the ceiling of Level Four. The mirrored glass windows hid any prying eyes, but I swore I could feel the presence of lookouts watching my hasty descent, reporting my location, directing the hunters.
Level Four's street rose to meet me, but I ignored it, slipping past a homeless man and continuing my descent. Downward. Ever downward. My mind raced, thinking back to lessons I had learned on the trail.
Keep a distance between yourself and other travelers.
Never stop moving.
Trust no one but your company.
Rest only for short periods of time.
Never rest in the same place.
They were solid rules. For this occasion I added one more: the police can't catch what they can't find.
I needed to get lost. Really lost. The police wouldn't stop looking for me, I knew that: my face would be all over the monochrome news by morning. Person of interest. Top suspect. I would probably get a nickname. I could see the headlines and they left a bitter taste in my mouth.
I continued to descend.
Body parts stolen? Both victims tied to me somehow? Why? There was more to these murders, a reason why I was connected. It was a spiderweb, and I couldn't make sense of the strands. Thad was a close friend, Fran was once close. Now, both were gone.
Gone.
Hollowness rang out inside my chest, clanging like an old church bell. I felt sick to my stomach. I wanted to just slump against a wall and mourn properly. Say my goodbyes. None of this made sense. Bouchard's fleshy face sneered at me from the shadows of my imagination, that smug Detective Muffie standing over his shoulder.
I slumped into a stairwell wall, smearing a streak of blood along the graffiti and causing my arm to scream in protest. Almost there.
Level Three.
I slipped out from the stairwell. My momentum sent me stumbling to the sidewalk, scaring an old woman and a group of teen maero who rushed away on their long, spindly legs. I let go of my arm to catch my fall. Blood fanned out before me, and I clamped my hand back over the bullet wound, squeezing tightly and gritting my teeth against the lightning bolts of pain that buzzed in my skull like static.
The police can't catch what they can't find.
Get lost.
My motions were feral, desperate as I spun, trying to get a sense of my bearings. I was only two levels below Lovat Central. A five, maybe ten minute lift ride. Perhaps fifteen if traffic was heavy.
Still too close to the station.
Pedestrians moved across the street to avoid me. I couldn't blame them. I probably looked awful. Dirty, covered in puke and blood, gripping my left bicep, and gritting my teeth. All these people would remember me, remember me and report to the police when my face showed up on the news.
I needed to get away. Away from the stairwell, away from the public.
I began to wander.
It was clear how different Level Three was compared with the more elevated levels. It was older. Shabbier. Remnants of ancient towers poked through the street like nasty weeds; crowns of the old city. The back of the forgotten metropolis upon which Lovat had risen.
That is the way of it: cities built upon the bones of cities that came before them. Adding, mixing, destroying, and rebuilding. The penthouse suites of one generation become the vomit-soaked dens of addicts in another. The city grows, ever upward, ever changing.
It gave Level Three an unusual otherworldly quality. Oddly shaped buildings of diametric angles, bulbous domes, and broken half circles dominated the area. Slabs of rusted steel and mildew-darkened glass hunkered over the streets like broken old men. Large, sprawling open squares were lined with heavy machinery that had once circulated air in the floors of the tower below them. Skeletons of cranes that had once lowered window washers now became the supporting structure for an apartment building or the makeshift roof of a block of stores. A few old twin-wheel cycles rumbled past, belching black smoke that hung in the stagnant air, their occupants glowering from the seats as they clung to the handlebars.
I headed west along Cherry Street, hoping it'd be the opposite direction the Lovat Police Department would expect. East was the caravansara encampments.
The open road.
The Big Ninety.
Freedom.
East was where one would be expected to run. Cross the bridges. Hit the mainland. West was the sea. A dead end. No fool in his right mind would head in that direction.
The police can't catch what they can't find.
I hoped it would be enough. I stumbled along, blind to the street signs, pausing for a moment to rip my right sleeve free from my shirt and try to tie a makeshift tourniquet around the bullet hole. It was painful. I'm no doctor, but I needed anything to staunch the flow of blood from my arm. I needed medical attention desperately, but I needed to hide even more.
I passed a huddle of kresh grouped near a street corner wearing dirty rags and the small round hats of monks. They hissed as I rushed past, their beady, heart-shaped black eyes following me. Marking me. More witnesses. The wild man of Level Three, he'll be on the news later, I'll need to remember where I saw him.
I ignored them.
Walk the hundreds of miles between Lovat and Syringa twelve plus times a year, and you end up with a skill in trail work. I pride myself on being fairly quick on my feet, but I was exhausted, hungry, and despite my tourniquet feeling light-headed from blood loss.
I was leaving a trail. The roader in me knew it would take very little to track. I was resigned to the matter; even if I could get some distance with my current strategy, they'd eventually find me.
My new rule repeated in my head. The police can't catch what they can't find.
My trail needed to end here.
I slumped to the sidewalk and allowed myself a few minutes to catch my breath. I felt cold. Shivers ran along my spine and a cloying numbness began to seep into my bones. My brain was fuzzy but somewhere inside I knew I was in shock — no sense ignoring it.
Lovat hospitals were expensive and exclusive; most folks simply couldn't afford to move through the automatic doors to reach the caring hands of their highly trained physicians. The lira in my pocket could have bought me medical care, but professional physicians would turn me back into police custody as soon as they had sewn me up.
I needed someone less reputable.
I needed a Bonesaw.
I don't know how long I sat on the street corner. A few more people milled about, giving me a wide berth. One even tossed me a lira like I was some beggar. A street mystic stumbled past, smelling strongly of gin and urine. I considered taking one of the monorails that crisscrossed Lovat but thought better of it. Too public.
A cephel dragged a rattling rickshaw down the road toward me. The ancient construct squeaked and clattered as the eight-limbed octopod pulled it. I flagged the cephel down and climbed into the seat behind it. My moti
ons were slow and cumbersome.
It clucked at me. Suspiciously eyeing the blood on my clothes, it nodded its head in a motion akin to a man pointing with his chin.
"No questions," I said. "I need to get to Collins Street."
It considered this. Staring at me, softly clucking as it thought. It clearly wasn't pleased with my demand, and didn't like the look of me, but the fare would be large enough to allow it to eat for the week. I avoided mentioning that my stack of lira was in some lockbox deep inside Lovat Central.
A moment of decision passed between us until the cephel clucked again, this time louder and sharper, and nodded its huge head towards the rickshaw's seat. It would take me.
The rickshaw was wood, worn smooth by countless numbers of passengers over what could have been centuries. I slumped in the seat, exhaustion and numbness creeping into my limbs. I laid back and let the cephel's thick leg tentacles push us down Second Avenue, carrying me away from my blood trail and toward my freedom.
The police can't catch what they can't find.
I got lost.
* * *
My trip down Second Avenue was a blur. A broken series of mental photographs. A few odd storefronts. The flashing, verdant green of commercial and community vegetable gardens. The taunting scents from food carts that jolted me and my stomach awake. I drifted in and out, eventually waking with the looming presence of the rickshaw driver above me, its massive oblong head blocking the headache-inducing glare from the cement gray sky.
Sky.
No roof.
No upper level. I was far from the central area of the city.
Giant eyes stared at me with concern. I jolted upright. Thanked the driver. He nodded, and tsked over the smear of blood I left on the old wood of the rickshaw seat, my legs shaking below me.
Now it would get awkward.
I shrugged when the creature extended a hand for the fare. Its eyes went cold and it clucked louder. I shrugged again, feeling genuinely bad. I explained what had happened. Told him I'd owe him double. Told him to visit the caravansara in a month's time and ask for me. He seemed suspicious. Who wouldn't have been?
The Stars Were Right Page 6
