The Stars Were Right

by Alexander, K. M.

  "Sorry for bothering you," I apologized.

  Black waved away the apology. "It was good to meet you in person. I felt awful when I missed you last week. Where is he?"

  "Ah," I said. "Wensem is maero, just had a kid. His first. Apparently he had to go in the forest and do maero things."

  "Ah, the Bonding ritual. I see," Black said, rolling beside me as I walked to the door. "Any idea when he will return?"

  Why did he care? I opened my mouth to ask, but Black interrupted me, "I always wanted children. Charlotte couldn't have them, unfortunately. I'd love to meet Wensem and his little tyke."

  I smiled, but didn't say anything. Something wasn't right about the question.

  When we paused by the door, Black reached out and put a hand on my arm. "Nancy won't forgive you anytime soon, even if I talk to her. She's a stubborn one."

  "Well, I was a touch rude, bursting in here," I admitted.

  "If she had her way I'd never be disturbed. Interruptions are a part of business, I tell her. Does she listen, no, she just continually forces people into her appointment book. I just want to warn you, expect a cold reception going forward."

  I smiled. "I appreciate the warning. It was a pleasure working for you, Mister Black."

  "Pleasure is all mine, son," he said.

  I opened the door and stepped through. My mind was now a jumbled mess of knots. I had been so sure Black was my man. So sure he was some personification of Pan, but looking at the old dimanian in his wheelchair, doubt had crept into my mind.

  "Oh my last question," I said, leaning partially out of the door. "What was in the crate?"

  Black smiled, the crow's feet around his bright eyes crinkling.

  "Antiques."

  SIXTEEN

  My conversation with Peter Black left me more than confused. He didn't seem like the mastermind I had assumed he was, made me wonder just how poor my sleuthing had been. Still, why the question about Wensem? It would be a good ploy: pretend to be the kindly old man to throw investigators off the trail, but that sort of thing only happens in monochrome serials.

  August's death didn't help ease the confusion. If Black wasn't our guy, then the trail pointed to Robby Wilem; but if Black was to be believed, Wilem wasn't in the city. So why was August dead? He had been another victim. Another target of the umbra and her straight razor. I wondered how she fit in with all of this. Was she the mastermind? I knew next to nothing about her.

  Pulling up my collar and screwing down my cap, I pushed out of the lift doors and into the Arcadia's lobby. This was the part I was wary about. I had no idea if receptionist Nancy had alerted security or if she had called the police like she had threatened. For all I knew I would face a small army of uniformed officers or angry security guards. Either way, I expected it would end badly.

  Instead I was greeted by the echoes of bustling people milling about in the half-empty lobby. I let out a relieved sigh and leaned against a nearby pillar, catching my breath.

  "Can I help you, sir?" asked a human bellhop in a white uniform.

  I said nothing, pushing off the pillar and moving toward the door like I belonged there, leaving the bellhop staring at my back.

  Striding through the big double doors and past the doorman, I made sure to keep my head down and my face blocked by either the bill of my cap or the height of my collar. Just another nobody keeping to himself, on his way somewhere, no one of interest.

  I took a left outside the Arcadia's doors, heading south and east toward King Station. I played my meeting with Black over and over in my mind. It all seemed wrong.

  The streets were sleepy this early on a weekend and only a few people milled about. I passed by a couple conversing and ducked around a bicyclist studying a map. Lost in thought, I wasn't paying attention. I let my guard down. I had been so nervous exiting the lift and striding into the lobby that when I got outside I felt free. That mistake—and with my mind more focused on my meeting with Black—was why I bumped into Detective Carl Bouchard .

  Bouncing off his gut, I looked up, my eyes widening as I recognized the detective.

  "Watch where you're going you—Bell!" Bouchard shouted, taking a step back and blinking at me. Confusion gave way to cold anger.

  "Carter's cross," I swore, easing backward.

  "You," he growled. He thrust out his big, meaty palms in an awkward attempt to grab me. Out in the open like this I was quicker than the old detective. Slipping under his outstretched arm, I burst into a sprint.

  Saint Mark's would eventually be my destination, but leading Bouchard to the cathedral would be a huge mistake—I'd have to lose him first.

  The police can't catch what they can't find.

  "Stop! Bell!"

  My feet slapped against the pavement. I was wondering which direction I should head as I took the first corner. I didn't know Pergola Square, I didn't understand its streets, and I certainly didn't know Level Seven. It was like dropping a greenhorn on the Big Ninety and telling them to go to Syringa.

  "Stop! Lovat P.D.!" Bouchard screamed. "Stop!"

  It only encouraged me to pick up speed; my ribs protested with each stride, but I tried to push it out of my mind. A little pain was better than the alternative. If I was caught, this was all over. I'd be jailed, and seeing the hate in Bouchard's eyes, I doubted a trial would be in my future. I ran harder.

  Bouchard was shouting, screaming from behind. I could hear his shoes slap against the clean sidewalks of Level Seven as his big legs pumped after me.

  I ducked under a cart and crossed the street. Bouchard was on my heels, his heavy breath sounding like a massive bellows.

  I gave a cursory glance over my shoulder and saw him struggling to keep up. His face was red, his teeth bared like a wild animal, his eyes wide. His coat flapped behind him like wings.

  I spun and turned down a street to my left. Windows, staircases, and bodies rushed past. Bouchard let out a furious grunt and followed. A crash echoed from behind me, then a curse and a shout, but I didn't indulge in a look back. Seconds mattered.

  A sense of déjà vu overwhelmed me. Buildings blurred. The dauger, dimanian, and human citizens of Lovat who called this area of the city home froze in place and watched me run, the big detective hot on my trail.

  "Stop that man!" Bouchard bellowed. "Lovat Central! Stop! That! Man!"

  A few citizens made weak attempts to grab my jacket but I was able to slap them away. One fruit vendor tried to be a hero and jumped in my way, but I bowled through him, knocking him into a pile of his produce.

  I turned down a narrow alley between two gray brick buildings. It was darker than the street, with fewer lights hung from the ceiling above, but it gave just enough visibility to see where I was going. I leapt over a barrel and jumped off a crate. My ribs jolted with the impact.

  Checking Bouchard's distance, I was grateful to see he was slipping behind. I wanted to let out a whoop of victory, but better to save that for an actual escape.

  The alley before me widened and turned left. Wide-eyed tenants stared at me through windows, a few pulling their shutters.

  I followed the alley left, knowing that if I could make it to the next street I would be home free. Bouchard was too far behind and wouldn't be able to pursue me much longer. I would be able to lose him.

  There was no next street.

  As I careened around the corner my alley ended. A small railing blocking the path gave over to empty air. I slid to a stop. Level Six opened up below me, the tops of old buildings and the movement of citizens far below filled my vision. A few old pipes crossed the empty space, carrying power, water, and air to various locations within the city.

  Another alley seemed to continue hundreds of feet across the expanse. If the two paths were ever meant to connect, those plans had been long abandoned and forgotten. The other side taunted me, beyond reach. Many stories below was the roof of a Level Six building. Air circulators and gravel covered its crown, along with the occasional shanty made of wooden crates an
d sheet metal. Bouchard's breathing echoed from around the corner, sounding like an enraged bear.

  I had nowhere to go.

  This is it, I thought. It's over, it ends here.

  Turning around, I backed up against the railing, feeling the cold metal through my jacket. I waited. Wondering for a scant second how this would play out. Would he throw me over? Shoot me? Arrest me? Beat me to a pulp?

  Bouchard burst around the corner like a cannonball, crashing into some garbage cans and sending a big centipede the size of my arm fleeing under a pile of trash. He slowed and came to a stop when he saw me. A bright grin cracked the smoldering expression on his red face.

  Bouchard began to laugh—a deep, exhausted, choking laugh—that burst between gasps for air. He doubled over, hands on his knees. He forced himself to take a few breaths before standing up and glowering at me, his words coming out in airy huffs.

  "I don't like running, Bell. You made me run."

  "Sorry," I apologized, my voice remorseless.

  "You'll pay for it. I'll see that you pay for it. You broke Muffie's nose, you know?"

  "It needed breaking." I snapped. Bouchard chuckled sourly and pulled a revolver from inside his coat.

  "Yeah, probably. Expect he'll want to return the favor. He likes to play a little rough, that Muffie."

  "Why are you doing in Pergola Square, anyway?" I blurted.

  "If you must know...Peter Black of Wilem, Black & Bright telephoned, ah...yeah. That's right," he said, watching my reaction. "I figured you knew him. He wanted to speak to me...about you actually." Bouchard grinned a toothy smile.

  I closed my eyes and rubbed my forehead. Black had promised to call Bouchard, promised to clear up the misunderstanding; meeting him on the street was just poor luck. If I had left a few minutes earlier, or lingered at the hotel a little longer, maybe catching a quick meal, everything between us would be settled.

  Bouchard's laugh died out and his expression changed to anger. "All right. This has gone on long enough, Bell. You're under arrest for the murders and mutilations of Thaddeus Russel, Fran Nickel, Doctor Eliza Inox, August Nickel, and Lilly Westmarch." He paused. "And Firsts know how many others."

  The last name he mentioned sounded familiar. I tried to dredge it up from the cobwebs of my memory. Lilly Westmarch. Westmarch. I had known a Westmarch, both August and I had. Old Man Westmarch worked as a foreman down on the docks. Was this Lilly related to my old boss? The memory welled up. She was his daughter. I hadn't seen her in years. My stomach dropped as the reality of what he had said set in. Lilly was dead. Another murder. Another acquaintance. Another connection to me.

  "I didn't kill anyone," I said, trying to sound calm.

  "You took his tongue!" He shouted, spittle flying from his flabby lips. "His tongue, you son of a bitch! You took her eyes! Every one of your murder scenes I walk into just gets sicker and sicker. You're a screwed up bastard, Bell. A sick, sick, screwed up bastard."

  "I didn't kill anyone," I repeated.

  "I have your bloody handprints all over the Doctor's office."

  "I was there, but I didn't kill her," I said.

  Bouchard edged closer; the swooping horns that ran along his bald head looked wicked in the dim light, more wicked still was the snubnose revolver firmly grasped in his hand. "Why did you do it? Why take their body parts? Is this some sick sex thing? IS THAT IT?"

  I needed to get out of here. I had to escape. I couldn't let myself get caught. I couldn't. It wasn't over. Bouchard could lock me away, but the killings wouldn't stop. This wasn't the end. The umbra would kill more.

  Looking around the alley, I searched for an exit, something, anything. A fire escape, a door, a drain pipe.

  Bouchard watched me, silent, his breath returning to normal, the red fading from his face. "There's no escape. There's no way out. This is it, Bell. This is how it ends. Level Seven, Pergola Park, in a dead end you thought was a way out. The chase is over, you bastard, and you lost." He paused, and looked at his gun and then back at me. "You know, a part of me doesn't even want to take you in. It'd be much easier to just put a slug in your head right here, maybe two, nah...three. Maybe one for each of your victims," Bouchard snarled, leveling the gun at my head. "No one will care. I can see the headline, 'Collector Killer Killed.' The monochrome reporters will bust a nut over the news. I'll be a hero. 'Hero Cop in Alley Shootout.'"

  I glanced over the edge of the railing. There was no way I could leap across the chasm, but I could fall. I tried to judge the distance between this opening and the roofs and buildings below. Two stories? Three? Four? Could I survive?

  "Still looking for that exit?" asked Bouchard with a chuckle, waggling his gun. "We can end it right here. Let me know if you're going to try it. A gunshot would be a lot less painful than bleeding to death from a fall."

  He wasn't more than a few paces away now. A pair of steel handcuffs were pulled from the inside of his frayed sport coat. They twinkled in the dim light.

  "I want to shoot you, Bell. Especially after seeing what you did in Westmarch's studio, seeing her body lying among her paintings, but I go by the book. I'm not a dirty cop. I'm going to bring you in."

  Carter's cross, what else had that umbra done to Lilly?

  "I didn't do it, Detective."

  "Bullshit."

  "I haven't seen Lilly in years. I worked with her dad, and she dated August for a while. I know you don't believe me, but it doesn't make it any less true." I filled my lungs with a deep breath and judged the distance again. It was high, dangerously so, far enough it could break my legs, maybe even kill me. It was this or rotting away in a cell like a caged animal. I couldn't deal with that. Not again, not while that umbra, Pan, or the Children stalked the streets. If I was too slow Bouchard would be able to grab me, but if I was too fast I could land wrong and it'd be over.

  "I got enough evidence to say you did."

  "It's wrong. It's planted. It's—"

  Now or never.

  "NO BELL—!"

  I threw myself backwards, slipping over the railing and twisting in the air.

  Level Six's roof structure flashed past me, and the lights from the alley disappeared. I caught a utility pipe with my stomach halfway down, forcing the air from my lungs. I scrambled against the smooth surface, trying to gain purchase but I lost my grip and slid off, dropping further below.

  Everything moved in slow motion. I could hear Bouchard shouting from somewhere above me. The roar of air filled my ears, his words were slow and drawn out.

  The building below rushed up at me, and I landed on the balls of my feet. Pain exploded upward through my legs, my chest, and down my arms like an electric current.

  I pitched forward into a roll, carried with the momentum, and landed on my back. My ribs screamed at me, and my legs felt numb, my fingers tingled from the impact.

  I breathed.

  Far above me and upside down I could see Bouchard staring, moon faced, angry. He was spitting and cursing. Waving his gun but careful not to shoot. Who knew what was in this building, and that snubnose of his would easily punch through the roof.

  The layer of gravel was thicker than I had expected. Softer. I was sure it had helped absorb some of my fall. I breathed again. Feeling pain in my chest, on both sides of my ribcage now.

  When I tried to move my arms I was grateful to see they still worked. I looked down and tried to move my feet; they moved, but something was broken or fractured. Waves of pain exploded upward. The world pulsed in and out, a gray fog at the corner of my vision. I was fading between consciousness and unconsciousness. I needed to get out of here. Bouchard would find a way down. Find this roof. Find me.

  I struggled to stand, rolled to my knees and tried to get my feet under me. My right knee felt like it was on fire. Sharp pain rushed up both sides of my body, exploding behind my eyes.

  Gravity proved too strong and my knees too weak. I collapsed again, the gray returning to my vision, darkening, then going black.

 
SEVENTEEN

  "Hey, friend! Hey! You all right?"

  I blinked and tried to force my world to come into focus. Everything was so blurry, like someone rubbed lard over my eyes. I felt a nudge on my shoulder. I tried to move.

  "Friend, you took a hell of a spill. You all right? You okay?"

  I shot up. Realization of the touch, my fall, Bouchard reaching for me—it all exploded into my mind. The world roared. My right leg screamed in pain. I had expected to be in a cell or to see Bouchard standing opposite of me, his fat revolver pointing at my forehead, the cave-like barrel yawning.

  Looking around, my neck cracked and popped through the stiffness. I was still on the rooftop and Bouchard was nowhere to be found. I looked up from where I had dropped, expecting to see his wide face leering down. He was gone. Only empty air and the distant ceiling of Level Six were above me.

  "Hey, hey, you all right?" I turned and saw a squat anur looking at me intently. He was wearing brown rags and a dumpy hat. One of the rooftop squatters. His big black eyes blinked as he studied me.

  "I think so," I managed. Pain reverberated through my body. I looked down at my legs and wiggled my left foot. It responded. When I tried to wiggle my right the pain almost forced me to black out a second time. I noticed my right leg was twisted violently to the right just below the knee. I wondered if I had broken it.

  "Why did you do that, friend? The jump?" asked the anur. I studied his face, my vision still swimming. His brow was knitted in concern, as much as any anur's brow could be. He seemed reasonable enough. Hell, on a more elevated level like Level Six—and in his shabby condition—we were kindred spirits.

  "Police trouble."

  That set him off.

  "Oh friend, oh friend, oh friend," the anur repeated. "Deeper ain't going to help you with them. Deeper can't, not now. Not now. Not now." His voice moved from concern to panic and he jumped around in little hops. He struck his fists up and down as if he was playing invisible drums. "You gotta get out of here, friend. I can't have them finding me up here. They'll kick me off. Kick me out. Back to the Sunk. Back down below."