Sparrowhawk

by Thomas A Easton

  He tapped the photos against the palm of one hand to align their edges. Man enough, he thought. He guessed. It must have been a man. He wished there had been some semen, even on the floor. If they ever found a suspect, DNA analysis would then quickly prove whether the semen was his. Bernie was not the first cop to wish that society had chosen to put tissue or blood samples—DNA samples, either way—of every one of its members on file, frozen in liquid nitrogen. DNA was far more individual than fingerprints, and it would be quite convenient if they could simply ask the evidence to whom it had belonged. Semen, bloodstains, sputum, skin scrapings from beneath a victim’s fingernails, even a hair or two, all would be able to tell the tale.

  Unfortunately, victim’s rights had advanced not at all in the last century. Suspects claimed the right not to incriminate themselves and court rulings robbed solid evidence of its potency. It was no wonder that so many people circled their homes with booby traps such as cannibal grass.

  The photos went back into his pocket. He explored the house, seeking any clues that might have been overlooked before. But the place had obviously been cleaned thoroughly, if not quite thoroughly enough to remove all the bloodstains. There had been a few neglected scraps of lumber and wallpaper, sawdust, bent nails, and the like in the corners of the rooms. Now they were gone.

  There was a wastebasket in the kitchen. Remembering the Count’s instructions, he checked and found it half full of the missing rubbish. On top of the basket’s contents, he saw a withered leaf. He picked it up, felt it, sniffed it, and identified it as a nettle leaf. When he realized that it had done nothing to him, he peered at it closely. The myriad fine hairs that covered nettle leaves were on this one all mashed flat, drained of whatever they had once contained.

  So there had been a junky on the premises. Maybe even the murderer. He tucked the scrap of evidence in a plastic bag and stored it in a pocket.

  Then he looked into the basket again. He thought he had seen…Yes, there they were. Two of the plastic wrappings from instant film packs, and though the police had taken many photos on these premises, they had used electronic cameras. Not the sort of thing most citizens would have.

  He put the scraps of plastic in another bag.

  Over the next three weeks, nothing happened. The Air Board made no progress on finding whoever had put the override chip in the Sparrow’s control computer. Bernie found no more clues that might lead to whoever had treated Jasmine Willison so cruelly. And neither criminal made any mistakes that might have swung their fates against them. Life was, reflected Bernie, not a novel, in which one could count on some coincidence that would precipitate the mystery and lead directly to a satisfying resolution.

  Later, he repeated that thought to Emily. They had lunch from time to time, whenever she was not in Washington, sculling her patent application slowly through the bureaucratic shoals, and their schedules meshed. Sometimes she went to lunch with her coworkers, or with representatives of van lines and other shipping concerns. Sometimes he was busy himself. But often enough he was able to find an excuse—some question about controllers, chips, neural overrides, reflexes, even how the firm for which she labored worked—to enjoy her company.

  “Tee gee aye eff,” said Emily. “Thank God, it’s Friday!”

  They were coming back from lunch, navigating Neoform’s hallways on the way to Emily’s lab. Ralph Chowdhury turned a corner ahead of them, approached, and passed. His slight, oriental frame was leaning forward, fists clenched, mouth twisting around a glowering scowl. “Is he still worked up about the armadillo?” asked Bernie.

  Emily shook her head. “Uh-uh. I think he got that licked.”

  “So?”

  “He hasn’t been saying much.” She turned to look down the hall after the other man’s departing form. “I suppose something hasn’t been going right for him, but what it is…”

  She was reaching for the door to her lab when it opened. An older man, gray-haired, his round cheeks just beginning to sag, reached for her hand. “Emily,” he cried. “My dear! You’ll never guess!” Bernie smiled to himself at the sound of the other’s British accent. It seemed so pure, so ancient of nobility, while the permanently tanned skin and the prominent blade of the nose bespoke a recent immigration. He guessed that the man’s parents or grandparents had come from the eastern Mediterranean, or perhaps from somewhat farther into Asia. Certainly the last century had seen enough people departing the lands of Palestine, Lebanon, Syria, Iran, Iraq, Afghanistan, Pakistan, and the like.

  “Sean? What’s happened? Oh…” She introduced Bernie as the detective investigating the Sparrow incident.

  “I didn’t realize that was still unsolved.”

  “This is my boss, Bernie. Sean Gelarean.” She stepped forward, forcing Sean to give way until all three were in the lab. Alan Bryant stood near the room’s window, grinning broadly.

  “Word from Washington,” said Sean. “We’ll have to celebrate.”

  “You mean…?” Her voice rose in a breathless note of excitement. Alan grinned even more broadly and nodded furiously.

  “The Bioblimp patent, yes!” Sean Gelarean showed a mouth as full of teeth as any horse’s. “Sunday, at my place. We’ll have everyone!” He seized her hand again, pumped it, said, “Everyone!” once more, even including Bernie in his inclusive glance around the room, and left.

  “Where does he live?” asked Bernie. As he spoke, he wrinkled his nose. He did not much care for hearty Englishmen. No matter how pure or impure their Saxon blood, they always struck him as having some shameful secret to conceal. He supposed many of them really did—didn’t everyone?—but why did they have to be so obvious about it?

  “You’ve already had a call from Mayflower,” said Alan. “They want to know how long.”

  “Greenacres,” said Emily. “I’ll get you the address.” She turned to Alan. “I hope you told them it would take a few months to grow and equip the things.”

  “The eggs are in the tank already.”

  “Have you ordered the control boards? The crew cabins? The engines? The…?”

  At each item, Alan bobbed his head, his smile as wide as ever, until he struck Bernie as nodding like some small dark bird gobbling seeds from a feeder. Yet there was nothing of subservience in his manner. He was Emily’s technician and assistant, but he was more than an underling.

  When Bernie looked at Emily, her mouth was splitting her face with as broad a band of white as Alan could possibly have shown. The way the two were sharing their relief and pride and joy was palpable.

  He must have looked as puzzled as he felt, for when the excitement had calmed a little, they led him to a computer workstation, called up the necessary diagrams, and explained just what a Bioblimp was.

  He shook his head in wonder. “It seems,” he said, “as difficult as Chowdhury’s Armadons.”

  “Oh, no!” said Emily. “This is just a scale-up, like I was telling you. Except for the pouches. And they weren’t that difficult. Were they, Alan?”

  “Fussy, maybe. But not hard.”

  “Ralph is definitely the best of us.”

  Bernie had talked to professionals before and found that they often felt they did not deserve their status or pay. What they did was easy, for them. What someone else did always seemed harder and more worthy. He wondered if Emily Gilman was deceiving herself in the same way.

  * * *

  Chapter Eleven

  “DADDY!”

  Nick was reading a news magazine. The lunch dishes were done. The house was clean. And he had just finished shoveling out the Tortoise’s stable for what seemed the ten-thousandth time. He deserved a break, he felt, but now here came that small, insistent voice. He had been told, years before, that there was for mothers and fathers a basic and incontrovertible law: Nature abhors a resting parent. It applied especially when the children were young, but when they were a little older, old enough to tiptoe from the room or house in search of unwatched mischief, their silence could be enough to bring
a parent out of a coma.

  “Coming.” Andy’s voice had seemed to echo from the kitchen. With a sigh, he set the magazine down, lurched from his easy chair, and headed for that room.

  “Daddy! Hurry up!”

  Yes, there he was, kneeling on the chair by the window, nose against the glass, staring toward the bird feeder. A coloring book and box of crayons sat neglected on the kitchen table. Nick grunted to signal his presence.

  Andy turned his head enough to confirm that he was indeed there and paying attention. “Where’s the Chickadee, Daddy?”

  The boy must have asked the same question three times each week ever since the Chickadee had flown off. It, and Nick’s patient, loving, sympathetic answer, had become a ritual that required periodic repetition. Was the boy, Nick wondered, rejecting, repressing, any hint that his mother’s life could have been in danger? Or did he simply have to hear again and again the news that his mother was indeed safe? And that therefore he was safe?

  Cautiously, watching for signs of upset, wondering whether—when?—they might have to take their son to a psychologist, Nick explained once more that the Chickadee was dead. The bird that had flown at Mommy, the one with the orange stripes, had stabbed it with its beak, and the beak had been poisoned. The Chickadee had flown back to its home, at the airport, and died there. It had been a hero, for it had saved Mommy, and she would be home soon from work.

  Not long after the incident, they had taken Andy to the local airport to show him where the Chickadee had died. He had not been impressed by the place’s unkempt runways, its dilapidated state of repair, its general air of decay. He might have been more impressed by the small airplanes and living jets that had once been based there, but with the arrest of the airport’s manager, the airport had closed and its tenants had left.

  The boy turned his back on the window. “When I grow up, you know what, Daddy?”

  “What?”

  “When I grow up, I’m gonna have a Chickadee. Just like that one. All my own.” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “And I won’t keep it anyplace like that airport. That was a dump.” The wisdom of a five-year-old. “I’ll keep it in my yard.”

  This too was part of the ritual, as was the silent sequel, when Nick wondered anew each time at the workings of the unconscious mind. He guessed that Andy’s final resolution must reflect some conclusion that a Chickadee in the yard might preserve him too from harm. It would be a talisman, a luck piece, a charm against disaster.

  And come to think of it, Nick’s own more private ritual continued, that might not be so far from the unconscious reason why he and Emily had installed the bird feeder in their yard in the first place. Certainly, when for some reason the birds went elsewhere and the feeder stayed empty for a day or two, or more, they felt bereft, as if their luck had abandoned them. When avian activity flurried around and on and under it, they felt blessed. They felt doubly blessed when the birds at the lunch counter they provided included unusual species. And triply so when something unique appeared. The Chickadee, seed-hog, devourer of swallows and other birds, had at first seemed more like a curse, but as events had developed, it had indeed been a blessing.

  The slap of Tortoise feet on the surface of the driveway announced Emily’s return home. As Nick stepped outside to meet her, he thought he could still detect the faint odor of the cleaning solution he had had to use to get the stain of the Chickadee’s litter off the brickwork of their house. He was glad the genimal would not be returning, for that, and repairing the roof, and washing the roof, had been work for which he had no enthusiasm.

  The door to the Tortoise’s quarters slid down with a screech that announced a need for oil. He sighed at the thought of more work, even though the task was not a large one. Then he grinned at the sight of his wife running toward him.

  “The patent! We got the patent!” Her voice was joyfully excited, and her impact against his chest almost knocked him over.

  “Mommy!” The door banged behind Nick, and Andy pushed between them, holding up his arms. Emily scooched to hug their child. In a moment she looked up at Nick and told him the rest of the story: They already had orders for the Bioblimp, and there would be a celebration at the Gelarean house, in the Greenacres genurb.

  “It’ll be interesting to see that place,” said Nick. “I wonder what kind of house Sean has.”

  She shook her head. She didn’t know.

  “Can I go too?” Andy’s voice was plaintive.

  “It’s a work thing,” said his mother. The boy pouted, but he quieted immediately. If the occasion were not a “work thing,” he might persist and even win. Otherwise, he knew, he might as well forget it. “We’ll get the baby-sitter.”

  Sean Gelarean’s house proved to lie among fruit trees, lignum vitae, and summer-green forsythia bushes set in a carefully trimmed lawn. A Victorian gazebo of wooden latticework overlooked a small fishpond not far from the road. The house itself was a crook-necked squash that, once it had been grown to size, hollowed out, and dried, had been hoisted onto a stand that let its neck jut high into the air, above the surrounding trees. Later, that neck had been fitted with narrow windows and a spiral staircase. It had become a tower, and the chamber at its apex had become Sean’s den. Broad windows were visible in its rounded roof, and lush greenery that suggested a love for houseplants.

  The rest of the squash, painted white with dark brown crisscrossing lines, bulged like some Tudor tumor beside the parking apron at the head of the driveway. In it were the living and dining rooms, the kitchen, three bedrooms, and more. A porch, its construction echoing the lattices of the gazebo, framed the main entrance. Roses bordered the porch and spread their fragrance like a fog over the nearby lawn. A caterer’s van had rutted the turf near a side entrance.

  Nick had met Sean before. He knew the man had come from England, and when he saw the house, he recognized immediately its restatement in the modern idiom of that English architectural theme, the towered manor house.

  The driveway and the small parking area were filling rapidly with cars. Gelarean’s guests, most of them Neoform employees, most of them in pairs with friends or spouses, were wandering the nearby fringes of the yard, eyeing the plantings, the house, and the gazebo before trickling toward the porch, where their host and his wife awaited them. From what Nick could see of facial expressions and overhear of conversations, the consensus was that the Gelarean manor was a remarkable monstrosity.

  When Nick and Emily finally reached the porch, Sean was wearing a rueful expression on his face. Grasping their hands, he introduced them to his wife, Victoria. She was a short, round woman, dressed in a red silk monk’s robe, its hood raised, whose mouth jerked into a smile nearly every time he spoke. Then Sean said, “It is a horror, isn’t it? But we couldn’t resist it when we saw it.”

  Cool air flowed from the open door of the house behind them and made the fabric of Victoria’s robe sway. Nick welcomed the promise of relief from the heat of the outdoors, but he stayed on the porch long enough to laugh at his host’s pleasantry and say, “You must have been homesick.”

  The other nodded, his cheeks shook, and his accent thickened briefly. “That I was, wasn’t I, Vicky? But it’s comfortable.” He leaned over the porch railing to pluck a newly opened rose, pinched off the thorns, and held it out. “Emily, my dear. Put it in your hair.” As she obeyed, he gestured toward the interior of the house. “Drinks on the left.”

  In an alcove off the entranceway, one of Wilma Atkinson’s genetic sculptures moaned and writhed as people passed it by. Nick paused to examine it and found a pair of flexible rods that twined around each other to form a double helix, emblem of heredity, that twisted into a complex knot. He petted it, luxuriating in the short, silky fur that covered its surface. Its voice became a purr, and its motions grew less random, as if it were butting for attention. “This must be half cat,” he said softly to his wife.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” she answered. “Although she’s never said.”

&nbs
p; They found the bar, dominated by an octopoid genimal whose arms were pigmented with green and white stripes, like sinuous barber poles. It was taking verbal orders, and the arms worked in pairs, serving four customers at a time, pouring, mixing, shaking, wiping up occasional spills.

  “I’ve never seen one of those before,” said Nick.

  “I saw a description in Genginews.” That was the industry’s trade paper. “But I didn’t know they were on the market yet.”

  “They aren’t.”

  Emily turned toward the speaker and cried, “Frank! What do you know about it?”

  Frank Janifer lifted his glass to them with a grin. “I hear our host let a friend do him a favor.”

  They laughed, and then they turned to note the buffet the caterers were assembling—vast seas of food surrounding islands of flower arrangements—and survey the rooms within their view. Polished tables, antique chairs, flower-filled vases, deeply cushioned sofas, thick carpets as soft as moss beneath their feet, all impressed Nick, and he murmured to his wife, “Much more tasteful inside.” They accepted small bits of meat wrapped in pastry crusts from a tray proffered by a perambulating waiter. And then people were leaving the circulating flow of guests to congratulate Emily on the patent, to speculate among the clinks of glasses on the applications of her Bioblimps, to wonder how they would contribute to the company’s fortunes.

  “I hear the stock went up a bit already.”

  “Have you thought of designing a walking suitcase?”