Jack rubs a thumb along his jaw. Eyes bore into the darkness where Freeborn faded from sight. Soft growl.
"Strangest interview I've ever been through." Andrus shakes his head.
Grunts. "Not an interview. Set the dog loose, but I wonder why."
"What the Hell are you talking about, Jack?"
Shakes his head. "Got work to do. Can you clarify the images of those men? Make prints?"
"Sure, I can. I don't know how good I can get 'em but I can pull them up a little, at least."
"How long?"
"Probably a couple of hours on the big machine, total."
"I'll meet you at your place in two hours."
....
The bartender spins to face the crack of noise.
"What the--?"
Recoils from the shape pulling loose of shadows in the darkened back office.
"Uhh.... I.... Oh, it's you.... Uh, how'd it go? Wasn't expecting to see you again today."
Harsh light slices a pale wedge of face from the shade. Twitch of something not a smile.
"Yeah...." Looms over the bartender, edging him closer to stacks of liquor boxes. "Who told you to give me that envelope?"
"I... um, nobody. It was my license fee. I told you."
"Most people pay by check, not typing paper."
The bartender swears. "Look, Jack... I had no idea. Some guy just came in and gave it to me for you." Tiny gems of sweat catch the light above his brows.
"Then why did you say it was your license fee?"
"He told me to."
Andrus' box of cigarettes slips easily from Jack's pocket. Takes one out and puts it between his lips. Box away. "Who?" Flame leaps from the lighter, close to the bartender's face.
Jerks back, startled. "I don't know him."
Flame nuzzles the cigarette, casts a demon's aspect on Jack's face. "And you took an envelope and instructions from someone you don't know."
"I--it wasn't quite like that...."
"How was it? You know this guy, after all? He gave you money...?"
"He's a runner. I see him around."
Leans back against the high-stacked boxes of liquor bottles. Toys with the lighter. Blows smoke over the bartender's head. "Santelle or Lucas?"
"I don't know. I don't know all the guys on the street, who's who."
"Stupid. How long've you been in business, here?" Flame flutters above his hand.
Horrified gaze on the lighter. "S-seven, almost eight years."
"You're in Santelle's territory and you can't tell his boys from Peter Lucas's after almost eight years. You have a memory problem. Must be all the alcohol fumes...."
Small, hungry fire waves along the tattered edges of cardboard boxes.
"Nooo.... Jack, please...."
"Remembering something?"
"I've told you--! That's all there is to tell: a runner brought me the envelope and told me to give it to you to take to City Hall. He gave me five-hundred dollars. That's all there is to it. I don't know anything else. I swear!"
Hand clenches around the lighter, snaps out, crashes across the bartender's cheekbone. Edge of the lighter tears a seam in skin.
Howl of pain.
"Think harder."
Sobs. "I don't know anything else!"
Fist flashes backward along its path, cracks across the other cheek. The bartender stumbles back and falls.
Jack pulls a vodka bottle from the nearest carton, smashes the neck against the wall. Glass and liquor scatter over the floor. Dumps a third of the contents over the bartender as he struggles to sit up. Opens the rest of the bottles in the case. Pours the remains of the first bottle over the open case of vodka. Clear, stinking liquid runs over the cardboard and soaks in, dribbles into the lower boxes, across the floor.... Tosses the empty bottle against the wall. Glass explodes outward, playing vile music against the concrete floor.
"Any ideas, now?"
"Wha-- what are you doing?"
"Whose runner?"
The burning lighter dances near the soaked cardboard. Vodka fumes waver upward and poison the air.
"No! Jack, no! I don't know! I Don't Know!"
Flame catches on the edge of the box, feasts on the volatile mix of alcohol vapor and cellulose. The bartender rushes to his feet and dives at the burning carton. Jack straight-arms him. He flails across the room, vodka-wet shoes skidding. Strikes a pile of chairs and holds himself up, shaking.
Jack steps over the glimmer of liquor on the floor, pauses, glances at the flames growing from the stack of liquor boxes. Draws on his cigarette and blows the smoke into the room. "Five-hundred dollars wasn't enough." Flicks the burning cigarette into the bartender's soaked clothing.
The other man shrieks as a small, blue flame, fed by alcohol fumes, leaps from his shirt.
Jack opens the back door, steps into the alley outside. "Drop and roll, buddy."
Orange light grows behind him, flickering and muttering. Strides down the alley, tucks the lighter into his jacket pocket. Turns away into the street-lit gloom.
....
"Offer you a drink, Detective?" Broad, sleek, glossily middle-aged.
"No." Chews gum. Stares sharply, cataloging: expensive suit, expensive shoes, expensive haircut, manicured hands with a naked band of skin on the left ring-finger, restrained annoyance. Grins. "You're the top dog, eh, Mr. Mariananski?"
"I'm the Chief Administrator of the biological research facility." Turns a shoulder to her, pours a stiff drink of pricey, single-malt scotch.
"So you'd be Dr. Nolan's boss's boss, or what?" Thick, pale carpet sucks at the sharp heels of her shoes.
"Dr. Nolan's project is privately funded. Effectively, she's a free agent, although she is, technically, a research associate in our facility."
Rolls eyes. "Who would she go to if she had problems or wanted anything? You?"
"Depending on the nature of the problem, yes, to me."
"Any problems, lately?"
"Dr. Nolan was--is a rather difficult woman. She constantly has problems."
"What sort of problems? Supply, personnel, what?"
Sighs. "She can't seem to keep a research assistant and she complained of being harassed by other staff-members."
"Oh really? What kind of harassment? Who did it?"
"Please, Detective Freeborn. This sort of thing is usually held in strictest confidence. Telling you could harm someone's career."
Dark eyebrow tilts up. "Not telling me is going to harm your career, Mr. Mariananski. If I have to go to the board of directors and file a complaint and a subpoena you're going to be one unpopular man and people might start asking how a guy who manages a bunch of test-tube jockies can afford a posh condo on the river and four-figure suits."
Stiffens. "I earn my pay, Detective. Believe me."
"I'm sure you do.... So, how 'bout telling me about Dr. Nolan's little problems?"
"Oh, for God's sake.... She's a very insecure woman, the sort who stirs up trouble out of her own misery." Glares pointedly at Freeborn.
Freeborn snaps her gum, grins, makes a note on her palm-top. "Specifically. What's with the assistants? She's a bitch?"
"Well, yes, to put it bluntly. She used to be reasonably easy to get along with but, over the past year, she's become increasingly aggressive and short-tempered, perfectionistic, unreasonable. There are more positions available here than there are good assistants to fill them, so, no one with any talent wanted to stay with Dr. Nolan. Why don't you sit down, Detective? I'm sure your feet must be killing you." Shoots a snide glance at her shoes.
Raises one small, spike-heeled foot out of the carpet. "Hell no. I'm used to 'em. Intimidates the crap out of guys with foot fetishes." Smirks. "But, you go right ahead and make yourself comfortable. Doesn't bug me."
Grinding his teeth, Mariananski takes a seat in a large leather chair behind the desk. Freeborn circles around and leans on the desk edge nearby. Heads on a level. Crosses her trousered legs, so one black shoe rests in plain view, twisting lazily on its heel against the carpet.
"What kind of research was Dr. Nolan doing?"
"I can't tell you that. It's proprietary information. Besides, it wouldn't mean a thing to you."
"So, not, like human genome stuff or telefor-splicing or anything sexy like that, huh?"
Blinks. "No. Just simple, biological investigation. Interesting, but hardly controversial. It did require some expensive equipment and there was some resentment about her priority on some of it."
"Related to this harassment you mentioned? Some of her colleagues got on her butt about it?" Chewing slowly, keeps her eyes on her notes.
"In a way."
Head snaps up, stare stabs into him. "In what way? Was it or wasn't it?"
Squirms. "One of the other researchers didn't like it and he complained to me."
"And what did you do about it?"
"I made a note in the files and mentioned to Dr. Nolan that Dr. Henderson was anxious to get some extra time on one of the machines."
"What did Dr. Nolan say to that?"
"She--... she made an indelicate remark."
Snorts. "Like 'fuck him'?"
"Well, not precisely."
"How 'bout precisely?" Bright red fingernail squeaks and taps on the palm-top's screen.
Looks up at the ceiling, jaws tight. "I believe she said 'he can go fuck himself, because he sure as hell won't be fucking me or my project'."
Squeak, tap.... "Oooo... testy. I take it Dr. Nolan didn't like Dr. Henderson."
"Not in the least. In fact, she filed a sexual harassment complaint against him just after that. He is coming up for a disciplinary review because of it."
"Over one complaint?"
"We take this sort of thing very seriously, Detective."
"Obviously. But I'd be willing to guess Dr. Henderson's record wasn't lilly-white before this, was it?"
Looks aside, rolls his glass between his hands. "No. There had been other complaints in the past and Dr. Henderson probably won't come out of this review... successfully."
"So, he's going to get fired because of Dr. Nolan's complaint?"
Nods. "Essentially."
"Did he know this?"
"I believe that he did. Dr. Nolan probably said something to him. As I say, she's a difficult woman."
"Apparently. Did she ever file a similar complaint against anyone else?"
"No, not that I know of."
"How much contact did you, personally, have with Dr. Nolan?"
"Very little, really. She did her work and only came to see me when she had a complaint or a problem."
"And yet, you have a very definite opinion about a woman you rarely saw. How is that?" Looks up, taps fingernails against the side of the desk.
Glares. "As I said: she stirred up trouble. I didn't have to see her to hear about it and when I did see her, she invariably irritated me, rather like you, Detective."
Cracked-ice laugh. "Yeah, we're like that, we cranky bitches." Grins. "I'll need a list of names for all of her former assistants."
"I'll have personnel fax it to you in the morning. Is there anything else you want to know?"
"Right now, no. This'll get me started, but I may want to call on you again. Stick around town, ok?"
Sneers. "I wasn't planning any vacations."
Stands straight, tucks palm-top away in suit pocket. Mariananski's eyes follow her hands over her bust. Freeborn bares her teeth at him, turns on her heel and stalks out.
....
"Yes?"
"Do you know who this is?"
"You called me. I'm not stupid."
"Call it all off. This has gone too far. Let Elise Nolan go."
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Yes, you do! This is not what I had in mind. Just let her go!"
"That, I'm afraid, would be impossible. Good day."
....
Knock on the door yanks his attention from the computer screen. Pokes a few buttons, gets up, stumbles over cables and equipment cases on the way to the door.
"What?!"
"Open the damned door, Andrus."
Mutters, "Gee, Jack, how 'bout a please...?" Unlocks and opens the door.
Pushes through, shoulders door closed behind him. Odor of burning enters with him, alcohol-reek.
"Christ, where have you been?" Waves away the fumes.
"Asking questions. Got those pictures?"
"Should be coming off the printer, now. One's a bit of a disappointment, though. It's like this guy's just part of the darkness."
Grunts. Follows Andrus to the printer.
Two sheets of high-end photo print. Jack picks them up, flips them back and forth. "The second one is useless."
"I know." Sits at the largest of three computer monitors. "That was the best I could do. Like I said: the guy just flows into the background. He stayed carefully in the dark the whole time. The only thing you can see is that vague oval where his face should be and the flash of that weapon, whatever it was."
"Show me that."
Shakes head miserably, smacks the keyboard a few times. Switches to a pen-pad. Jack leans over the other man's shoulder, stares into the screen, scowls.
Images cascade past, pause, flick forward one by one.... Andrus toggles between two frames, then draws a circle on one, returns to the keyboard, types, types....
The circled image leaps large, grainy, dark interrupted by a three-shafted slash of steel reflection. Filtration and effects smooth the image, brighten it, sharpen it. Blur of too-bright, too white. Andrus backs up one stage and sits, frowning, morose, at the screen.
"That's as good as it's going to get."
Glowers at the image. "Is it one blade or three?"
Sighs. "I don't know. I can't tell if that's what it actually looks like or if that's some kind of artifact, possibly reflections in the control-room glass."
"I need a better look at it."
Tired. "God damn it, Jack. There's a limit to what I can do even with digital media. It's a lousy, moving image, taken through a piece of glass, with a medium-quality lens and no magnification in a dark room. The high contrast between the reflection on the steel and the darkness maxed the resolution on the cheap-ass camera. There's a fine line between digital enhancement and artistic license and I'm not going to cross it. There is no freakin' way on this earth I can make that picture any more clear and be sure I'm not just making it up as I go."
"I need more than this."
"Well you can't fucking get it!" Slams a fist onto the desk top. Keyboard hops and clatters. Drawing pen bounces to the floor. "Holy shit, Jack! Don't you think I want to identify these mother-fuckers? Don't you think I want to turn you loose to do to them whatever the fuck it is you do to people? I've been staring at this recording for two hours, Jack! Two God damned hours and--!"
Stares him to silence. "You made your point, Andrus."
Deflates. "I want Elise back."
"I'll get her back."
"How?"
Leans against the wall. Gets out and lights a cigarette. Andrus stares at the box of smokes, incredulous, catches it as Jack tosses it to him.
"You haven't been here long. You know who Henry Santelle is?"
Nods. "Yeah, like the local branch of Crime Incorporated."
Nods. "He's a pretty reasonable guy, most of the time. Once his patience runs out with you, though, I'm the guy you hope you never see."
"So, you're sort of Santelle's temper."
Grin to slice flesh. Hisses smoke between his teeth. "You could say that. Place like this operates on a slightly different set of rules than what most people know. There is what appears to be and what is. What is, is that Santelle is the king of the roost, this side of town. Fuck with him, and you get to dance with me. But there's one guy I owe a dance to." Pauses, looks at his cigarette, smokes.
"So... what's your point, Jack?"
"Few years back, guy name of Peter Lucas broke from Santelle's organization. He did it very cagey. He slipped out with a piece of territory Santelle wasn't much interested in at the time, and Henry didn't want to bother with him. He keeps Lucas in check, constantly shifting the pieces around him, and when things get ugly, Lucas and I have a go. Balance of power."
"And you think Peter Lucas has something to do with Elise's... disappearance?"
"Not sure, yet, but the surface of Santelle's pond is rippling and something's got to be making those ripples. Don't know which side it is, or how it's connected to Elise, yet, but I will find out."
"It could be a coincidence, Jack. They do happen."
Snarls. "Coincidence is bullshit."
"You really think Santelle or Lucas would do this?"
"It's a war, Andrus."
Disgust. "Sounds more like two guys playing chess, except for what's happened to Elise."
"Chess is war. Difference is that, in this game, the pieces taken get their heads blown off."
Shudders. Turns his face away. "And you work for one of these guys...."
Cool stare. Smoke curdles in the air around his fist. "I'm going to do what I have to do. Whatever way it has to be done."
Tosses the useless print onto the table next to Andrus. Folds the other and tucks it into his jacket pocket. "Thanks for the picture."
Door clicks closed. Alone, Andrus' head and shoulders droop. Puts his forehead against the monitor's cold glass face. Thread of misery spins out of him.
....
Night spun. Insects and carnivores push through it, upright, two-legged, moving constantly after one another. Most scuttle, scurry, or go still and watchful as Jack approaches. Shows the picture. Questions. Heads shake, shoulders rise and eyes clench in anticipated pain. Leaves them to torment themselves.
One nods, sips coffee. Muted simmer of post-bar-call drunks nursing java in the all-night diner.
"Seen him. Don't know his name. Guy I made a delivery to called him King, but he didn't answer to it."
"Where?"
"Back alley surgery. You know the kind. 'Women's clinic' off of Bank. With a doctor, not a regular there, but I know him. Dr. Egraine. Bloody butcher. But don't bother lookin' him up there. Place was stone-cold empty a couple of hours ago."
Eyebrows twitch.
"Went back to see what I could see. Check the dispensary door, so to speak. No joy. Tight as a virgin's ass."
"Any idea where to look for him, now?"
Shakes his head. "Egraine's flighty. Only a half-step ahead of the medical board, if that. Suspect your guy'd be with him. He seemed pretty... attached to whoever the bleeder was. Place was a friggin' mess."
"What did you deliver?"
Shrugs. "Morphine. Very nice, lab-grade stuff." Snorts derision. "Drugs, at least, that bastard can manage just fine, but never let him near you with a knife. He don't carry much malpractice insurance, you can bet."
"You see anybody else there?"
"Nah. Someone was moving around, but I never saw 'em."
Sits silent, nods. Drops money on the counter and goes. The talker sorts the large bills out, leaving the small for the waitress.
Unyielding, the night closes its doors.
....
One watcher nudges the other out of a doze. "He's back and he knows we're here."
"Hmm?" Blinks and sits straighter. "How do you know?"
"'Cause the bastard flipped me off."
Next installment.
Back to top of this page, please.