Alien Eyes (33 page)

She was wandering off the point. David glanced at her, wondered if she was getting shocky. Would she be safe at the hospital? Should he take her home to Rose?

Painter hissed. “Angel come to her. Tell her she, Dahmi, is name on list have found. A list of maybe be victim.”

“Why would she be a target? All she did was go to lectures.”

The car veered suddenly, turning off onto a side street David did not recognize. Avoiding gridlock?

“Other victims have the small involvement,” Painter said. “This makes fear for everyone.”

David nodded.

“Dahmi decides no more lecture. But it be too late. She is on list. Angel tells of her own pouchlings, die the long slow death. Dahmi outrage worry. Angel give Dahmi the gun.”

“Didn't she ask Angel for help?”

“Angel
offer
help. But say many name on list. Do best, see, but many name. And Dahmi tell me other victims were looked after when found on list. And still be killed. So not to be counted on.”

“So Dahmi killed her pouchlings. Rather than have them killed.”

“She call me. Say they on way. Not sure why she think this, but convinced—”

David nodded. “They did something. Something to put her in a panic.”

“I try to go to her, but she not let me in. Say too dangerous. No more for me involved. I ask to take baby ones, she not let me close. I not know what to do. Who to call. Who to trust.” Painter was quiet a long moment. “So I call hot dog police and I call news source and I call Guardian. I call all,” Painter said. “I am the one. But this was too late. Because when she call me … it is after.”

The Elaki was going rigid.

“Please, David Detective, do not take me where you take Dahmi. Do not make my pouchlings separate.”

“I'll take you home,” David said. “My home.”

“You know where the Angel is?” Painter asked.

David cocked his head sideways. Would she be at the Café Pierre, just like she was the night Arnold was killed? Her favorite alibi hangout.

“I have an idea,” David said.

“Go there. I will not have the safety till you bring her up. Because I go to her. The night I see you? I go to her first, to ask for gun, like she give to Dahmi. She does not know Dahmi tells me where she got gun, until I ask this. And we arrange the meet, for her to give me gun also.”

David frowned. “What happened?”

“I do not know how I know, but when I speak to the Angel of the gun … I feel the danger. So we arrange the meet, but I do not go.” Packer shifted her weight. “Go
now
. Get the Angel.”

“She can't hurt you now, Painter.”

“She can.”

FIFTY-FIVE

David showed painter how to use the radio, then locked her into the car with the pouchlings. He felt shaky. He knew he should wait for backup. But if he did, String would be there, telling everyone how dangerous Angel was. They'd send out a SWAT team like they always did to Little Saigo. They would escalate. They would kill her.

She might bow to the inevitable and come in with him. He promised himself that he would not approach her unless she was alone.

David went through the back door into the kitchen of the Café Pierre. It was poorly lit inside, dingy, but warm and fragrant. Pierre was leaning over an ancient, white, chipped enamel stove. He took the lid off a cast-iron stew pot and inhaled deeply, eyes closed, face showing enraptured concentration.

David snapped his badge open. Pierre gave it a cursory glance, and shrugged. He scooped up a handful of freshly chopped shallots and dropped them into the pot.

So much for that, David thought.

A white swing door, well smudged with grease and fingerprints, led into the dining room. No window. David pushed the door gently and peeped through the crack.

She was there. Angel. Sitting at a table in the back, eating what looked like a good meal. A nearly empty bottle of wine sat beside the bread board, next to a half-eaten baguette. David wondered what she'd eaten tonight. What was she thinking? About Painter? Did it remind her of her own pouchlings? Was she responsible for the bombings? Was she pleased?

A waitress, empty tray tucked under her arm, was speeding toward the swing door. David stepped back. The waitress hit the door hard, barely missing him, then stopped when she saw him. He put a finger to his lips, opening and closing the badge. Her eyes widened and she looked at Pierre. He shrugged.

David looked back out the door. Angel was sipping coffee. She set the cup down hard, pushed it away, and rippled her muscles under the scales. She refolded the black cloth napkin and tucked it to one side of the plate.

David glanced over his shoulder. He had the feeling that Pierre was watching him, but when he looked, the man was stirring his sauce.

David wondered if any more bombs had gone off.

He moved quietly, the swing door closing gently behind. The restaurant wasn't crowded. Should he wait till she left? Someone might be picking her up or meeting her. He would have that many more Elaki to deal with.

People and Elaki were staring. He was aware, suddenly, that his jeans were torn and liberally laced with Elaki blood. Pretty much looked like he felt, David decided. Like hell. A wild man, exhausted, circles and shadows beneath his eyes.

There were two tables between Angel and the back wall of the restaurant. Both empty. David stopped between Angel and the rest of the patrons, gun on the ready in the back of his jeans. He knew as soon as she became aware. There was tension about her, a stiffening beneath the scales.

“Elaki don't cry,” David said softly.

For a long moment she did not move. Then she turned and faced him.

She seemed different tonight, more alien than he'd ever seen her. Her mannerisms had changed. For once she was not aping humans. She was sleek, black, beautiful. There was still a part of him that did not want to believe what he knew was true. That was the part that could get him killed.

“You always stayed one step ahead,” he said.

“Not difficult, David Silver.” Even her voice was different. Flatter and older. Tired, even. He was tired too. “But Elaki do not
step
.”

She was making fun of him.

“No,” he agreed, “Elaki don't step, Elaki don't sit, Elaki don't cry.”

“Elaki don't need others to be like themselves.”

David cocked his head sideways. Behind him, the restaurant was hushed. No one moved. Everyone watched. Even the Elaki.

“Let me tell you what I know about Elaki,” David said. “About Elaki revolutionaries. About you, Angel Eyes.”

“You know nothing of me. A hot dog cannot know such as me.”

Somehow he lost his words, the accusations he wanted to hurl at her in the hopes they'd be explained away.

“You killed them all,” he said finally. “Your own followers, your own Guardians. To throw blame on the Izicho. You gave Dahmi the gun.”

Angel was still. Watching him.

“There were no cho killings. They were Angel killings.” He took a breath, wiped sweat off his temple. “How could it be so important?”

“Izicho must not be allowed stronghold here. Ever.”

“I had it backward about Arnold, didn't I?” David said. “He wasn't a target, not at first anyway. You didn't want him killed.”

“His work critical.”

“So you made sure the killers hit when he was out of town. You were one of the only ones who knew he was going. You had the crime, the public sympathy, and you didn't lose a valuable player.”

“I was genuinely fond.”

“Were you? But I guess you loved your pouchlings, too. I hope to God you aren't fond of me.”

Angel looked at him. “You lie then.”

David looked away. “Why'd you kill him?”

She moved slightly to one side. “Stephen become suspicious of cho killings. Sees discrepancies. Really a most scholarly intellect. Excellent perception and top negotiator. Bad to let him go. Sacrifices must be made.”

“Sacrifices? You've made all of them, haven't you? Your chemaki-mate, your
shadow
. Your children.” David frowned. “One hundred percent ruthless revolutionary.”

“I do what I must with one single-minded cause. It is my strength.”

“You're under arrest. For conspiracy to commit homicide, multiple counts.”

“You have not ability to prove. You are human cop, not Izicho. You must follow rules.”

“Painter isn't dead,” David said softly. “She knows you gave the gun to Dahmi. And we have forensic evidence placing Weid at the scene of two cho killings. The operative word is conspiracy.”

He didn't know exactly what he expected. Not for her to come along quietly, but neither did he expect her to come straight at him, in blatant disregard of the gun.

“
Please
, no,” she shouted, running at him. “
Izicho
.”

He fired, saw the piece of flesh tear from the top of her frame, and then she was on him.

She was a killer. He fell against a table, back smashing against a chair before he slid to the floor. She wrapped her body around his, enveloping him, squeezing tighter and tighter. He felt an odd, almost-electric shock as something sharp entered his ribs, something so sharp it went through bone without a hint of resistance. She pulled it away and he felt an odd relief, and the lukewarm wetness of blood.

He gasped when the stiletto went in again.

She hugged him tighter, jammed the blade in deeper. His fingers were oddly numb, and he squeezed his eyes shut, concentrating, bringing the gun to her back.

If he fired, the bullet would tear her to shreds and go through her into him. If he didn't, she'd kill him anyway.

He steadied the gun barrel and fired through her midsection. He felt her shatter just as the bullet entered his left lung, and took his breath away.

He did not expect to open his eyes again; he did not expect the face of Pierre peering into his. David coughed, felt the blood bubble up on his tongue. He wanted to move, or something. What, exactly?

“Ambulance,” Pierre said roughly.

That on the menu? he thought.

He could not make the words come out. Too bad, it would have shown wit and panache, it would have finally impressed Pierre, who was pressing, pressing against his chest, his sides, stopping the flow of blood. So much blood too, getting downright impressive. Red blood, mixed with yellow blood, you could tell whose was whose.

One hard jab to the vena cava would have dropped him. Instead, she had stabbed through the rib cage, missing major veins, two, three times. Why hadn't she killed him?

People were staring. Elaki stared, then turned their backs.
Izicho
. He heard the whispers.

“They killed her,” someone said. “That's Angel Eyes.”

“After all this time. Now they get her.”

David closed his eyes, thinking how it looked. She had been peacefully eating her dinner when he'd come through the door, clothes torn and bloody. He'd held the gun. And she'd died shouting Izicho.

She was still one step ahead.

David turned his head—an effort, that, an effort that made him sweat, and he looked at what was left of the one hundred percent Elaki revolutionary. His Angel.

He tried not to feel sorry. But he did.

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ONE

The quiet was odd—the hushed silence of a house without utilities, a home without life. The windows were shattered and full of darkness. David flashed his light, saw the clean outline on the soot-blackened floor where they'd found the family dog.

Water dripped somewhere down the hallway. David skirted a pile of blackened rubbish that was still smoking, and walked up the stairs, hoping they'd hold. Wood creaked underfoot.

A soft intermittent chirp made the hair stir on the back of his neck. He flashed his light along the charred walls, saw the red glow of an overloaded detector. He stood on tiptoe to disconnect the chip.

“Seven occupants in the house,” came a raspy metallic voice.

David jumped back.

“Two adults, four children. One adult visitor present.”

David reached up to loosen the connection.

“Occupants are Celia, age thirty-two—”

He yanked and the voice stopped. Sweat filmed the back of his neck. Wrong, of course, to tamper with the alarm system, but he did not want this litany of the dead. Not when four of them were children.

David heard the wail of sirens—more fire jeeps, late arrivals, too many and too late. A bomb threat had been called in just as the fire started and the square block of tenements had been sealed off, while the bomb squad looked for explosives that had not been there.

The order for grid release had come a good fifteen minutes after the fire was called in—an eternity under the hot lick of flame. The death toll from the supper club would be astronomical, and three houses had burned along with it.