Azrael (30 page)

Joe was sorry for the girl—Trotter was a lot of things, but Joe doubted he’d be much good at spreading happiness—but it was interesting to see Trotter going through this. It proved that he was at least a little bit human.

Joe was a lot more human. Now that (in Trotter’s words) the masks were off, he had been scared about how Tina would react when she found out the Salvage/Reclamation business was not his true calling. He’d told her this morning when he’d come to pick her up.

“The FBI?” she had said. “No kidding?”

He showed her his credentials.

Tina had packed a lot of living into the last few years, and it was easy to forget she wasn’t too far out of her teens. That she’d get bowled over by something like this.

“The FBI,” she said, “wow. I knew you weren’t any junk man.”

It was better than the hostility he’d been expecting, but Joe felt obliged to defend his former work. “Salvage/Reclamation,” he told her. “It’s honest work.”

“Of course it is. I just—you always seemed to me like somebody who’d do something important. What are you—no, I can’t ask you what you’re working on.”

No, Joe thought, you most certainly cannot. Masks might have been off (although he doubted that Trotter’s own mask ever came off, unless he had layers of them, an onion-head of masks that got you no closer to the real him no matter how deep you cut into him), but they weren’t revealing
everything.
Now that he was more than just an FBI man, it was okay to tell her he was an FBI man. It was definitely not okay to let her know what they’d made him now. He didn’t know the words for it, anyway.

He didn’t want to lie to her. Instead, he told her a misleading truth. “I usually work drug cases.”

“I knew it was important. I suppose when you’re done here, you’ll go back to wherever ...”

“Portland. Oregon, not Maine.” He smiled with delight as he saw the sadness on her face. “But I doubt I’ll be going back there. I think I’m about to be transferred East.” Probably Washington. Now that he knew so much about this goddam Agency, he was sure Rines would keep him close. “I’m a licensed pilot,” he went on. “I’ll be able to get up here whenever I’ve got time off. If you want to see me, that is.”

“Joe,” she said. “You’re smart, but you’re
dumb.”

“How’s that?”

“Of
course
I want to see you. You saved my life. You and Mr. Nelson. When my baby died, I was ready to give up, kill myself, or go back to what I was, which would only be killing myself slowly. Mr. Nelson kept me keeping on long enough for you to show up.”

He started to say something, but she cut him off. “Let me go on, Joe. I’m not putting pressure on you. I’m not dumping responsibility for the whole rest of my life on you. But whatever happens from now on, you came along at the worst time of a not very good life and made me happy. And now that I know that’s possible, I’ll never get so far down again.”

“I’ve been making me happy too,” he told her. He looked at his watch. “Hey, we’d better go get that baby baptized.”

Now the baby
was
baptized; Mr. Nelson said something about everlasting life, and a bunch of people said amen, and it was over. There were smiles all around, and the mother insisted Tina carry the baby from the church. Good luck or something.

Joe followed, still happy, still proud. Then he saw Trotter, in the last pew. Joe’s first reaction was irritation. What is he still here for, are we Siamese twins, or what? Then he got a good look at Trotter’s face.

It struck Joe that he may have been wrong before. This could be what Trotter looked like under the last mask. It was not pleasant to see. Trotter had the staring eyes and slack jaw of a man who has slipped with a saw and is now looking at pieces of his body on the ground.

He was going to say something, but Trotter pulled himself together enough to give Joe an angry look and shake his head no.

All right, Joe thought. Be that way. He caught up with the woman he loved and her goddaughter and helped them down the steps of the Northside Church.

T
ROTTER WAS A MONSTER,
conceived in cold blood and dedicated to cold war. He accepted it; he didn’t like it. He knew it was part of what made his father value his services so highly. The Cronus Project, for instance. The idea of recruiting a woman to bear and raise a child as a pawn to be sacrificed was so monstrous, no one but a monster could have figured it out. The fact that he was not alone, that the people who came up with the plan and those who carried it out were monsters, too, was not a comfort.

But if Cronus had been bad, what he’d been thinking of since he’d seen the water hit the brow of Elizabeth June Piluski was a nightmare. After all he’d seen in his life he still had trouble bringing himself to believe it. All but two of them. He could be sure of all but two. Louis Symczyk was uncheckable, but possible. The police reports Trotter had been getting clandestinely had included photographs showing a sink in the garage. But the other one, the baby ...

Trotter crashed the christening party. It was easy enough—people were coming and going all the time, all he had to do was walk through the door with a smile on his face. He didn’t know how he was going to find out what he wanted to know without causing mass hysteria, or even if he needed to know so badly he didn’t care what happened. He just knew he needed that fact. Not for proof. It wouldn’t
prove
anything. Trotter just wanted something to confirm him in his belief of something he hated believing in.

A man with his tie loose and his shirt sleeves rolled up stood behind a makeshift bar and insisted Trotter have a drink. Trotter took it, got out of the man’s sight, and put it down. He walked around from room to room, smiling, agreeing that the baby, at whom he had yet to get a good look,
was
the cutest little thing in the world—and looking for Joe Albright.

Or Tina Bloyd. Trotter did not want to spring this on Tina without Joe’s being there, but he had a strong suspicion he’d do it anyway, if he got the chance.

He didn’t have to worry. He was making a second circuit of the ground floor when he saw Albright coming down the stairs. Joe did not look as happy as a man who’d been given a day off in the middle of an important operation usually did.

Trotter caught him at the bottom of the stairs. “What’s the matter, Joe?”

Albright looked at him with equal proportions of irritation and surprise. “What the hell are
you
doing here?”

“Confirmation,” Trotter said.

Albright smiled in spite of himself. “You mean baptism.”

“That too. What say we take a walk?”

“Okay, but not too far. Or if you’re really dragging me off, I’d better tell Tina.”

“A short walk will do it.” They went back out into the early-afternoon chill.

“Which way?” Albright asked.

“Toward the school. At least we’ll have the wind at our backs.”

“It’ll be in our faces coming back,” Albright said, but he went along.

It wasn’t a bad walk, as far as walking went. The dryness of the air the last few days had gotten rid of the snow without putting the town through slush and mud. The sky was bright blue, and the wind sent dry leaves all around them, scratching secrets on the pavement as they walked.

They walked a block and a half in silence. Finally, Joe Albright said, “You want to talk, or is this just a sight-seeing trip?”

Trotter kept walking with his head down, watching leaves. “In my whole life,” he said, “there is only one person I’ve ever asked the permission of to do anything, and you are not him.”

“No,” Joe said. “I suppose this Congressman you and Rines can’t keep yourselves from talking about is him. God knows you don’t care what Rines says. What about it?”

“I’m asking you. Now.”

“What is this, a test? You should have sprung your goddam tests before you let me know all this secret bullshit.”

“I’ve got to talk to Tina Bloyd about her baby’s death.”

Joe stopped in his tracks. “And you’re asking my permission?”

“I guess I am.”

“Then, no way.”

“Joe—”

“You giving orders now? I’m not saying I’ll follow them if you give them, but if it’s on a permission basis, then no. That woman got through a tough day, but she fell apart at the party, just went to pieces. I’d just come downstairs from getting her to lie down. Doctor who delivered the Piluski kid was there, fortunately. He got his bag from his car and gave her a tranquilizer. I’m not going to go getting her all upset again.”

“One question. All I need is the answer to one question.”

“You go to hell, Trotter. I’ve seen you Agency people in operation, now, so don’t try to jive me with this ‘permission’ crap. If you want to ask her a question—under drugs or torture, even—you’ll do it. But you will never,
never,
you motherfucker, get me to say it’s okay. If that’s the test, I flunk. Have me shot.”

“Then you ask her.”

“Are you crazy? This is a woman trying to stay
sane,
and I happen to be in love with her.”

“Other people’s kids died, too. With more still on the menu, maybe. Can’t you just ask her one thing.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“Ask her if the kid’s hair was wet.”

Albright started to laugh. He laughed aloud. Cars passing by in the street slowed down to try to see what the big black guy was laughing at.

“Hey,” Trotter said. “I may not be proud of it, but I don’t think it’s
funny.”

“You will in a second,” Albright promised. With an effort, he stopped laughing and caught his breath.

“Trotter,” he said, “you have to be the smartest son of a bitch alive. Or the luckiest.”

“I don’t feel like either at the moment.”

“You won’t have to ask your question.”

“You know the answer?”

“I do. And I’m probably the only one who does. They got back to the house after the christening, and the baby was asleep. They put her in the crib, but when the guests started showing up, of course they all had to see how cute she was, so they trooped through there in shifts. It got to the point where there were so many, Tina was taking them through as well as Sharon. One time, she came out shaking like a dog shitting peach pits. I asked her what the matter was, and she said the baby was going to die. She was really upset about it. I kept her from making a scene, got her into the John with the doctor—it was the only place we could have a little privacy. He said she was just overexcited, gave her the shot, and told me to put her to bed.

“The shot took awhile to work, so I waited with her upstairs. I got tired of telling her the doctor said the kid was just fine, so finally I asked her why she thought the baby was in danger. Guess what she told me?”

“I’m not in this for the fucking suspense, Joe. What?”

“Because little Elizabeth had drooled, the way babies do, and there was a big wet spot near her mouth. I told her all babies drool, but she wouldn’t hear it. She said babies must drool in their sleep before they die, because when she found her Clara, there was a big wet spot on the sheet all around her head. It had almost dried, but it was still there.”

“That’s it, then,” Trotter said. “Where’s a phone?”

“Back at the party, I guess. I don’t remember passing any en route.”

“Then maybe a store or—wait a minute. You said the doctor who delivered the Piluski kid was there.”

“Yeah. Do you think I’m making it up? He gave Tina a shot, remember? I thought this drooling business was part of a pipe dream. Apparently you don’t.”

“No,” Trotter said. “I don’t. So the doctor was there. What about the minister who performed the baptism?”

“He was there, at least for a while. I didn’t see him after Tina got upset, but I was in the can and then upstairs.”

“Then let’s just see if he’s still there before we use the phone. I’ve heard an awful lot about the Reverend Mr. Nelson, and I think the time has come for me to meet him face-to-face.”

T
HE PILUSKI HOME WAS
filled with smoke and loud voices by the time they got back, to say nothing of body heat and liquor fumes. Joe Albright couldn’t see how these people could care much about the baby they were supposedly celebrating when they made the kid’s environment so rotten. There was so much shouting and loud laughter, Joe was amazed that Elizabeth’s mother was able to hear the baby cry—it had to be more ESP than actual hearing.

They didn’t find Mr. Nelson at the party. The consensus seemed to be that he’d gotten a phone call (though hearing the phone would be an accomplishment all its own) and rushed out somewhere. Trotter kept asking people where, nearly shouting himself hoarse to do it.

Joe knew that there was probably some complicated national-security reason Trotter was not taking a step that seemed perfectly obvious to him. At the risk of making a fool of himself, he decided to risk suggesting it. He leaned close to the Agency man and said, “Why don’t you call the church?”

“What?”

“Call the Northside Church. That’s where he probably went, and if he didn’t, he probably told his wife where he was going.”

Trotter nodded solemnly. “And you wanted to know why I didn’t call.”

“Gotta learn sometime.”

“Okay. I didn’t call the church because I’m an asshole. Great idea. Now where’s a phone?”

That led to another series of questions shouted at random partyers. It turned out there were three phones—one in the living room, one in the kitchen, and one in the main bedroom upstairs, the one Joe had put Tina to sleep in.

The party had, as this kind of party often did, spilled out into the kitchen. Joe was ready to forget the phone there and lead Trotter upstairs. Instead Trotter picked up the phone and handed it to Joe to dial. Joe decided to feel flattered—he had been spending time at the church, so Trotter assumed he’d memorized the telephone number. Joe was very happy that he had. He finished pushing buttons, said, “It’s ringing,” and handed Trotter the receiver.

There were still a lot of people around. They were paying attention to a woman in a low-cut dress who was using the process of getting ice cubes from a tray as an excuse to put on a show. That was a pretty good attention-getter, but they could still hear things. Trotter apparently didn’t care.