Beating Heart Cadavers (16 page)

“Just like you can thank your father for getting you your job,” Merdow countered. “Don't think you're fooling anyone with your position, Jasper. Ratsel's just been babysitting you for all of these years now that Andor's gone.”

“My father knew that I had what it takes to be a Spöke, just like Ratsel does. And I have more on my mind than petty childhood disagreements –”

“Yes, I'm sure that it's very difficult for you,” Merdow said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “what with all that extra paperwork that they must have you filing –”

Jasper stood up so abruptly that the chair legs tore against the rug. In the dimly-lit office, his uniform had taken the muddy shades of brown that it reflected from Merdow's rug and mahogany walls, but his eyes glowed silver rather than their usual violet as though he had turned to metal inside instead. He straightened and looked down at Merdow, who was still sitting poised in his wing-backed chair.

“You're going to help me with something, Raban, and whatever it is that you think you can threaten me with has no bearing anymore. I've already put everything into place, and one wrong move will set it in action. You do what I say, or all of Oneris will know that you've been sterilized by a Mare-person – understand?”

Merdow's fingers were running along the arm of his chair. He looked every bit as unconcerned as he had when Jasper had first entered the room, though his eyes were speckled with a new expression: interest.

“Well, you didn't have to threaten me, Jasper,” he cooed to the albino. “If you need a favor, you ought to have just asked. We're like family, after all.”

Ch. 21

Selicky paused on the front steps of the building, his briefcase in hand and the metal pin on his collar scratching his neck like a nagging voice trying to dig beneath his skin and work its way up to his head. He stood for a long moment as he debated what it could be from – hoping, for once, that he had forgotten to pick up more milk at the store like Patience had asked or failed to leave work early enough to make it to his daughter's ballet recital – but neither was the case. Through the glass doors of the East Onerian Bank, the tellers could be seen at the front desk where they were waiting to cash paychecks and wait on patrons, completely unaware of the current predicament that one of their former accountants was in. Not that it mattered, Selicky reminded himself. No one could help Caine now.

Suddenly changing his mind about going inside, the lawyer switched his briefcase to his other hand and went back down the steps to the street. He would see to his account on Monday, he decided, as though waiting until the weekend was over might make him feel less guilty about failing to help his old friend's son.

Or, rather, for getting him into trouble in the first place.

The nagging voice had succeeded, and it entered Selicky's mind just as he reached the underground to wait for the train. He twitched his head to the side to get it out again, but even if he had succeeded, it had already done his thoughts enough damage: he knew that he had played a role in what was happening to Caine.

“I didn't mean to,” he said, startling the woman off to his side. She gave him a sidelong glance before moving further down the yellow line, probably fearing for his sanity. Regardless of whether or not he had meant to say it aloud, though, it was true. If he had wanted to hurt Caine, he would have just led him down to the station and pushed him in front of an oncoming train – Hell, he could have just told him to jump and the boy probably would have listened. He had always been rather too compliant, after all. But no, Selicky thought, it certainly hadn't been his intention to harm the ambassador's son in any way: he had simply been thinking of his country – that's why he had done it. But, given the results, Selicky resigned himself to the fact that he would live out his retirement far removed from government matters.

He probably should have done what Ambassador Caine had actually asked rather than using his own judgment, he knew, but there was no going back now. It wasn't as though he could go back to Ratsel and tell him that Caine Sr.
hadn't
wanted the government to know that he had discovered a cure for the Mare-folk, nor would it do Caine any good to tell him. In fact, it might just make things worse for everyone involved – including himself – if the truth got out. He vaguely wondered if it would help his conscience, though.

He took a seat by the window when the train came in and sat with both hands clutching the handle of his briefcase as he looked out at the darkened tunnel. The ambassador had told him in confidence about his suspicion that Andor Sawyer's notebook had been hidden within the house, but that he hadn't been able to locate exactly where it was.

“Matthew will know,” he had said from his spot on the bed, propped up by pillows that the housekeeper had placed behind him in an attempt to keep him comfortable.

“Shall I call him, Ambassador?” Selicky had asked.

It was much too late for a normal house call, though Selicky wasn't certain that that was the reason Caine Sr. had shaken his head. It was hardly a secret that he and his son had had a falling out years before after the younger Caine had married a non-Onerian, and even if Selicky had been to phone him and tell him that his father was lying on his death bed, he wasn't certain that the boy would come.

“Tell him to get it,” the ambassador had said. “And tell him to give it ...”

“Give it to who, Ambassador?”

“Someone he trusts.”

When the train pulled into the station at his stop, Selicky got off and made his way to his car. On the drive home, the persistent knowledge that following his employer's wishes would have avoided the present situation entirely dug at him uncomfortably, and yet he knew that there was nothing that he could do that could help Caine now. The boy didn't need his condolences, after all, and there was no way to turn back time. And it wasn't as though Selicky had done what he had in order to go against the former ambassador's wishes, he had simply thought that he was skipping a step by giving the information to Ratsel rather than young Caine. He had just assumed that the Spöken would be the ideal place for Caine to turn to. It wasn't as though Caine had any confidants, after all.

Selicky pulled into his driveway and turned off the engine, choosing to sit in the dark for several minutes rather than go inside. He considered going back to the ambassador's estate to visit the boy just to give him some words of encouragement, but knew that that would be useless, not to mention outright hypocritical. The only thing that he had to offer to Caine now was his father's advice to put his trust in a friend – a real friend – but Caine was notably short of those. In the thirty-one years that Selicky had known him, Caine had only ever had one friend, and even if the majordomo knew how to contact her, Ladeline Fields certainly wouldn't be any help to him now.

Selicky rubbed his temples and tried to draw up the names of anyone that might have a connection to Caine who might consent to visit him: acquaintances, colleagues, people he owed money …

“Well, that's what you get for growing up thinking that you're better than everyone else,” Selicky murmured to himself, finally giving up and getting out of the car. Caine had been raised with such a high social status that the majority of his playmates seemed to have been his father's staff members. Even when he was waist-high, Selicky recalled how he had been forced to refer to him as 'sir' and abide his every order. Fields was probably just the only person with enough audacity to consider herself good enough to be his friend: the rest of the children either took their places beneath him bashfully or retaliated by forcing him to spend his childhood alone.

Selicky didn't blame Caine for the way that he had been brought up – or not brought up, really, since his mother's death and father's time-consuming job had resulted in a series of nannies and staff members who had unintentionally taught him that the world was there to abide by his every wish and order. After all, it wasn't as though children just reached eighteen and realized that they were allowed to think on their own: there wasn't a university course for that. And if there was, Selicky certainly wouldn't want his children taking it and realizing just how many things he had screwed up on when he had been raising them. He was sure that other parents would agree: there would be some sort of revolt on the university steps.

Selicky halted on the porch, suddenly remembering something at the thought of the school. Caine had a close friendship with one of his old professors – he had even brought him over to the house a few times when Selicky had been there, as well. The only thing that he remembered about the man was that he was bald, and that probably wouldn't help him narrow down the choices. He ran a hand over his own head, vaguely wondering why anyone would shave their head by choice when he he had spent the last decade pleading with his hairline to stop receding.

“I've burnt the roast.”

Patience's voice greeted him as he stepped into the kitchen, as did the smell of his ruined dinner.

“The potatoes should be fine, so long as we scrape the black off of them.”

“Lovely,” he replied, not paying her much mind. He had just recalled that Ambassador Caine hadn't particularly liked the professor – which wasn't all-too surprising when he considered that Caine had a knack for picking friends and partners that weren't entirely socially acceptable. He even remembered the ambassador complaining that the man had influenced his son with his odd ideals and led him to believe that running off with a non-Onerian was a perfectly tolerable thing to do. To be fair, though, Selicky thought as his meal was placed in front of him, at least Caine's wife could cook.

“You don't happen to recall a professor who was at the Ambassador's house for a dinner party ten or so years ago?” he asked her, taking a bite of flaccid green beans. “He would have been in his thirties at the time – bald.”

“Why on earth would I remember something like that?”

“It was one of Matthew's friends.”

“Oh – that narrows down the list.” His wife made a face, puckering her lips together as she thought. “Was that the party where Elizabeth Honeycutt wore that awful green dress with the beads?”

“I ...” Selicky shook his head, wondering how she could remember a woman's dress from a random event years beforehand and yet not remember to take his dinner out of the oven on time, when he, too, remembered the woman's dress. He didn't remember the beads, of course – but he did remember the neckline. “Yes, I believe it was. She was sitting across from him.”

He only remembered that detail because it was the seat that he had been given before Patience had insisted it was changed. The man had been happy enough to switch with him as it was also the seat next to Caine, which was perhaps what the ambassador had been trying to avoid when he had created the seating arrangement.

“Oh, he was such a nice man,” Patience beamed, waving her hand as it all came back to her. “Such a gentleman, and so smart – a doctor.”

“No, no, that's not him,” Selicky said, annoyed that her selected memory had neither given him the information nor a well-cooked dinner. “He's a professor.”

“He was a doctor, too. I remember the ambassador making a big deal out of it, and he was just so humble about the whole thing. 'Matthias is fine,' he said. 'I'm a professor now.'”

“Matthias?” Selicky said. That name didn't stand out to him at all.

“Yes, it's a lovely name, isn't it? That was the name of my childhood sweetheart.”

Selicky made a face, his irritation with his wife's memory growing by the minute.

“Are you sure that was it?” he said. “I would have remembered: Matthew and Matthias, you know.”

“I remember talking to him about it – he was perfectly happy to hear about my life before I met you, even if you're not,” she replied indignantly. “But … now that you mention it, I think he went by his surname, for the most part. It sounded like a first name, though, so it wasn't odd.”

“Do you remember what that one was? Perhaps a boy who used to write you love-letters in grammar school?”

“I went to an all-girls school, dear,” Patience said, patting his hand kindly. “And his name was Mason.”

“Matthias Mason? You're sure?”

“Positive,” she said. “Why do you need his name, anyhow?”

“Oh, no reason,” he said. “It was just bothering me.”

He stuck a piece of charcoal into his mouth to chew. He would call Mason first thing on Monday morning, he decided, and inform him about the soon-to-be escalating situation with Caine. There was no need to ruin the man's weekend by telling him tonight.

Ch. 22

“Are you expecting someone?”

Fields posed the question with a frown, interrupting the professor as he planned out the best way to get into Hasenkamp undetected. As she had told Mason, she had crossed the border many times in the past and didn't think there would be any problem, but he was cautious where she was conniving, and if he wanted to schedule the journey out on flashcards the way that he planned his lectures, she rather thought that she would allow him to do so.

“What?”

“Are you expecting someone?” she repeated, nodding to the window. “There's a car in the drive.”

Mason straightened from the counter and turned to the window immediately. The silver vehicle in the drive was unmarked and the tinted windows hid whoever sat inside, yet he seemed to know who it was regardless and reacted immediately. Turning back to Fields, his voice cut across the kitchen.

“Get under the sink.”

“Excuse me?”

“The sink – get under,” he said, opening the cabinet door below it and indicating for her to crawl inside. The space was limited due to the pipes and cleaning supplies stowed below, and she wasn't certain that her injury would allow her to cram herself inside. Sensing Mason's distress, however, she resigned that it was the best hiding spot that he could think of on such short notice.

“I – alright –”

She had barely agreed when he outright pushed her inside, and she barely avoided smacking her head against the wood as she ducked beneath when he tossed her bag with the metal notebook in after her. Sliding her back up against one side with a grimace, she curved her stomach and legs to fit around the u-bend and tucked her arms in just in time to avoid being hit as he shut the door. The air around her went black, and only the thin line of light bordering the cabinet door gave any indication of the room outside.

She could hear Mason by the sink rinsing out the mug in a hastiness to appear that he was doing chores, and then the sound of the back door opening and closing as the government officials entered without bothering to ring the bell.

“Doctor Mason – it's not a bad time, I hope?”

The sink turned off.

“I'm leaving for work in a half-hour, but … you're welcome to come in.”

“I doubt we'll be long.”

The floorboards creaked as someone came closer, but Fields couldn't see who it was. Mason remained standing in front of the cabinet doors but turned in his spot to face the unwelcome visitors.

“Are you alone, Doctor?”

The man's voice was clipped; he seemed to have shaved it down to fit his satisfied sense of importance.

“I live alone, yes,” Mason replied.

“But are you alone?”

“Obviously not: you and your men are here, presently.”

There was a clicking sound that Fields later identified as a snapping of fingers. The primary official gave the order for a few of his men to search the house.

“If you have something to admit to, now's the time,” he said, turning back to address Mason. “We'll find it out eventually either way.”

“I'm not sure that I know what you're referring to, Officer.”

“No? I'd advise you to think a bit harder, Doctor: this isn't one of your customary check-ups. Are you aware of who we are?”

“No, I … don't believe that you introduced yourselves on your way in.”

“You don't recognize the uniforms, Doctor? This isn't the first time you've seen them, after all.”

“It might not be, but unfortunately I'm colorblind.”

“They're
silver
, Doctor. Do you know why the Spöken wear silver?”

Mason didn't respond. Fields had the feeling that he was holding his tongue to prevent himself from suggesting that all of the other colors were taken, or perhaps to point out the material was reflective and not, indeed, a color at all.

“They're silver to mimic metal,” the official went on. “It's an indication of the fact that we find and kill the Mare-folk. You're familiar with the Mare-folk, aren't you, Doctor? You used to cater to their needs, isn't that right? You even did some … extracurricular research before you got fired, if I remember correctly.”

“I was a Mare-doctor, yes. Back when they were needed.”

“There's no need to be humble, Doctor – you're in good company here with us. Why don't you tell us what you really think?”

Mason paused.

“I think … that if I don't leave now, I won't catch the train for work.”

“Forget the job, Mason: I'm more interested in your previous one – not to mention your fascination with the Mare-folk.”

“A fascination that you seem to share,” Mason said carefully, “considering your own profession.”

“Aiding and eradicating are two very different things, Doctor.” The man's footsteps grew nearer; he seemed to be standing on the opposite side of the island where Fields had been sitting just minutes before. “Why did you enter Avelinn?”

“Excuse me?”

“Don't make this difficult, Doctor. We know that you used your identification number to enter our headquarters on the seventeenth. Do you know what else we know?”

Mason was quiet.

“We know that you entered
twice
. Twice, Doctor. Now, maybe – being a professor and all – you can explain to me how it's possible for someone to enter through the gates, not leave, and then enter again?”

“No, I don't think I could,” Mason replied. “Though maybe one of my engineering colleagues could do a better job. It sounds like a technical error of sorts.”

“Do you know what it sounds like to the Spöken, Mason? It sounds like you gave your identification number to someone else – someone who didn't have the authority to be there – and then later entered yourself to … remove this person.”

“Well, when you put it that way, it sounds like I did you a favor.”

The official ignored him.

“You allowed Ladeline Fields to get into our headquarters, Doctor Mason. We know that she was there, and we know that she was
seemingly
taken care of by a Spöke and one of High Officer Ratsel's visitors. Only, when we looked into how she might have gotten there, the information was inconsistent.”

“That must be rather frustrating, Officer.”

“It was, yes, for a while there. We don't really like the idea of having Fields roaming around our headquarters, you see, given that she murdered one of our own ten years ago. And from what we were told, she had come back to finish off her brother, as well. The girl apparently doesn't think too fondly of her family.”

“Perhaps the feeling's mutual.”

“Luckily we're fairly confident that we've figured it all out now: Raban Merdow helped us fill in some of the blanks, you see. There were really only two viable explanations: either Fields entered, presumably died when Merdow shot her, and then magically transported herself back outside the gates to reenter and leave properly again, or she entered, got shot, and then you entered, found her body, and brought her back out again. We're leaning towards the latter explanation – what about you?”

“It's hard to say,” Mason said thoughtfully. “I suppose it depends whether or not you believe in life after death.”

“Do you believe in life after death, Doctor Mason?”

The professor hesitated. One of his hands was pressing against the cabinet door, creating a block of darkness in Fields' pinstripe of light.

“If I say yes, will the government charge me with speaking against secularism?”

“I don't think a charge like that should be your main concern right now, Mason,” the official replied. The feigned civility dropped from his voice. “Where is Ladeline Fields?”

“I don't know. Perhaps you should ask Raban Merdow: I hear he's very creative when it comes to disposing of dead bodies.”

“Merdow's apparently not smart enough to check whether or not his prey has been killed – a prime reason why he never became a Spöke. This job takes discipline and meticulousness.”

“And guesswork, I hear, since you never really know who you're killing until they're on the coroner's table. How many non-Mare-people have you accidentally killed, Officer?”

The man gave a soft laugh.

“I never
accidentally
kill anyone, Doctor Mason – and you never answered my question: do you believe in life after death?”

A bout of footsteps sounded from the opposite side of the room; the other officers had returned from searching the house.

“She's not here.”

“You're certain? You checked everywhere?”

“Yes, sir. But there's a bed made up and hair in the drain.”

“Excuse me?” the first official said, obviously not making the connection that Mason, whose head was neatly shaved, had not been the one to clog up the shower grate.

“Hair in the drain, sir. Long and dark brown.”

“What possibly made you notice that?”

“I have four daughters, sir. It's a hassle.”

“I see. Very good, then.” The official turned back to Mason. “Well, Doctor?”

Mason shifted.

“Well, it's certainly not mine,” he said.

“Yes, I'm aware of that,” the other man replied. His fingers snapped again and the other officers filed out the door to the car in the drive. “Just as I'm aware that it's Fields', and that you gave her your identification number, got her out of Avelinn, and brought her here to … hide her, perhaps?”

“To help her, yes,” Mason replied. He was shifting his weight from one foot to the other, seemingly unsure of which parts to admit to and which to cover over. “She was bleeding very badly and in need of medical attention. I did my best to stitch her up myself but … I'm not that type of doctor.”

The officer hummed.

“No, you're not,” he said thoughtfully.

“Will that be all, Officer? I still have a class to teach at nine.”

“Yes, I think you've answered all of the questions that I had for you,” he said, taking a step back from the counter as he prepared to leave. “That is – except for one.”

“I don't know where she went, Officer.”

“No, no – that's not what I was going to ask. I know you won't tell me where she is.” There was a clicking sound that was only slightly familiar in Fields' memory. She squinted through the dark cabinet as she tried to place it, her back aching from the way that she was laying and her breathing growing thicker from the smell of chemicals trapped within the small space. “I just wanted to know if you had a clear opinion on the matter that we discussed before … Do you believe in life after death?”

Mason stepped back so that he was pressed up against the door to the cabinet, the firmness of his stance ensuring that Fields couldn't get out.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I do.”

The shot that was fired was so loud that Fields' eardrums cracked, and she jerked away from the noise with such force that the sound of bottles clinking together would have surely been noticeable if not for the fact that Mason had just collapsed against the counter and rattled the contents, as well. His body arched back as he fell, his head smacking against the sink before his form slumped downwards, and when he finally hit the floor, it was in a heap against the cabinet door. If Fields raised her hand to it, she could feel the warmth that had not yet left him through the wood.

“Good,” the officer said, addressing the open air as he replaced the gun in its harness. “Perhaps the afterlife will treat you better than this one.”

It was several hours after he left when Fields could finally move, not in fear that she would be found out if she left the hiding space, but rather of what she would find herself once she did. She kept expecting another sound to come from the silent air – a word that it was safe to leave, perhaps, or even a moan of distress from an injury that had not been fatal after all. The kitchen remained quiet, though, and as the time passed, the body on the other side of the door grew cold against her hands.

As she finally unwound herself from the pipe and made to open the door, it occurred to her that she was trapped: Mason's body was crumpled against it, blocking her way out. She leaned her weight against it and slowly pushed it open, forcing his body over at the same time, and it fell sideways to lie upon the floor.

“Mason?”

She said his name even though she knew there would be no response, and as she finally crawled out from the cabinet and into the kitchen, her eyelids fluttered against the bright light. When they adjusted she could see him properly: stiffened where he lay and dark eyes open. The bullet had gone straight between them, and the exit wound had destroyed the back of his skull.

“Mason?” she said again, teetering forward on her knees to crouch over him. It was unnatural to see him so still, the motionlessness of his expression more disturbing than the blood splattered over it, and the urge to shake him as though he might rouse from a slumber was so strong that she couldn't suppress it. She reached out and took his hand, the fingers of which were so stiff that it nearly hurt to hold, and he was so cold that it seemed impossible that it was almost summertime.

“Mason,” she said a third time, but the word had barely escaped into the air when her heartbeat increased in a predetermined rhythm, and an extra surge of chemicals flooded from the metal into her blood to be carried up to her skull. She waited for them to cross the blood-brain-barrier, her hand still clasping his, and something hot and sharp went through her chest that she had never felt before. The extra effort that it took to produce the chemicals must have interfered with the hole that the cold weld epoxy had closed; the organ was in distress.