Beating Heart Cadavers (6 page)

Ch. 7

Merdow observed the Spöke sitting at the desk, his eyes running over the sumptuous uniform hungrily. It was silver, like a trophy that he had never received, with titanium buttons that matched the pins on the high collar, and it was decorated enough to make even the weakest man look like he had a purpose. And Jasper was weak, Merdow knew. Or, at least, he was as malleable as the metal that his uniform illuminated. All that Merdow had to decide was exactly which way he wanted to bend him.

He had never been inside the private section of the state before, though he might have worked there had things gone his way. As a younger man, he had been promised a position among the Spöken by his would-be father-in-law, Andor Sawyer. He would have had the position, too, if the man hadn't been murdered before the official recommendation went through. Looking about the majestic corporation now, with its iron-framed windows and sprawling buildings marked with obscure place names to hide what they were used for, Merdow felt his mouth turn in disgust at who had blighted his prospects: Fields.

Fields was a bit like cancer, Merdow always thought. She often went away only to come back again at an unplanned moment, and – in the rare case that she never did – it wasn't a bad thing. But when she did return, she had the capability of eating a person away from the inside before they had a chance to fight back, and it was only after she was through that the heavy scent of death filled the air around them. Merdow rather liked his insides. He rather liked his life in general, really, and had been content enough to run his business on the side, but seeing Fields again had stirred something up in him, and this time, he wasn't going to let her get away the way she always did.

And Jasper was going to help him.

He had been a Spöke for nearly three years now, undoubtedly piled high with paperwork that ensured he remained behind the high walls of the headquarters, compiling information and sorting through memos for his superiors. Even if his father had been the one to create the Spöken, they would never give him a job that lured him out into the open streets of East Oneris. He simply didn't look right. And in Oneris, looking right – and being right, more accurately – was of the utmost importance.

As Merdow considered as much, he ran his eyes over the albino. His skin was so white that the papers he was reading through looked saturated in comparison, and the fluorescent lights were unforgiving as they showed every vein running up his arm. Looking at him was more like staring at a map of the north-most region, with its icy landscape and rivers cutting through the snow, rather than a person's limbs. It was clear that Jasper had never felt right in his body, outwardly or inwardly, but it seemed that the doubtless urge to simply peel away his skin had been lessened by the knowledge that what was outside wasn't nearly as hideous as what lay within.

“I hope I'm not interrupting.”

Jasper stood up abruptly at the voice, his hands automatically going behind his back as a custom of both standing at attention and hiding his skin. The motion did little for the latter, however, as his silvery uniform only hid his paleness from the collar down, and his face and hair were white and sickly for all to see.

The Spöke's expression changed from attentiveness to confusion upon seeing who had spoken.

“Raban?” he said, squinting across at the other man. “How did you get in here?”

“Now, now, Jasper. Is that any way to treat an old friend?”

Merdow stretched out his arms to either side, the points of his smile parallel to the corners of his eyes. Jasper cleared his throat and obediently stepped forward to give the doll-like man an awkward, stiff hug.

“I was just surprised,” the albino said. “How did you get clearance?”

“Oh, you know –” Merdow said nonchalantly, “– the usual. I have a little business with Ratsel – the High Officer, I mean.”

He chuckled a bit as Jasper visibly squirmed.

“But never mind about that now,” he said. “Let's have a look at you.”

He placed his hands on either of Jasper's arms, holding him back as though to observe him, but his eyes lingered on the metal pin decorating the other man's collar.

“You're all grown up,” he cooed. “At last.”

Jasper forced a smile, and his uncomfortableness only made Merdow smirk more. It was clear that Jasper had always been rather jealous of him, with his porcelain skin and dark, glossy hair. He wasn't handsome so much as he was pretty, like a giant doll on display in the window of a children's store, and yet Jasper would have preferred to be effeminate than diseased-looking any day. What was more, Merdow had been eloquent and charming even when they were just children, and his words were like silk falling from his tongue. And even if Jasper was the one who had become a Spöke while Merdow remained a mere citizen, it was still a battle that didn't feel quite won.

“And what about you, Raban? Things are going well for you at your … business?”

“Exceedingly,” Merdow replied.

He moved into the room and lowered himself into the chair behind Jasper's desk, running his hands along the arms as he went, though the look of haughtiness on his face couldn't quite mask the one of jealousy. Jasper remained standing.

“So is it something at work that's brought you here?”

“Work? No, no – just personal business, I'm afraid.” Merdow said.

Jasper shifted in his spot.

“Anything of interest?”

“It is, actually.” He smiled. “It concerns your sister.”

“What?”

“Your sister. Ladeline. Remember her?”

“I try not to.”

“Nor would I, but she’s making it rather difficult. She’s back in Oneris.”

“Ladeline’s back? But what’s that got to do with Ratsel?” Jasper's tone had hastened, but Merdow simply stared at his fingernails in feigned nonchalance. Jasper took a step towards him. “Raban, what are you planning to tell him? What do you know?”

“I know everything, Jasper. It’s my job.”

He paused and looked at the albino, his smile stretching more widely across his face.

“Tell me, Jasper, what do you think people will say when they realize that a Mare-person has been masquerading as a Spöke?”

Jasper's nostrils flared.

“They won't say anything, because you're not going to tell them.”

“Of course not, Jasper,” Merdow cooed. “I would never. But Ladeline ... you’ve got to worry about her.”

“She won’t say anything. She – she wouldn't.”

“Wouldn’t she?” Merdow leaned back in the chair, swiveling it slightly from side to side. A low hum came from his throat. “Have you ever drowned a cat, Jasper?”

“What? No.”

“It’s not easy – not like with squirrels or rabbits or dogs. They sense something in the water, like it’s a fire burning too close to their flesh, and they resist with every fiber of their being – flattening out entirely, limbs stretching and claws digging into whatever surface’s around, and they won’t let up for anything.”

“I’ll ... remember that.”

“They’ll attack you if you’re the one doing it,” Merdow continued, carrying on as though Jasper hadn't spoken, “so you have to take extra care, mind you – but it can still be done. They’re not immune to drowning, you know, despite how they resist it.”

The doll-like man paused, letting Jasper fret for a moment before he went on.

“Ladeline’s a bit like a cat, I’m afraid. And she’s going to cause trouble for you.”

“Then you should have buried her in the yard with all your other pets,” he snapped.

“Don’t get all upset, Jasper. I’m just trying to help you,” Merdow said. “You see, the problem is thinking that you can do it in a bathtub.”

“Sorry?”

“The cat, the water ...? When you do it in a bathtub, they claw up the sides and climb back up. If you want to do it properly, you’ve got to drop them into a pool with a dead weight.”

“Right. I get it. I’ll tell her off.”

“You can’t tell a cat off, Jasper. They’re too independent – too set in their ways. You can tell them not to catch mice and go toying with them until the poor things are tender enough to eat, but they will. And when they spit them back up onto your living room floor, it’s just a mess to deal with.”

He lowered his eyes on the albino, his expression digging into the paler man's face.

“Don’t be the mouse, Jasper. I don’t want to clean up after you.”

“Right, well, I won’t. I just ...”

“And don’t hesitate, either. You’re becoming more palatable – and I don’t even eat meat.”

Jasper paused, his eyes darting across the cold floors. When he looked back up at Merdow, his expression flickered like a flame readying to be put out.

“Then what should I do?”

Ch. 8

The estate hadn't changed since the last time that she had entered it, including the lock that she had jimmied a decade or so beforehand. After years of being unwelcome at the ambassador's house, Fields found that sneaking in through the second-floor window was much more familiar to her than crossing through the front door. As she stood in the bedroom that had belonged to her childhood best friend, though, and saw the makeshift ensemble of furniture that had been brought over from Simon's nursery, a sudden sense of sadness came over her. Caine ought not to have been the new ambassador.

“What were you thinking, Mister Caine?” Fields said, speaking to the empty room.

She imagined Caine's father's response.

“
Ambassador
Caine, Ladeline.”

“Oh, I'm sorry, sir … I must have forgotten,” she mused aloud, carefully stepping into the room and looking around. “... even though you've told me a thousand times.”

Though she had frequented Caine's house since they were children, his father had never warmed up to her. She supposed that the ambassador had hoped his son would make more promising friends, for even though Fields was Onerian, being adopted from West Oneris put her several bars below the children of East Oneris – perhaps not officially, but socially. And given that the Sawyers had had to adopt, as Mrs. Sawyer couldn't have children of her own, the ambassador had always feared having a scandal on his hands by having to deal with his son befriending the child of a Mare-person. Poor Mrs. Sawyer, Fields thought, a pang of sympathy for the woman coming to her head. The only mistake she had ever made was getting married to Andor Sawyer.

Fields wrinkled her nose at the thought of her adopted father, who had been every bit as much an issue in life as he was in death to her. She hated to ruminate over him now, though: ruminating and breaking and entering didn't go together. Sighing, she dropped into the lone rocking chair and reclined backwards to stretch her back. The sound of it cracking was more pronounced in the quiet. It was a shame that little Simon wasn't there to speak to, she thought. Fields didn't particularly like children – they were like cats, really: cute enough in photos, mildly annoying when they crossed through her backyard, and downright miserable when they got too close and set off her allergies. But Simon she could stand. He was the product of his parents in that way – or the product of Mari. Caine was still rather on her nerves.

Not that that had stopped her from coming to see him.

Fields got up and wandered about the house, peeking into various rooms in the hopes of finding him bent over a desk somewhere scribbling numbers and playing with equations, but by the time that she had made her rounds it was quite clear that he wasn't home. He must have been off doing his new job, and what an appropriate job it was, she thought bitterly: who better to oversee relations with the Mare-folk, after all, than someone who detested them as much as Caine did?

A sudden sound at the door caused her to jump, and for a moment Fields thought that she had been wrong in thinking that Caine wasn't home. As she peered through the kitchen doorway and out into the hallway, though, her eyes squinting in order to focus on the glass pane that looked out over the porch, she saw someone quite different.

Fields slowly stood from the table, wrapping herself close to the wall to keep out of sight. There was a government official at Caine's door, and judging from the cacophonous sound that he was making, he was trying to pick the lock.

Fields narrowed her eyes and reached for her gun before stopping herself. She hadn't spoken to Caine in a year, after all, and for all she knew, there was a legitimate reason that the government official was trying to enter his home. At any rate, she didn't think it would be good for her or Caine if she were to shoot the stranger on the front porch. The neighbors would undoubtedly complain. Disturbing the peace, and all.

As the lock continued to jangle, Fields broke from her thoughts and tried to think of the best plan of action. Hiding in the storage closet was always an option, though not quite as enticing given that she had previously planned to fire off a few shots through the front door. She continued to listen to the sounds of the breakin from her spot by the wall, and the idea of confronting the man was a bit too strong to ignore. Caine would be annoyed with her, of course, especially if the visit was planned and a government official saw the way that she was dressed. A frown pulled at her mouth, and she decided to let her friend's wishes override her own, but as she moved towards the pantry to lock herself inside, a bathrobe hanging on the hook caught her eye.

Fields hesitated. She really shouldn't put the robe on, especially not for this purpose, but the inclination was too great – and it wasn't as though Mari would mind. Pulling off her jacket and boots and flicking her braided hair behind her back, she wrapped the robe around her form and went to the hallway, hoping for what must have been the only time in her life that she looked like a housewife who had overslept, and slipped behind the staircase just as the door clicked open.

Fields pressed herself closer to the wall, her eyes narrowing through the shadows to watch the intruder. He bypassed her hiding spot and went into the back room that had once been Ambassador Caine's office. When he had disappeared through the door, Fields crept out and followed him.

The office had been piled high with taped up boxes which undoubtedly contained the ambassador's old possessions, and he was pawing through one of them when Fields found him among the mess. He was odd to look at. Even though she stared directly at him, she seemed to not see him at all, and his uniform kept slipping in and out of the shapes that surrounded him as though he wasn't really there at all. She watched him systematically go through several containers of papers, leafing through them in a hurry, and then she slowly sidled into the room.

“Hello.”

He startled at her voice and quickly jumped back, retreating into the shadows as though she might not see him there. Fields smiled at him sweetly, but her eyes were running along his uniform. It was certainly government-issued, but she couldn't place what department.

“Can I help you?” she said, continuing her feigned identity to the best of her ability.

The man stammered.

“No – sorry. I was just … just stopping by.”

“For?”

“For … Well, there was some paperwork that had been in the former ambassador's possession at the time of his death, and we … Well, we didn't want it to get misplaced in all the moving that's going on.”

“Couldn't the new ambassador have returned it to you?”

“I – well – yes. Of course. We just didn't want to … bother him.”

Fields continued to smile. Her face hurt from the unused expression.

“How kind of you: but I'm sure that he'd be more than glad to bring it to you himself – if you tell him what you're looking for.”

“Yes, of course he would,” he said. He stared at her for a long moment as though she was a cat that might be readying to pounce on him at any moment. “I apologize, Mrs. Caine.”

“It's not a problem.”

She stepped back and made a display of showing him to the door. As she stood at the window watching him retreat, his form seemed to meld with his surroundings and he disappeared from her view far before he ought to have. She squinted her eyes over the front yard in consternation, trying to decide how she had lost sight of him, but then shook the concern away to make room for a separate one: what he had come to the house to find.

“You'll never find it,” she murmured, her taunting voice low even though she was quite alone. And they wouldn't, she knew: that much she could be certain of. But the fact that they knew it lay hidden somewhere in the house was enough to fill her with unease.

Turning from the window, she peeled off the patterned robe and tossed it on the kitchen table. The silky fabric had been cold on her skin, as though it knew that she wasn't Marijould Caine and resented her for wearing it. As she stared down at the colorful print that stood in stark contrast to her own clothing and brushed a bit of dirt from the hem that had rubbed off from her muddied boots, her thoughts turned sharply to the plot of dirt outside where Mrs. Caine used to tend to her begonias, suddenly all the more troubled. For if they knew that it was in the house, then it would make sense that Ambassador Caine had found it, yet if that was true, then he would have turned it in – which only left one other possible explanation: he had found what else she had hidden on his estate.

She had never been so relieved to know that someone was dead.

Whipping from the kitchen, she ascended the stairs and turned sharply to the left to get back into Caine's old bedroom. It had been cleared of his possessions years ago after he had moved out, and now only a few pieces of furniture wrapped in plastic that had been moved from Simon's nursery littered the room. It had undoubtedly been the first place that the late ambassador had looked for the object in question, but he hadn't found it. Fields was better at hiding things than that.

Scooting down, she ran her hands over the smooth expanse of wall. Caine had punched a hole in it that had torn through the plaster, and it had taken her the best part of a weekend to fix it. She had had to repaint the entire room to ensure that the color was unnoticeable over the spot where a thin sheet of paper lined the opening, and was thankful that Ambassador Caine had never been familiar enough with his son's bedroom to detect the slight change in hue.

She pressed against a soft spot and took out her gun. Holding it by the barrel, she slammed the grip against the facade and rebroke the surface, then pulled away at the paper to make it large enough to look inside. It was still there. She smiled as she saw it nestled in the insulation, safely tucked away where no one could touch it, and then reached forward and plucked it out. It was due for a new hiding spot now, it seemed.

After shoving the large crib over a few feet to hide the hole, Fields returned to the kitchen and took a seat at the counter, pulling the notebook towards her as she did so. It was made of metal, with a heavy binding and pages that made it as thick as a textbook, and it had been fastened with a lock that she couldn't fathom how to pick. For a moment she sat thinking of a better place to hide it, and then a separate idea came to her and she crossed the room to the phone. Retrieving it from the hook, she dialed the number that Caine kept on a note stuck to the wall.

“Hello?”

“Professor.”

Mason paused as he heard her voice, the hint of surprise coming through the line in the form of his silence.

“Ladeline? I wasn't aware that you owned a phone.”

“I don't. Not one with an Onerian connection, that is.”

He hummed.

“Don't tell me you're calling to say goodbye,” he said. “Have you found Jasper?”

“I'm working on it.” She shifted the phone to her other ear so that she could lean up against the wall. “When the government sends someone to check up on you, what department are they?”

Mason paused, and for a moment Fields thought that he might not give her an answer. He always avoided the subject of his issues with the authorities.

“It's … Security, I think. A subset of it, at least.”

“What color uniforms do they wear?”

Mason had to think for a moment.

“Navy, I think. But I might be colorblind.”

“You're not sure whether or not you're colorblind?”

He must have given a shrug.

“It's never been an issue,” he said. “There's a list of the uniforms in the course textbook – hold on a minute.”

She could hear him moving about his office as he went to get a copy, and the fluttering of pages sounded in the background as he tried to find the right section.

“Alright, I've got it,” he said.

“And?”

“And I'm definitely colorblind – they all look the same.”

“Mason, that's not helping me at all.”

“Alright, alright – I'm exaggerating. They're all a bit murky, is all. But security's navy – could be dark gray, of course. I won't say for sure.”

“Which one's fallow?”

“That depends: what color is fallow?”

Fields sighed. She got the feeling that Mason was purposefully giving her a hard time and positively delighting in it.

“Mason.”

“I'm not kidding this time, Ladeline – I haven't got a clue. Is it green?”

“Beige.”

“Beige. Alright – there's … well, there's the Health Department – that's a yellowish one.”

“No. What about one that's light gray or brown?” Fields asked, thinking that the color might look different to him. The government official hadn't been from the Health Department – not unless a neighbor had called to complain about the smell of Fields' cigarettes.

“Light-gray is Transportation, and there's a branch of Military that's taupe. Or tan: it's hard to tell.”

“No, that can't be it,” Fields murmured, leaning forward to peer out into the hallway again as though fearing that the man might have come back.

“Why do you want to know?” Mason asked. The sound of the textbook shutting came over the line.

“Matt had an interesting visitor at his door. Claimed he was from work.”