Conscience of the Beagle (7 page)

WHILE I WAIT,
a man
walks in. He gives me a furtive look. Baby face, neat hair, nice clothes. Too well groomed for the south side. And then I recognize him. One of the God’s Warriors at the bombing. One of the junior officers who passed me on the stairs.

He recognizes me, too. Lowering his head, he walks faster. I tense as he approaches the third door. Relax as he passes by. At the fourth he enters. The door slides shut. A light over the jamb changes from green to amber. For occupied.

I check the time. 3:59. I study the green light above Mrs. Hendrix’s door. At 4:08, I return to the room.

Behind me a hiss as the door shuts. “Mrs. Hendrix?”

No answer.

Louder. “Mrs. Hendrix?”

“Off duty.” A different voice. Younger. Early twenties. Maybe even teens.

“Is she still here?” What if there’s a back door? Of course. There has to be. This sort of place, there’s always a back way out.

A pause. “Sir. I can’t tell you that. We’re not allowed to fraternize with the customers when we’re off duty.”

“I’m a police officer.”

The camera swings my way. A confused, “I’m sorry, but
—
”

I jerk my head up, face the camera. “I’m a police officer with Earth Home Force. I need to talk to Mrs. Hendrix. I need to talk with her now.”

“I can’t
—
”

“You’re impeding a murder investigation. Where is she?”

“I
—
” Scared. A young girl torn between the rules of her job and the cold threat of the law.

“Where!”

“She went home. She
—
”

Ran out on me. While I was waiting for her in the hall, she ran out on me. I slam my card into the scanner. Sprint for the door. The street is empty but for the guard. I hunch my shoulders against the chill and stride toward Deliverance, moving fast.

Wait. A block down God’s Gift. Something dark in the shadows. No. Imagination. But then, through the spotlight of the street lamp comes the sway of a red coat. A glint of gold hair. A proud, tilted head.

An instant’s strobe of color, and she’s gone.

My heart stops. My throat closes on her name. I run through the street lamp’s island of safety. Toward the next corner. The next lamp has failed.

Dark here. So black that my vision swims. Not this. Not now. I want to go back to the Meat Market. There’re lights there. I’ll call a cab. I’ll . . .

My whole life.

Reece and now . . . But what if? What if you could roll back time? When I was a kid, I fantasized about it. In my bed. In the dark. Didn’t use to be afraid. Only lately. Only after.

But what if I could go back? My whole life. Stop it this time. And what if all I had to do is walk through the dark? It’s the walk, I told Kanz. My wife walks like an M-9. A proud walk. It throws murderers off stride.

What if someone’s waiting for her? A knife. The alleyway. But I can’t walk proud like that. I blunder through the dense black where she disappeared. Buckled sidewalk trips me. A double tap. My own echo. I’m not sure which direction I’m going until I turn the corner.

Garish kiosk
—
the only spot of color on Revelation. A blond woman in a red coat stands there. Back to me. Oh. Back to me. Reading the menu.

I have to hold my breath. Careful. Careful. Does she hear my heart pound? Frighten her. Lose her. Not again.

She whirls. Her eyes are wide. And brown. Her eyes are brown. Her nose is wrong. Her mouth too wide. Not Lila. What’s the matter with me? Of course not Lila. Not Reece.

But something in the way she holds her head. Something in the way she walks. From a distance . . .

“Oh,” she says dismissively. “It’s you.” I swallow hard.

She turns her back on me again. “I thought you’d take the hint.”

“Mrs. Hendrix?”

Her shoulders tense. She passes her card through the reader. Punches her order up.

“I just want to talk to you.”

Hold you.

I walk to her side. Under the coat, her body’s not at all like Lila’s. Stockier. Thicker waist. Larger breasts.

She sees me looking. “Nothing personal, but if you want to talk about Paulie, let’s keep it business.”

“Yes.” I cough into my hand. My cheeks burn. “All right.”

She takes a sandwich from the food slot. A cup of coffee from Beverages. Then she selects a table and finds a chair.

I order my own coffee. “Why did you run?” I keep my back to her. To that blond hair. Tilted chin.

“It’s easier that way.”

No. No, it’s not. “Is it?”

“You think Paulie’s innocent.”

An electric jolt of shock. When I pick up my coffee, my hand shakes. “I’m exploring that possibility.” I take a deep breath and turn. Not so hard to do. Not so much like her. I carry my coffee to the table and sit down. “How did you guess that?”

“Deduction.” Mrs. Hendrix has a smile that makes her look like a school girl. “If you thought Paulie was guilty, there’d be no reason to hunt for me in the south side, a quest that I’m sure was not without either its frustrations or dangers.”

A smart woman. Too smart? Is that why Vanderslice never helped her? “Was your husband involved in a revolution?”

“He was involved in rebellion up to his neck.” Her smile widens. Her eyes fill with devilment. “Paulie was motivated to see the Tennyson government fall. So was I. We worked for years at it.” Her gaze shifts. She looks across the empty dark street. “Perhaps ‘rebellion’ is too strong a word. It was no secret how either one of us felt. Paulie skirted the limits of the Apostasy Laws. In private, he broke them. But no one ever knew. It was never a crime to complain about the government. Everyone just considered it outré.”

“What about the plans found in his DEEP?”

Her eyes lock with mine. Not a kind brown. Nor a warm brown. Resilient. Like hardwood. “And therein lies the conundrum. Paulie never had anything in his DEEP.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Paulie was a brilliant man, but he was uncomfortable with programming. All his computer commands were verbal. He had no idea how to create a DEEP. There’s only one way that information could have got there: it was planted.”

The kiosk’s icemaker hums and then upchucks a clattering load of ice into its steel bin. I look at the dented machinery and the red and blue sign above: DANGER. INJURY MAY RESULT FROM NON-PAYMENT.

“I’ve been told that nobody can access a DEEP except from the home port.”

“That’s what they want us to think. Don’t be naive, Major.”

She’s looking at my insignia. I remember the HF patch in the drunk’s hand. A captain. The drunk tore the patch from a Colonial Security captain. Where had the drunk found the money to travel to Earth? How could he have taken that patch through the Jump without somebody questioning him about it?

I ask, “Are you a programmer? What makes you think an outside agency got into his DEEP?”

“I know because I know what was in there.”

“You want me to believe that when the God’s Warriors searched your house one of them planted that evidence.”

“I don’t want you to believe anything.”

Mrs. Hendrix finishes her coffee and begins tearing flower-petal strips down the cup. She must not have been hungry. Or memory has upset her. Did she love him? The sandwich lies untouched.

I’m suddenly furious with Vanderslice. How could he forget her? How could he leave her to this? Her head is tilted now, but tilted down. She looks so sad, I think. “Mrs. Hendrix,” I say gently. “After the bombing, who was in your sperm?”

Her expression freezes. I feel my own sag. The word hangs in the air between us. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “Sorry.” I clear my throat. “Did anyone ever come into your home?”

She laughs. She has a merry, gut-loud laugh. A woman’s version of Szabo’s. “What a delightful Freudian slip. God, Major. Don’t look at me like that. We use a heating coil, lubricant and Smart Plastic. I put the device over the man and let it go. Oral sex is a misdemeanor here. The average Tennysonian male has no idea how it feels. The only customer who’s ever seen through the ruse was a miner from Jones’ Paradise. Although I have no doubt you would have caught on quickly. My job bothers you for some reason, doesn’t it? Odd. Your being from Earth. Being a cop.”

She wants me to laugh with her. I don’t. What she’s told me should make me feel better. Why doesn’t it? “Mrs. Hendrix, please: Did anyone ever get in your house?”

“They wouldn’t have to. Whatever anyone wants you to believe, you
can
access DEEP files through the net. But the only people with that type of programming sophistication are in the Tennyson government.”

Four forty-five and morning is coming on. The sky, the street, turn milky gray. Buildings emerge from the shadows. The kiosk, with a trickling sound and rich warm scent, begins perking a new batch of coffee.

I close my eyes.

“You’re tired,” she says.

I open them again. Color from the kiosk’s sign bleeds on the street. I yawn. “Just a little.” My eyelids droop. But that’s all right. It’s all right to be sleepy. Everything’s safe now. I sit and watch morning chase the shadows. “John Vanderslice. How close was he to your husband?”

“Oh, yes. John.” Her face is droll. “When Paulie was younger they were friends. John was Paulie’s student, you know. Then things changed. They drifted apart.”

“Vanderslice is convinced that your husband is innocent.”

Strong emotion pulls her lips down. I wonder if it’s fury or grief. “He should know.”

“You mean they kept in touch?”

“I mean that if anyone could get into Paulie’s DEEP files and put something there, it had to have been John Vanderslice.”

“It was Vanderslice who told me DEEPs are inaccessible.”

“Well, disinformation
is
his job.”

The sky above is pearl. Pinkish gray at the horizon. Tennyson’s sun hangs in wait just below the terminator.

“But I thought Vanderslice was the Minister of Science.”

“Yes. The Science Ministry controls surveillance,” Mrs. Hendrix says.

“I’m sorry? I don’t understand.”

She laughs. A bitter one this time. “John Vanderslice is head of the secret police.”

NO CAB CALLS
on
the south side. That’s what she tells me. I don’t want to leave her, but I take off at a run. Four blocks. Easier now. Five. Just a memory. Until a stitch in my side slows me down.

Through gaps in the buildings I catch a glimpse of a red sun peeking over the horizon. Light turns the streets apricot and gold. Seven blocks.

Vanderslice. That bastard. I should have known. Too easygoing, too affable. And what does he have on Marvin? Damn. What does he know about me?

My steps become a painful hobble. There’s a burning ache in the back of my legs. How many blocks now? I’ve lost count.

The buildings here are smaller. Nice eight-plexes and four-plexes. Some trees. Around the next corner I come across a man lurking near a clump of bushes.

He hears my approach and turns. Young. Expensive suit. Expensive haircut. Expensive briefcase. He reminds me of Vanderslice.

“Where’s the nearest cab call?” I ask.

He backs up, not as if I frighten him, but as though he’s afraid of getting dirty. “Excuse me?”

“A cab call. Where’s the nearest cab call?”

“Four blocks west.”

“Four blocks?” I’ll never make it. “Goddamn!”

His guileless face tightens. Not used to the language. Not used to the anger.

I ask, “What are you doing out here?” He’s on his way to the office. He’d have a clean office. With a window.

Not used to being talked to like this. “What are you doing out here?”

“I’m with Earth HF.”

He doesn’t understand.

Of course not. Ticks. To them we’re ticks. “I’m a police officer, and I just asked you a question. What are you doing out here?” If I had my weapon, I’d shove it under that clean-shaven chin just to wipe the superciliousness from his face.

“I’m waiting for a friend to pick
—”

“Good. I need a ride downtown.”

Cautiously: “Oh. Downtown? We’re going, uh . . . I don’t think we’re going that direction. Sorry.”

He’s lying. And there’s nothing I can do about it. Nothing I can do about Vanderslice. Nothing. I lean close, face-to-face. “Fuck you.” Enough fricative in the word to mist him with spittle.

His smile drops. When I walk away, his shocked gaze tracks me, and it feels good.

Four blocks west, near the cab call, a woman is kneeling before a flower bed. Why is she weeding? Doesn’t she have a bot to do that for her? In the air, the heady scent of moist loam.

She stops working. When I catch her eye she hurriedly looks away. Not frightened, but . . . what? Then I recognize that look. She’s not afraid for her life. She thinks I’m going to ask for money.

I run my hand over my cheeks and feel the stubble. My eyes feel gritty and swollen. I probably stink. A cab’s waiting. I climb in and order it to the hotel. By the time I reach the Hebron Crossroads it’s already nine o’clock.

I walk past a curious desk clerk and take the lift to the eighth floor. Beagle doesn’t answer my knock. Szabo and Arne don’t either.

I’ve arrived too late. Vanderslice has picked them up.

Wary, I walk to my own door, key in my hand. Someone’s probably waiting inside. A group of God’s Warriors. Smiling, because they won’t want to alarm me. They’ll have on immaculate uniforms. They’ll be clean-shaven—Not a hair out of place. They’ll smell of aftershave and they’ll be pleasant. So polite. Sorry to bother you, Major.

There’s no other choice. No place to hide. I slide my key in the slot and open the door. The room’s empty. The Wall is blinking a non-emergency green-over-black message: ROOM 810.

My vision blurs. I look at the message again, hoping that I’ll understand it. Finally I sigh and walk down the hall.

Szabo opens the door to 810. There’s a half-eaten donut in his hand. “Oh. Major. We were worried about you.”

I push past him, into a huge three-room suite. Arne sits at a table, drinking coffee and contemplating a Sheet. Beagle is crouched over his workstation.

“Beagle! What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I can hear the sound of my own voice. Too sharp. Too loud.

“Did you order this? Did you?” I would have arranged for a work suite if I’d had the time. Why didn’t Beagle just give me the time?

“Goddamn it! I’ll make the decisions around here. I don’t give a running fuck how famous you are. Or how goddamned smart you are, either. I was made team leader. If you have a problem with that, tell me. If you want to requisition something, you go through me. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” His gray eyes are as level, as emotionless, as his voice. “Yes. Thank you, Major. I quite understand.”

“Good.” I turn. Szabo and Arne are staring. “Szabo. Get on the net. Find us a house. Do it now. I want an isolated place. And then I want everybody to pack. I want us out of here.” The words spill from my lips. Before I know it, I’ve said too much. The room is probably bugged.

“Major? What’s wrong?” Beagle asks.

I snatch the Sheet from the table and write: VANDERSLICE IS HEAD OF THE SECRET POLICE.

Beagle rises. Takes the Sheet. He looks at the message and nods. No surprise in his expression. He suspected. Of course. He’s so fucking brilliant.

“What?” Szabo is asking. “What’s going on here?”

Beagle hands him the Sheet and Szabo, reading, pales. He puts the Sheet down and goes quietly to his own workstation.

I tell Beagle, “I’m going to read the Hendrix files.”

Not waiting for his protest, I go to his station and scroll. Issues of
Godly Science.
Editorials by Paulie Hendrix condemning Vanderslice for pandering to Marvin, for stupidity, for bad and incompetent science. Hendrix and Vanderslice weren’t best friends. They must have hated each other.

So Beagle knew what Vanderslice was lying about. How long was he going to keep the information to himself? M-8. Thinks he’s better than me. Thinks he can sucker me like Vanderslice has.

I raise my head, then notice the tension in the room. Everyone is pointedly ignoring me. Arne has his head lowered. Szabo is letting his station do the search. From a pile of debris he picks a brown wallet and turns it over and over in his hands. What message is he getting from it? There’s an unSzaboish glower on his bearded face.

They’re all annoyed. What were they talking about before I got here?

Beagle picks up the Sheet from the table and writes: VANDERSLICE PLANS TO KILL MARVIN.

How does he know that? Did Vanderslice tell him?

HE WANTS TO BE CHOSEN OF GOD. SOMETIME SOON NOW, MARV WILL DIE IN A BOMB BLAST.

Oh. Yes. I understand. Clever. Hiding one murder in a forest of others. My eyes shift to Beagle’s brown sleeve and I remember the HF patch. The olive green cloth.

I tear the Sheet from him and scrawl: COLONIAL SECURITY’S HERE.

Finally some expression. A flicker of alarm passes over Beagle’s jowled face.

I write: FIND OUT IF THE EXPLOSIVE MATERIAL COMES FROM TENNYSON OR EARTH. I climb to my feet. Give the Sheet to Arne. He flings it angrily back and the metal sheath hits my chest hard. I’m too surprised to react.

“I’m getting sick and tired of your overbearing crap! Don’t think I haven’t figured it out, Major. You’re reporting on everything I do, and you’re sending it to that dyke bitch Hiko Black. Don’t treat me like I’m stupid.”

A dark shape zips past me and smacks the wall. Szabo is on his feet. Lying against the opposite wall is the wallet.

“Goddamn it!” Szabo screams. “Stop it! Will you all just shut up!”

Arne’s lips purse. “Holloway’s a spy. That jealous bitch is after me. Busted me to M-3 just because I’m better than her.”

What is he talking about?

“Jesus Christ, Milos.” Szabo’s voice is ugly. It doesn’t sound like him at all. “Grow up. You’re not the center of the goddamned universe!”

Arne is surprised. Confused. Maybe hurt. Oh. I see it now. Definitely hurt. “I wasn’t the one who moved back to Level 4. You couldn’t take it. Couldn’t give me a chance. Didn’t believe in me enough to
—”

“Believe in you? M-4 was as high as you’re ever going to get. It’s that attitude of yours. That’s what busted you. What drove me crazy. How do you think it felt coming home day after day, listening to your crap?”

Arne’s pallid skin has grown so pink that I have to drop my eyes.

Szabo lurches forward. He towers over the seated Arne. “It was always, ‘They’re after me, Tommy,’ ‘They have something against me, Tommy.’ If you cared, you would have kept your mouth shut. Maybe you would have noticed that I had problems, too. Well, I came to grips with what was bothering me, Milos, and I had to do it alone. I didn’t leave because they busted you. Face it. I left because I couldn’t stand living with you anymore.”

A raw silence. Then Arne says, “Fuck you,” in a tiny, tiny voice.

Szabo’s anger is spent. He shakes his head. Walks toward the window and gazes out.

Louder, but not by much: “Fuck you.” Tears swim in Arne’s eyes. He lunges to his feet and slams out the door.

Beagle strolls over to Szabo’s station. He says, “Um. The search stopped. Looks like we found us a house.”

At the window, Szabo turns. “Sorry for losing my temper.”

“Forget it,” I tell him.

“No. It was unprofessional. I’m sorry.”

“It happens. No problem. Forget it.” I hope he’ll shut up. It was me who was unprofessional. Accusing Beagle. Raising my voice.

“It was the endwrapping,” Szabo says. “It still bothers me. You saw what happened at the bombing site. But for a while it was like I couldn’t put the job down. Not ever. It was with me when I went to sleep. When I ate. I felt like it was on my hands and I couldn’t wash it off.”

Murder lingers in the mind
—
gummy as the smell of blood. Does Szabo think just because I’m not psychic I can ignore that?

I walk over to him. “Look. You don’t have to explain. Just start getting your stuff together. I want out of here.” I grab his arm.

He jerks away. “Don’t touch me!”

Beagle looks up from the screen.

Szabo’s blue eyes are wide. Frightened and angry all at the same time. His voice is a terrifying whisper. “I can feel your fear all the time, Major. It wakes me up at night. I could sense it in the ship and it felt like you were screaming. God. The only time I felt fear like that was when I touched the hand of a schizophrenic.”

A syllable of surprise drops from my mouth. I back up so quickly I nearly trip over my own feet.

“No wonder HF wants me to keep an eye on you. I see the reason for it now. You’re the weak link. You’ll end up getting us all killed. You know that?”

Beagle says, “That’s enough.”

My God. Szabo’s the spy. And HF thinks I’m crazy.

“You can’t keep the team together.” Szabo’s cheeks, his bald head, are crimson. “Shit. You can’t even keep yourself together.”

Szabo. I never really thought it would be Szabo.

Beagle, too calmly: “That’s enough, Szabo. You’ve said enough.”

But it has to be Beagle, too. They’ve planned this. They’ve plotted against me.

“Beagle!” I can’t look at either one of them. “Get your goddamned suitcase packed. Szabo. Get the address of that house. I want us out of this hotel in ten minutes.” And I hurry out the door without bothering to see if they obey.