Conscience of the Beagle (9 page)

AWAKE.
Beagle’s
sitting in a chair beside my bed, turning a melted comb over and over in his hands. A red comb. My comb. What interests him in it?

He sees me looking. “Can you hear anything?”

The words come filtered through tinnitus. “A little. Talk louder.”

“Can’t. Too dangerous. Listen harder.” He drops my comb into a box stamped with gothic letters GW and a sans serif word: EVIDENCE. “You’ve been sleeping for twenty-four hours straight.” He picks something else from the box: a brass parakeet. God’s idea of a miracle. Thirty-four people dead in a subway, Arne dead in a bus, and Tinkerbell unscathed.

Beagle regards the bird. Puts it down. “I’ve stayed in your room. Nobody’s had a chance to plant bugs, so we can talk if we keep our voices down. Vanderslice is scared shitless. Tells me over and over that he could have been on board that bus. Would have been, too, if he hadn’t followed Szabo into the hotel. The bomb was set to go off automatically when the bus’s wheels turned forty-five degrees. What a coincidence.”

God’s idea of a miracle. Arne. Just Arne.

“You know, Dyle? If the HFCS guy hadn’t stayed to see the explosion . . .”

Chemical fire. Hot enough to melt the blue cab. To reduce the bus to a skeleton. That’s what he wanted to see. Arsonists like to watch.

“Szabo thought he’d forgotten to pack something. When we went after the HFCS guy, he figured he had time to check his room. He was in the lobby talking to Vanderslice when the bomb went off.”

I’ve strained to catch what he’s saying. Now I’m exhausted.

Beagle’s words blur. I work to make sense of them. “They ran outside to see. Szabo got hysterical. Tried to get Arne out. Vanderslice dragged him back. Saved his life, probably.” Then Beagle says, “Vanderslice wants to talk to you.”

The hospital room is tiny, but two Walls make it seem huge. One to my left plays an expansion of the room itself. To my right, behind Beagle, flowers dot a hillside.

I say, “Lets leave.”

Beagle doesn’t speak.

“We’re targets,” I tell him. “I don’t want to be the reason that a hospital’s bombed. Where’s Szabo?”

“Here. He shouldn’t be alone.” His mouth moves again, but the words are too soft.

“I’m deaf, damn it! Don’t whisper!”

“Okay. Okay. Don’t be so testy. I was just saying that I’ve never seen such a screwed up team. We’re the walking wounded.”

We?

“Szabo’s lost it, but he was always close to the brink.”

Was he? Maybe I was so close myself that I never noticed.

“They shouldn’t have sent him. He can’t psychometrize without endwrapping. Didn’t HF know that? And Arne. Christ. Nobody could get along with Arne. A demolitions expert with nervous hands and a propensity for paranoia? If the terrorists hadn’t killed Arne, he might have ended up killing us himself.”

Not Arne. I’m the weak link. I look away. There’s something unnatural about that Wall. The lighting. That’s it. The light in the Wall doesn’t match the light in the room.

A pause, then: “Dyle, its not just Szabo who can tell how scared you are. Even when there’s no reason, I can see your heart rate jump. What the hell is wrong with you?”

The Wall is contrived. Grotesque. There’s no life in it.

“Dyle? Listen to me. You have to get your shit together. HF is playing with Vanderslice. They’re jerking us around. You’re team leader. Act like it. Team leader
—
God, that chaps my ass. And HF knew it would.”

In the artificial Wall a synthetic window looks out on a fraudulent garden.

“We can’t let them get by with it. We’ve been set up, all right. Question is: Why does Earth want us to fail?”

I turn. “Article Five,” I say.

“That’s right, Dyle. You’re thinking now. That’s exactly right. It’s Article Five. If they let the bombings go on a little longer, Earth will have a reason to put their hands in Tennyson’s deep pockets. So when Tennyson asked for help, they sent us. And we looked great on paper.” Beagle sits forward. His expression is mischievous. “Know what I think?”

“What?”

“My guess is that the dark secret Vanderslice wants to tell you is that he and Earth have an agreement. I’ll bet my M-8 status that Earth is going to let Boy Wonder solve the case and become Chosen of God. But they nearly fucked up. Nearly blew him away. You know what Colonial Security’s like. A bunch of goddamned sociopaths. And you know this particular guy well, don’t you? Don’t you, Dyle?”

My mouth’s dry. I run my tongue over my lips. “No.”

“Tell me the truth.”

“No. Just seen him around. Just know his face.”

“Don’t lie to me, goddamn it. I hate that.”

“He scares me, all right? Colonial Security scares me.”

Beagle’s voice drops. “Understood. They scare me, too. Vanderslice probably thought Earth would only act under his orders. But the CS guy is out of control. Either that, or Earth panicked because we’re getting close to an answer. Now Vanderslice is scared. He’s going to demand that we back off. So do we do what Earth obviously wants us to? Or do we solve this goddamned case?”

I laugh. What else is there to do? “Okay. Let’s solve the fucker.” And for a moment I really believe we can.

SZABO SITS
in the
cab plucking at his sleeve, not meeting anyone’s eyes. His face is drained of color, as if the pale ghost of Arne has burrowed under his skin.

So Szabo loved Arne. They fought, and he walked out, but he still loved him. Now he looks lost
—
an actor in a film where all the cast but he have memorized their lines. I loved Lila, but we fought, too.

Damn it, Dyle. I don’t know you anymore.

So afraid she’d walk out.

You scare me sometimes. The way you look. This case has become an obsession.

What case? Oh. Reece.

The cab stops in front of a sprawling neo-adobe house. Scattered through the neighborhood are spindly pines, no older than the subdivision itself. Foamy-looking maroon groundcover blankets the huge yard. Low hills beyond seem painted a strange bluish-green.

Beagle carries in our bags. I go through the house checking windows. The backyard is unfenced. So open and wide that it’s dizzying. In the distance another house. Our closest neighbors—too far away to hear us scream.

I walk down the hall again, steps rapid, and enter a room. Have I been here before? The windows are locked. Blue curtains. Bed with a blue flowered spread. A wall lamp with bunched glass globes. The first time I saw it, it looked cheerful, like grapes. Another time . . . Tears? Is that it? Tears? How many times have I been in here?

I check the nearest window. Forget if I’ve checked the other, but it’s locked, too.

Another room. How many bedrooms are there? The house is too big. The yard’s too big. It would take days to find our bodies.

“Dyle?”

Beagle’s standing in the doorway, his expression quizzical. “Come eat. You’ve checked the house now. Everything’s all right. Everything’s locked.”

Is it? Familiar violet curtains. Bedspread gray as ash.

“I made dinner. Come on.”

The kitchen. God. Have I checked the kitchen? The room’s yellow. It’s sunlight and hot chemical fire. I’ve been in this place before.

Szabo’s at the table. His face is grief-stricken. He’s not eating. Looks like he’s playing my part.

I sit down. Beagle hands me a plate.

“There wasn’t anything in my room,” Szabo says.

But two windows. All the rooms have at least two windows. I’m hungry. No use. Something’s stuck in my throat and I can’t get the food down.

“See?” he asks Beagle. “It must have been a psychic warning. I didn’t recognize it. If I’d recognized it . . .”

What is he talking about? Why doesn’t he shut up? His voice catches. That barrier. Words can’t come up. If you let them, you’ll vomit pain.

“You can’t keep blaming yourself,” Beagle says.

Not Szabo’s fault. Mine. If I’d just kept my mouth shut . . . Wait. Did I lock the front door?

There are wet rims at the bottom of Szabo’s eyes. “I told Milos to stay in the bus while I went upstairs. Why did I tell him that?”

Beagle says, “It made more sense. It’s what I would have done.”

“But, damn it. You’re not the psychic.” Szabo gets up, his expression confused. Forgotting his lines already.

“Where are you going?” Beagle asks.

Befuddled. “I . . . tired. Just . . . lie down for a while.”

He walks out.

“Dyle? Aren’t you hungry, either?”

“No.” I’ve forgotten something. I go to the patio doors and check to see if they’re locked.

“Someone could have thanked me for making dinner.”

I see Beagle’s reflection in the glass. His voice is as tired as Szabo’s.

“You have to eat or you’ll get sick. Did you even know what was on your plate?”

Bedspread of ash.

“I’ve lost Arne. I’ll let Szabo slide for now. But you . . . Christ, Dyle, You have to pull yourself together.”

He looks frightened. It scares me and I shift my gaze. Outside the patio, the sun is setting. Cirrus clouds in the west wear stripes of red and purple. It looks like the sky is burning.

“I can’t do this alone,” Beagle says.

“I know.”

I check to see if the patio doors are locked. Something
—
a bird or a bat
—
flits from the pines and darts, a black silhouette, across the molten Tennyson sun.

“There are patterns here, Dyle, I’m finding patterns. Broken runs of government employees. Of people connected with science. Importers. Exporters. I’m not sure which one’s important. If they all are. HF’s smart, but not that smart. They can’t fool me.”

I wasn’t so smart, either. Murder. Beagle wrote the book on it.

“Are you listening?”

“I heard every word.”

“You have to help,” he says.

The sun is a whitish-yellow memory on the underside of the dark clouds.

“Damn it, Dyle! Listen, goddamn it! I can’t let them beat me again!”

Again?

In
the glass I see Beagle. His face is lowered. Designers gave him a pleasure center; Hoad Taylor, a capacity for pain.

M-8s. I always thought they were safe.

“You need to talk to Vanderslice. But meet him on your terms. He’s scared enough so maybe we can turn him.”

“No.”

“He didn’t have anything to do with the bus bombing. I’m sure of it. It was just blind luck that he wasn’t killed too.”

I shake my head.

Exasperated now. “He’s in over his head. He has no idea what HF’s like. What they’re willing to do . . .”

“He killed Tal Hendrix.”

“You don’t know that. How the hell could you know that?”

Why else would she talk? “He hurt her.”

“You don’t know that, either.”

“I need to see.”

“You mean . . .”

“Go over there and see.”

“Look, you’re probably still sore. A little rocky from the medication. I don’t know whether you should chance going out.”

She needs me. Duty is prison. I’ll never escape alive.

“It’s dark, Dyle. It’s getting late.”

I can’t see the ground cover anymore, the pine trees. Dark out there.

Wait a minute. Have to see if the windows are locked.

“Dyle?”

I stop at the mouth of the hall.

“You look all right, but . . .”

“But what?”

“Not just your injuries
—
something else. Something’s wrong with you.”

It sticks in my throat.

“What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t shit me, Dyle. I can’t see as much as Szabo, but I can tell things. How your pulse rate rises when you talk about Mrs. Hendrix. How your face looked when you saw the HFCS guy. You don’t just know him. There’s something between you.”

“No.”

“Don’t lie to me again. There’s no time for that.”

“Colonial Security shouldn’t be here. That surprised me. Just surprised me. And Tal Hendrix is important to this case.”

He doesn’t believe what I’m saying.

“I just want to interrogate her again.” See her. Touch her. I have to.

“Well, be careful.” He sounds doubtful. “I have to stay here. One of us has to keep an eye on Szabo. And I want to go over those patterns.”

He agrees too easily. I’m trapped. Outside night has fallen. The house is brightly lit. A safe haven. A hot explosion of light.

Before I can lose my courage, I leave. Maybe I’ll have the chance to come back. Wonder what I’ll find.