Fear the Darkness (13 page)

"Grimes?" He heard Franklin call his name. "We haven't heard your input on this yet. You have an opinion?"

Becoming aware he had been so deep in thought he had lost track of the conversation, Grimes played for time - looking down momentarily at the sheen on the surface of the table before him as though considering his words carefully.

"I do have a couple of questions, Sector Chief," Grimes said at last. "With your permission..." Seeing Franklin nod for him to continue, he turned towards Anderson. "Obviously I'm a layman in such matters so you'll have to forgive me if my questions seems a little obtuse at first. But you've talked about 'ghosts' here, Anderson. Am I to understand you're saying that you think the Sector House is
haunted
?"

"Could be," Anderson shrugged again. "There have been incidents of hauntings at Sector Houses before. Then again, there are other possibilities. It doesn't have to be a ghost. There's a lot of different kinds of psychic entities out there. And most of them can be pretty nasty."

"But you are sure there is definitely a psychic entity behind all this? You've managed to conclusively rule out any of the more mundane explanations?"

"Not at this stage, no." Her eyes narrowed as she looked at him closely. "It doesn't work that way. All I can say for sure is what I experienced when I scanned Judge Brophy. He heard a voice whispering to him in the darkness, just before he went futsie."

"And this 'voice'? You're convinced it was a psychic entity?" Grimes pressed her.

"No question on that. There was something about it. Believe me, if you'd been in Brophy's head and heard that creepy whisper, you'd be thinking the same thing yourself."

"I don't doubt it for a second," Grimes smiled, trying to put her at ease. "All the same, I am made slightly uncomfortable at the thought of basing all our investigative assumptions on your experiences inside the mind of a madman. By all accounts, Brophy had just suffered a psychotic episode, and psychotics find it difficult to distinguish between fantasy and reality. Really, for all we know this whispering voice might simply be another part of Brophy's delusions."

"Uh-huh." Anderson looked at him pointedly. "And you think these delusions were responsible for the bloody messages on the walls, not to mention the dead perps in the holding cubes?"

"Don't misunderstand me." Grimes waved her sarcasm away. "I'm not denying there's a fair share of unexplained phenomena in this case. For all we know, your theory of some unknown psychic entity being at work here might well be true. All I'm saying is that we have yet to receive definitive evidence to resolve the question one way or another. Remember, you said so yourself - there are other possibilities."

"I take it you don't believe we need to call in the Exorcists, then?" Franklin cut in.

"I don't discount the idea," Grimes replied. "And I can certainly see Psi-Judge Anderson's point of view." He nodded, smiling towards her once more. "But I think it could be somewhat premature to go to that extreme at this stage - at least until we have more proof it's really necessary. After all, as far as we know, Anderson's arrival here may well have already had an effect. There were no further incidents during the last power cut. Perhaps the killer - psychic entity or not - has been made wary by her presence. Either way, my recommendation would be for Anderson to continue with her investigation and bring us any new evidence as she finds it. At least then we can reach a more informed decision."

"I'm inclined to agree with you, Grimes," Franklin said thoughtfully. He seemed relieved. "There's no reason to go over Hass's head again on this. Not yet. Not until we have a better idea what we're dealing with." His mind made up, Franklin pushed his chair back from the table and stood up. "I'm sorry, Anderson. Permission denied. Now, unless there's any more business, I'd say the meeting's over."

Frustration written on her face, Anderson said nothing. Watching her from the corner of his eye as he followed Franklin out of the room, Grimes felt a small moment of pleasure at the adept way he had handled the situation. He did not credit Anderson's "ghost story" for an instant: Psi-Judges were notoriously unreliable and the woman seemed ready to jump at shadows. Whatever was going on here, they would all look like fools if they called in the Exorcists and it turned out to be a false alarm. No, it was always better to consider these things coldly and rationally in the clear light of day. Thankfully, there was still one man in the Sector House able to do just that. Himself.

Creepy voices, he thought. What complete and utter nonsense. Hysteria like that can be dangerous in a Sector House - especially when the sector chief is too weak to stamp it out. A strong leader is what this place needs.

A strong leader. The old bitterness returned. It was so unfair. Here he was, a strong and able man, and yet he was never going to be afforded the opportunity to show just how great a sector chief he could be. I could have been one of the best, he thought. Certainly better than that bitch Meryl Coolidge. She's probably in tight with Chief Judge Hershey, all women together, otherwise why give her the Sector House when it should have gone to me?

He had worked towards becoming a sector chief his entire life, only to be brought down at the last hurdle by a combination of the whims of a doddering incumbent and the byzantine decision-making processes of Justice Department itself. It was more than unfair, it was inexplicable. A tragic waste. A crime against reason. An appalling injustice.

Frankly, it seemed to him that one might almost call it a
sin
.

Well that wasn't so hard in the end, Jeffrey Queeg thought as he stood over the body of his first victim with a bloody knife in his hand. Makes you wonder how come I never thought of doing anything like this before.

Walking quickly through the nearly deserted early morning streets, Jeffrey had returned to Charles Whitman Block straight from the Sector House. He had gone into his apartment, taken a knife from the kitchen drawer and made the short walk down the hallway to the apartment next door.

"Whaddya want?" Kowalski had glowered at him when he answered the bell. "It's six-thirty in the gruddamn morning."

"You're going to be my first, Stan," Jeffrey had smiled as he pulled the knife from behind his back. "Just thought you might like to know that."

Forty-seven stab wounds later, Kowalski was dead. Leastways, Jeffrey thought it was forty-seven - in the heat of his enthusiasm he had lost count somewhere in the high thirties. Dragging the deadweight of Kowalski's body into the apartment and closing the door behind him, Jeffrey noticed the corpse looking at him with the same belligerent expression Kowalski had always worn in life. Feeling an abrupt and nameless anger, Jeffrey found himself tempted to remove the expression by gouging out his eyeballs and cutting up his face. He discounted the idea. Imagine carving off a dead man's face just because you don't like the way he's looking at you, Jeffrey thought. Now that would be crazy.

We have things to do here, Jeffrey
, the voice in his head reminded him.
Remember? Guns. Lots of them. There is a hidden catch beside the light switch on the right wall of the apartment. Find it, Jeffrey, and press it
.

Following the voice's instructions, Jeffrey went over to the wall and ran his fingers along the side of the light switch. There. Finding the catch he pressed it, taking a quick step backwards as part of the wall slid open on well-oiled hinges to reveal a compartment concealed behind it. Looking inside, Jeffrey could see that the voice had not misled him. There were guns, nearly a dozen of them, all polished to a shine and obviously well maintained, mounted on display hooks with small handwritten index cards identifying what they were. He saw pistols, a sawn-off double-barrelled stump gun, even what looked like a particularly big spit gun. A treasure trove of potential death and destruction, and right now it all belonged to him.

"Browning 9mm". Jeffrey read the information on one of the index cards. "Circa 1935. Semi-automatic pistol with thirteen round clip. Military issue, believed to have seen action during World War II".

"Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum". Jeffrey read one of the other cards. Circa 1970. "Revolver with six-round cylinder. Civilian weapon, believed to have belonged to a Mr Harold Callaghan of San Francisco".

They're all from the Twentieth century, Jeffrey thought as he looked at each of the cards in turn. Antiques. Kowalski must have been a collector. Funny when you think about it. All this time I was sitting next door to a guy with an illegal arsenal in his apartment and I never knew it. Wonder if any of them still work?

They work, Jeffrey
, the voice inside his head told him.
All of them. The sinner Kowalski was not a man to collect firearms that could not shoot. See the drawers at the bottom of the compartment? You will find the ammunition for the guns there. And, Jeffrey? There are even grenades.

Pulling the drawers open, Jeffrey saw the voice was right. There were dozens of boxes of bullets. It was everything he could have asked for. With this kind of firepower at his disposal, there was no way anybody was ever going to bully him again. All the same, as he picked up the big spit gun and hefted its threatening weight in his hands, he felt a small niggle of disappointment. Thanks to current marketing techniques and violent Tri-D programming, like most Mega-City citizens, Jeffrey believed the effectiveness of any given gun was in direct proportion to the coolness of its brand name. Widowkiller. ManSlaughter 12mm. Violator 3000. Even if he had only ever seen them on Tri-D before, those were the names of the kinds of guns he was used to. Looking at the name on the index card for the gun he now held in his hands, Jeffrey couldn't help but feel there was something missing. There seemed something inadequate about it, as though it lacked a certain something in the coolness stakes.

AK-47? What kind of dumb name for a gun was that?

NINE

MODUS OPERANDI

So much for following official channels, Anderson thought as she walked the corridors of the Sector House. Looks like I'm on my own, at least for now.

The meeting had not gone well. From the first it had been clear that Chief Franklin was wary of doing anything to further antagonise SJS, while dealing with Deputy Chief Grimes had been like talking to a wall. If Anderson had been a smoother operator, she might have gone in there with a game plan, trying to play the two of them off against each other until she got what she wanted. She simply did not have it in her to work that way. She had always been the kind to say things straight out. She spoke her mind, leaving the politicking to people like Grimes and Hass. Even if, at times like these, she wished she could be more adept when it came to the subtleties of inter-divisional politics.

I'm a Psi-Judge, she thought. There's part of the problem to begin with. In Psi Division we're used to dealing with the unknown and the intangible. We get accustomed to relying on our instincts where most Judges like things to be a hell of a lot more concrete. Men like Franklin and Grimes, they want to see physical evidence before they make a decision. Forensics, surveillance footage, computer analysis: anything they can touch, see or put a number on. The last thing they want is for some Psi-Judge to come rushing into their office telling them "I've got a hunch" and expecting them to take action because of it. You do that and they look at you like you've just shown up straight out of simp school.

To a degree, she had expected it. She had known she was pushing it by going to them without more evidence to back up her claims. If she was honest with herself, she knew in part it was because the psychic blankness of the crime scenes and the killer's victims had spooked her. The corpses of Leland Barclay and the others had seemed little more than hollow shells, as though every last trace of the men they were had been obliterated. In all her time in Psi Division, she had never felt anything like it. Whenever or however a person died, there was always something left behind: a residual imprint of thoughts, memories and emotions. To have found six corpses without that imprint was deeply unsettling.

You're thinking too much, she reminded herself sharply. It's time to turn off your thoughts. Remember what you're doing here.

It was the oldest trick in the Psi-Judge's handbook. Having failed so far to make any significant headway in the case via the normal methods of investigation, it was time to see if her unconscious mind could help solve the case for her. It was a problem of letting go. Ever since she was a child, Anderson had lived in two worlds - the psychic and the physical - relying on her training and experience in the years since to navigate between them. It was a delicate balancing act. The problem was that both the conscious and unconscious mind were capable of accessing a psychic's powers, making controlling those same powers a difficult skill to master.

Many emerging psychics were unable to do so, and over the years Anderson had seen dozens of tragic cases: telepaths driven to madness because they could not withstand the continuous stream of thoughts forcing themselves into their heads from the constant babble of the minds around them, precogs who became drooling basket cases haunted by visions of all the disasters they had failed to prevent, telekinetics whose powers reacted wildly at the slightest annoyance, causing inanimate objects to lash out murderously at their loved ones in the course of even the most minor disagreements. To survive, psychics had to learn to create an inner set of checks and boundaries. For a telepath like Anderson that meant narrowing the focus, learning how to filter out the babble of other minds so she only read the ones she wanted to. Of course this inner filter was not perfect: she still picked up random stray thoughts and emotions from those around her; she couldn't help it. For the most part, however, she had learned how to minimise such accidental readings and make her powers operate by the conscious act of will.

Like most things, it came with a price. Sometimes the strictures of the conscious mind could get in the way, blinding the telepath to things that were already known to her unconscious mind. It was part of the reason psychics relied so heavily on their instincts, recognising that what other people called hunches and "gut feelings" were simply examples of the unconscious mind trying to bridge the gap with the conscious. Now, seeing no better way to get to the bottom of what was going on at Sector House 12, Anderson had decided to wander the Sector House's corridors in the hope her unconscious might furnish her with some insight. It had worked before. All she had to do was try not to think at all, letting her conscious mind grow still, and see where it took her.