Final Reckoning: The Fate of Bester (22 page)

Paris. Police have revealed that Alfred Bester the fugitive war criminal indicted for numerous crimes against humanity, may be at large in Paris. He is apparently living-and writing-under the name of Claude Kaufman, a name that will be familiar to readers of Le Parisien. This recent picture was taken in the offices of Le Parisien only weeks ago.

Anyone with any information on the whereabouts of this man is urged to come forward. Michael Garibaldi, CEO of the Edgars-Garibaldi pharmaceutical empire, is offering a one-million-credit reward for information leading directly to his capture. This is in addition to the one million offered by the high crimes tribunal.

Alfred Bester’s story is a long and lethal one, and it begins in Geneva-He switched it off. He knew the popular version of his life well enough. He had to assume they knew where he lived, or would in a very short time. On the way out of the cafe he tossed his credit chit to a beggar who hung out every day on the corner.

“Buy yourself a hot meal and some new clothes,” he said.

He wouldn’t be using Kaufman’s credit again. If the bum used it, it would at least pull the search in the wrong direction for a few minutes. Minutes and seconds would be crucial now.

Garibaldi thought he had him trapped, but as usual, Garibaldi had made a mistake. He hadn’t meant to be noticed by reporters, that much was certain. That’s why Bester’s face was everywhere, now-though the pieces of the trap weren’t all in place, and now Garibaldi would be desperate.

His telephone blipped.

“Yes.”

“Mr. Bester? This is Sheehan. They’re on to you.”

“Tell me something I don’t know. Is the Bureau involved yet?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you with them?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have they located my residence?”

“The hotel? Yes.”

“Okay. This is what I need you to do.”

The Psi Cops had changed their name, the color and cut of their uniforms, and some of their tactics, but they were still unmistakable when they arrived. They came in a pack, eight of them, dripping arrogance.

“Well,” Garibaldi said, as they swept out of the elevator and into the search headquarters.

“That took longer than I thought it would.”

They didn’t waste any time with pleasantries-another thing that reminded him of the bad old days. The leader was a woman, perhaps thirty-five, very professional looking, with closely cropped brown hair. She wore a lieutenant’s insignia.

“Michael Garibaldi, you are under arrest,” she said.

The other teeps were fanning out briskly into the adjoining rooms, except for a hulking fellow who might have been a Viking if he had been born in an earlier era. He was a lieutenant, too, but there was no question which of the two officers was in charge.

“You don’t say? What’s the charge?”

“Criminal obstruction of an ongoing investigation.”

“I think if you’ll check out my clearances…”

“Oh, we will. For the moment, however, you may consider yourself my prisoner. If you could hand over any sidearms, please, and your link.”

“You’re arresting me, with Bester out there?”

Her eyes flared.

“Did you really expect to capture a telepath of Bester’s power and training without us? Thanks to you, we almost lost him.”

“Almost? You mean…”

“We have confirmed sighting at Gare du Nord. A team of hunters is on it right now.”

“Why haven’t I heard about this?”

“Just who do you think you are, Mr. Garibaldi? I don’t care who you were, or who your friends are. At the moment you are a private citizen, with no jurisdiction in this matter whatsoever.”

“Funny. You guys didn’t take that attitude when I was supplying you with funds and weapons during the war. You seemed to think I had a legitimate interest in these matters then.”

She ignored that and turned toward Girard.

“I don’t know how he managed to bully you into this,” she told the Frenchman, “but there will be a full investigation of your department by an independent authority, I can assure you.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Girard replied.

He sounded doleful but not exactly repentant.

“As of now, I have EA authorization to take control of this mess. I want all of your men and equipment off the streets, now.”

“That’s insane,” Garibaldi snapped.

“You don’t have him, yet.”

“We will. I suggest you start being concerned about yourself. Call your lawyer. Monsieur Girard, I suggest you consult with your department. I think you’ll find that the order to stand down is already in the system.”

“Look,” Garibaldi said, “if you really think I trust you guys…”

“I don’t care what you think, Mr. Garibaldi, or who you trust. You’re done here. Your link and your gun-this is the last time I’ll ask.”

“This is a mistake.”

The Viking-Garibaldi mentally dubbed him “Thor”- raised his own weapon.

Garibaldi hesitated for a long moment. Something wasn’t right here. But then he sighed, took out the PPG, unhooked his link, and handed them over.

“Thank you. Please take a seat, somewhere. I’ll want to question you in a moment.”

Bester watched until he was sure all of the men staking out the hotel were gone, along with their equipment. By that time it was dark, and keeping to the shadows, he moved quietly into the building, glyphing himself as a no presence.

He was a little worried-he hadn’t seen anyone who looked like a courier. They might have been scared off by the surveillance, or they might have been captured. Or, if they were smart, they were inside, registered as a guest. He had to take the chance that the courier was in there. It would be too difficult to get replacement papers at this late date.

The front office and cafe were dark and quiet when he entered, but he immediately felt Louise’s presence, and his guts knotted up. He wasn’t looking forward to this part.

“Claude?”

She was sitting in her usual place, a large envelope in front of her.

“Or should I call you Alfred? Or Robert?”

“Louise…”

He stopped. The impact of her saying his real name was almost staggering.

“Were you going to tell me about this? Or were you just going to leave without saying good-bye?”

“I was going to say good-bye.”

“Really? Or were you just coming for these papers?”

“How did you get those?”

“A boy came by with them. The men watching the hotel tried to take them, but I insisted they were mine. Your courier had a choice of giving them to me or to the police. He wisely chose to give them to me.”

She didn’t sound angry. She didn’t sound anything.

“I know you don’t believe me,” he said, softly, “but I do love you. I had hoped this was all behind me. I had hoped to spend the rest of my life here.”

“This is why you wanted to leave yesterday. Why didn’t you tell me? You know I would have gone.”

“You - would have?”

“Of course, you stupid fool.”

Now she did sound angry.

“Do you think I didn’t suspect something like this? Do you take me for a complete idiot? I don’t care what you’ve done, or who you’ve been. Whatever you were like then, I know who you are now. You’re not the same man they’re talking about on the videos. You’re a good man, a loving man. I…”

Her voice caught.

“I don’t understand all of this. I don’t know everything that’s happening. But I do know I love you, and I think… you need me.”

He realized he hadn’t moved a muscle. He unfroze and walked slowly over to the table and lowered himself into a chair. Her eyes were red-she had been crying. He reached out to touch her cheek, and she didn’t stop him.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” he said, softly.

“You don’t know what it’s like to run from world to world, having to leave everything at a moment’s notice. I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

She raised her chin defiantly.

“I think you were going to. What changed your mind?”

“Reality. It’s not make-believe anymore, Louise. This is the real thing. I fought a war. I fought it for good reasons, and I’m not ashamed of anything I did. I wish I had won, but I didn’t. Now I’m just a reminder of everything they want to sweep under the rug. They’ll hunt me until they catch me, or I die.”

“They can hunt us together, then. I want to go with you.”

And there it was.

Once he had been briefly stranded in hyperspace, floating in that miasma that the human eye perceived as red but which serious studies proved ought to have no color at all. In hyperspace, telepathic power extended toward the infinite, and he had felt like an expanding star, as if his mind was becoming everything and nothing.

He felt like that now. Of all the reactions he had imagined from Louise, this wasn’t one he had dared. And yet here it was, the simple, elegant answer to everything.

“You do love me,” he sighed, reaching to touch her face again.

“I do,” she said, taking his hand.

“I want to stay with you, be with you.”

He gripped her fingers, knew it was the truth. He also knew it would never work. She loved him, yes. But could he count on her? When it fully sank in that he had really done the things he was accused of, would she truly understand? How could she? She was a normal. When it really hit her that she would never see her family again-this family that she was rediscovering, her love for them just reawakening-how would she feel then? When she understood that in harboring him, in going with him, she was becoming as much a criminal as he, that her only doorway to a normal life would be his capture and conviction, what would she do?

It might be days, or hours, or months, but she would turn on him. She had to. She was in love with him, but love wasn’t rational. And it was fragile, so very fragile. But if he left her here, they would question her. They would scan her. She knew his new identity, she knew where he was headed.

“Okay,” he said, softly.

“You can go with me. I love you, Louise.”

He bent over to kiss her, savoring the feel of her lips, the emotions that spoke through them, the surge of joy and relief. He wasn’t going to leave her, not like everyone else… She went rigid, when he started, and then she struggled.

“Claude… Claude… something’s wrong…”

She didn’t know yet that it was him doing it, but then, in an instant, she guessed, and her eyes widened like a child’s, full of betrayal and incomprehension.

“What are you-no!”

But by then he had her paralyzed, her defenseless mind opened like a ledger. It’ll be okay, he told her, this is for the best. He felt sick, though, almost to the point of throwing up. This was Louise. Each part of her he cut out was like cutting

out a part of himself. But it was too late, now. It had always been too late.

Snip their summer afternoons together, their long walks along the Seine. Snip the day playing tourist, their lovemaking, their laughter at an old movie. Snip their quiet talks, washing dishes together, arguing playfully about who would cook supper.

It was all going too fast. He didn’t have enough time. Soon the ruse his insiders had set up would be at an end, and the hunters would be back here, for him. Garibaldi would be back for him.

He was trying to be careful, but it was hurting her. She moaned almost steadily, and all of the sweet light disappeared from her eyes, leaving only pain, and loss, and still that awful incomprehension. Why are you doing this to me? I love you!

Snip him posing for her, the sun shadowing his face. Snip their first kiss. Snip the comfort of body against body, in the dark of night, when nightmares woke her.

The artist in the square. The fight with Jem. Tasting wine together and complaining about the vintage. Everything. She passed out long before it was done, thin streams of blood leaking from her nose. He collapsed onto the table, every nerve raw, utterly exhausted. He felt dead. He wanted to be dead.

But Louise would live. There were holes, of course, things torn, but they would heal, and she would have no memory of him. To her, he would never have existed. But she would live, and with help she could be rebuilt into a normal, functioning, safe human being.

He staggered to his feet. One more thing.

Going up the stairs took almost all of the energy he had left. The loft was locked, but he had her key. He used it and entered the room where he had fallen in love with her. The easel and the canvas were still there, quiet, awaiting her hand, her presence.

He almost saw her there, hair pulled back, paint smudging her face. For too long he stood, locked in place by emotion. But it was too late. It was done.

He walked across the room, stood where she had stood when she painted, and at last saw it. It was finished, and it was him. He wobbled slowly to his knees, almost as if praying.

Because it was him. All of him.

How had she done it, with nothing more than a brush and paint?

The face that stared back at him was lonely, and hurt. And yes, there was cruelty there, and cold purpose. She had seen that. She had always known. But she had also seen the compassion he hid, the love that came so hard, his deepest desires and most profound wounds, the ones that remained unhealed from his earliest childhood. The boy, the man, the torturer, the killer, the poet, the lover, the hater, the fearful, the hopeful. All there, in loving brush strokes.

She had known everything important about him, and loved him still. He had known grief before. But he had never known this. A sound came up from his throat that he didn’t even recognize, a sort of whimper, a tearing.

“What have I done?”

He had been wrong.

Louise would have followed him anywhere, and loved him. She would never have betrayed him. He took the can of turpentine and emptied it over the painting. He struck his lighter to it and stood there, watching the face dissolve in flame, a damned soul burning in hell. When it was ash, he ground out what remained of the fire, the smoke stinging his eyes. When he was sure it was out, he went downstairs and got his papers.

He checked Louise’s pulse. It was weak, but steady. He wanted to say something. He couldn’t. His throat was tight. I love you, he ‘cast, knowing it would mean nothing.