Mean Streets (17 page)

Suddenly she was back on her feet again, heading for Frank with her hands stretched out like claws, moving so fast even the robots couldn’t react fast enough to stop her. She jumped up and into the coffin, punched her fist into a hole in Frank’s side, and thrust her hand deep inside him. His whole body convulsed, the machines going crazy, and then Liza laughed triumphantly as she jerked her hand back out again. She dropped back down onto the crystal floor, brandishing her prize in all our faces. Blood dripped thickly from the dark red muscle in her hand. I grabbed her arms from behind as she shouted hysterically at her husband.

“You see, Frank? I have your heart! I have your cheating heart!”

“Keep it,” said Frank, growing still and content again, in the metal arms of his lover. “I don’t need it anymore.”

And already the machines were moving over him, mopping up the blood and sealing off his wound, working to replace the heart with something more efficient. While the computer heaved and groaned and sweated, Frank sighed and smiled.

It was too much for Liza. She sank to her knees again, sobbing violently. Her hand opened, and the crushed heart muscle fell to the crystal floor, smearing it with blood. She laughed as she cried, the horrid sound of a woman losing her mind, retreating deep inside herself because reality had become too awful to bear. I gave her something to breathe in, from my coat pocket, and in a moment she was asleep. I eased her down until she was lying full length on the floor. Her face was empty as a doll’s.

“I don’t get it,” said Dead Boy, honestly puzzled. “It’s just sex. I’ve seen worse.”

“Not for her,” I said. “She loved him, and he loved
this.
To be betrayed and abandoned by a husband for another woman or even a man is one thing, but for a machine? A thing? A computer that meant more to him than all her love, that could do things for him that she never could? Because for him, simple human flesh wasn’t enough. He threw aside their love and their marriage and all their life together, to have sex with a computer.”

“Can you do anything for her?” said Dead Boy. “We’ve got to do something, John. We can’t leave her like this.”

“You always were a sentimental sort,” I said. “I know a few things. I’m pretty sure I can find a way to put her back the way she was, when she came to us, and this time make sure the memories stay repressed. No memory at all, of the Nightside or Silicon Heaven. I’ll take her back into London proper, wake her up, and leave her there. She’ll never find her way back in on her own. And in time, she’ll get over the mysterious loss of her husband, and move on. It’s the kindest thing to do.”

“And the metal messiah?” said Dead Boy, curling his colourless lip at Frank in the computer. “We just turn our back on it?”

“Why not?” I said. “There’s never been any shortage of gods and monsters in the Nightside; what’s one more would-be messiah? I doubt this one will do any better than the others. In the end, he’s just a tech fetishist, and it’s just a mucky machine with ideas above its station. Everything to do with sex, and nothing at all to do with love.”

 

 

 

You can find absolutely anything in the Nightside; and every sinner finds their own level of Hell, or Heaven.

KAT RICHARDSON

FOR TEAM SEATTLE AND THE DENVER MOB

T
rouble radiated from the black figurine like some kind of dark neon at the Devil’s own fairground. Not that I could actually see any such thing even in the Grey, but an electric prickling sensation zipped up my arms and down my spine when I touched it and that was close enough; I know human hair can’t literally stand on end like a dog’s, but I would have sworn mine was trying to.

Nanette Grover was still standing at the side of her desk, looking at me and the little statue. Her fanatically neat office flickered silver, smudged with red and orange and sad shades of green she would never see—the emotional and energetic leftovers of her clients still hanging in the Grey like smoke. A ghost or two lingered in the corners with sour, accusing faces and the odor of misery, muttering their cycles of frustration. They weren’t interested in me, so I ignored them and put my attention back on Nan.

She was impeccable as always: her straightened, java-brown hair was smoothed into a perfect French twist, her stylish tweed skirt suit was unwrinkled even after she’d been behind her desk since five a.m., and her smooth, dark skin was highlighted by delicate makeup that didn’t show a single crease. Even her energy corona was cool and constrained to a narrow bright line, except when she stepped onto the stage of the courtroom floor, where it alternated between hypnotic pall and legal scalpel. In spite of her beauty she had all the warmth of a copper pipe in the snow—which was part of her appeal as a litigator, but not as a human being. One of her opponents in court had referred to her as “the Queen of Nubia,” and it wasn’t hard imagining Nan on a war elephant chasing off Alexander the Great—even her allies found her intimidating. “Well?” she asked, the word leaving amber ripples in the air.

“Well what?” I responded, shrugging off the commanding effect of her voice.

“You’re supposed to accept or reject the conditions.”

“What happens if I say no?”

Her energy closed back down to an icy line. “Then I have instructions regarding the disposition of the item.”

“What are those?”

“None of your business. Yes, or no, Harper.”

“What was it the client wants done with this, again?”

Nan sat down on the other side of the desk, the mistiness of the settling Grey giving her a deceptively soft appearance, and blinked once, long and slow—like some kind of reset—and explained again, with no heat or change of inflection from the first time. “A colleague of mine in Mexico City forwarded this item to me upon the death of his client. His client, Maria-Luz Arbildo, left you a bequest in her will, with conditions. Namely, to personally hand-carry the statuette—this little dog figurine—to Oaxaca City in Oaxaca state in Mexico, and place it on the grave of Hector Purecete on the night of November first and attend the grave as local tradition dictates until daybreak of November second. Additional specific instructions for the preparation of the grave will be provided. All this to be done in the first occurrence of November first following his client’s death. Ms. Arbildo died earlier this month.”

“The twentieth of October,” I added. “A week ago.”

Nan nodded.

“November first is the day after Halloween. Doesn’t that seem strange to you?” I asked.

Nan’s ice-smooth expression didn’t change. “No.”

“And I never met this woman, never heard of her, but she sends this thing all the way to Seattle so I can take it all the way back to Mexico—the far end of Mexico, I might add. Still not sounding kind of weird?”

“I don’t question the conditions of clients.”

“Is this sort of thing even legal?”

“Perfectly. If it flew in the face of public interest, then it would be illegal, but this does not. The conditions also do not require you to do anything illegal either here or there, nor to violate your professional ethics, nor take on unreasonable expenses—everything will be paid for by Ms. Arbildo’s estate. If you choose to follow the conditions of Ms. Arbildo’s bequest, you will receive the thirty thousand dollars, once the conditions have been completely and correctly met. Sum to be paid through this office.”

I was raised in Los Angeles County, California, so I’m not totally ignorant of Mexican culture—just mostly. I knew the first of November was the Mexican equivalent of Halloween, but I didn’t know the details. My experience as a Greywalker, however, makes me wary of any date on which the dead are said to go abroad among the living. I know that ghosts—and plenty of other creepy things—are around us all the time, it’s just that most people don’t see them. I do more than just see them; I live with them and I’ve discovered that days associated with the dead are usually worse than most people imagine—they’re veritable Carnivales of the incorporeal, boiling pools of magical potential. So being asked to take a folk sculpture to a Mexican graveyard on the Day of the Dead sounded like a dangerous idea to me. Especially when the client is deceased.

On the other hand, I can at least see what’s going on. As someone who lives half in and half out of the realm of ghosts, monsters, and magic, I stand a chance against whatever strange thing may rear its head in such a situation. And the money was attractive. The work I regularly did for Nan, investigating witnesses and filling in the details of her cases prior to trial, paid the majority of my bills, but it wasn’t an extravagant living. Even with all the rest of my work added in, thirty thousand dollars was a major chunk of what I usually made in a year and it would only take about four days.

I looked back down at the statuette. It was a hollow clay figure of a dog, about a foot tall and long—give or take—and about four inches wide. The shape was simplified, not realistic, with stumpy legs and tail, a cone-shaped muzzle, and a couple of pinched clay points for ears. It had been painted with a gritty black paint and decorated with dots and lines of red and white that made rings around the limbs and a lightning bolt on the dog’s side. It also had two white dots for eyes, but no sign of a mouth.

Peering at it, I could see the little clay dog had been cracked and repaired at some point, the casting hole in its belly covered up with an extra bit of clay and painted over with more of the black paint. A hint of Grey energy gleamed around the repair seam, but beyond that, I couldn’t tell anything about what might be inside the dog. The statue itself had only a thin sheen of Grey clinging to its surface like old dirt, as if whatever magical thing it came from had withered long ago. There wasn’t any indicative cloud of color or angry sparks around it as I’d seen with other magical objects, yet I was sure there was something more to it than met the eye.

I looked back up at Nan, who hadn’t moved so much as an eyebrow. The silence in her office would have unnerved some people, but I found it pleasant in contrast to the incessant mutter and hum of the living Grey and its ghosts.

“What about the lawyer?” I asked.

“What about him?”

“Is he legit?”

Nan didn’t crack either a smile or a frown. “Yes. His name is Guillermo Banda. He does a lot of maritime and international work.”

I admit I had some reservations, but I was also a little intrigued by the mystery of it—I’m a sucker for mysteries—and the money was pretty good, so I shrugged and said, “All right, I’ll take the thing to Mexico.”

Nan waved to the small shipping carton from which she’d originally removed the dog at the start of our conversation. “You can put it back in its box while I get the papers ready. I’ll need your signature on a receipt to prove that you picked it up and I have a copy of the instructions for you as well.”

I nodded and wiggled the little clay dog back into the snow-storm of paper shred that had sprung from the box when Nan had opened it. We finished up quickly and I left with the papers in my pocket and the box full of probable trouble under my arm.

The aluminum and glass tower that houses Nan’s office has lousy cell reception, so I had to wait until I was just outside the lobby doors to make a call.

“King County Medical Examiner’s office. May I help you?”

“I’d like to speak to Reuben Fishkiller, please,” I replied.

I was put on hold for a few moments while someone located the forensic lab technician for me. I’d met him during an investigation into the deaths of homeless people in Pioneer Square and Fish’s connections to the local Salish Indians had certainly come in handy. But he’d been a bit upset when one of his ancestral legends tried to kill us and I hoped he wasn’t still too freaked out to talk to me.

“This is Fish, what can I do for you?”

“Hi, Fish, it’s Harper Blaine.”

He paused. “Oh. Hi, Harper. You, uh . . . need something?”

“I do, if you’re willing to do it for me.”

“Does it have anything to do with monsters in the sewer this time? Or Salish holy ground? Because I really didn’t enjoy the last time.”

“No monsters, no Salish, no sewers. I promise. I just need an X-ray.”

“We only X-ray the dead.”

“This thing is inanimate, is that close enough?”

“What is it?” he asked. I could almost see him narrowing his eyes with suspicion.

“It’s a clay statue of a dog.”

“You’re sure it’s inanimate? Things act weird around you. . . .”

“I promise it’s just a hollow lump of baked clay, totally incapable of movement or pretty much anything else. I just want to know if there’s anything inside it.”

Fish sighed. “Okay. . . . I can take a look, but it’ll have to be quick. Get here at lunchtime and I’ll see what I can do.”

I agreed to come while most of the staff was occupied with food, and thanked Fish before hanging up.

It would be just my luck to spark off an international incident and get arrested for drug smuggling if the dog had anything significant in its hollow innards. I hoped Fish and his X-ray machine would tell me if there was anything to fear. The easy-money aspect of the situation bothered me; I don’t believe in harmless, eccentric benefactors. There was a sting of some kind in the little dog’s tail—or belly—and I wanted to figure it out before I got hit by it.

I killed some time at the library before heading down to Pill Hill, where the major hospitals cluster like concrete trees. Fish met me at the front desk of the morgue and we walked back through the chilly chambers in the basement of Harborview to the X-ray room. His shaggy dark hair with premature streaks of white, hanging over his square face, still reminded me of a badger, but a more wary and grumpy badger than he’d been before. He’d become a bit nervous since our run-in with living myths, as if he, too, could now see the steam-billow shapes of the dead that wandered through the old hospital, or sense the tingling power that thrummed in the neon-bright lines of magical power that shot through the Grey.