The Windup Girl (46 page)

"Someone's at the door." He starts to climb out of bed but she grabs him, ragged nails digging into his arm.

"Don't open it!" she whispers. Her skin is pale in the moonlight, her eyes wide and frightened. "Please." The banging on his door increases. Thudding, insistent.

"Why not?"

"I—" she pauses. "It will be white shirts."

"What?" Anderson's heart skips over. "They followed you here? Why? What happened to you?"

She shakes her head miserably. He stares at her, wondering what sort of animal has invaded his life. "What happened tonight, really?"

She doesn't answer. Her eyes remain locked on the door as the thumping continues. Anderson climbs out of bed and hurries to the door. Shouts, "Just a second! I'm getting dressed!"

"Anderson!" The voice from the far side of door is Carlyle's. "Open up! It's important!"

Anderson turns and looks pointedly at Emiko. "It's not white shirts. Now hide."

"No?" For a moment relief floods Emiko's features. But it disappears almost as quickly. She shakes her head. "You are mistaken."

Anderson glares at her. "Was it white shirts that you tangled with? Is that where you got those cuts?"

She shakes her head miserably, but says nothing, just huddles in a small defensive ball.

"Jesus and Noah." Anderson goes and pulls clothes out of his closet, tosses them at her, gifts that he bought her as tokens of his intoxication. "You might be ready to go public, but I'm not ready to be ruined. Get dressed. Hide in my closet."

She shakes her head again. Anderson tries to control his voice, to speak reasonably. It's as though he's talking to a block of wood. He kneels and takes her chin in his hands, turns her face to him.

"It's one of my business associates. It's not about you. But I still need you to hide until he goes away. Do you understand? You just need to hide for a little while. I want you to hide until he's gone. I don't want him to see us together. It might give him leverage."

Slowly, her eyes focus. The look of hypnotized fatalism fades. Carlyle bangs on the door again. Her eyes flick to the door, then back to Anderson. "It is white shirts," she whispers. "There are many of them out there. I can hear them." She suddenly seems to collect herself. "It will be white shirts. Hiding will do no good."

Anderson fights the urge to scream at her. "It's not white shirts."

The banging continues on his door. "Open the fuck up, Anderson!"

He calls back, "Just a second!" He pulls on a pair of pants, glaring at her. "It's not the damn white shirts. Carlyle would slit his throat before he'd get into bed with white shirts."

Carlyle's voice again echoes through the door. "Hurry up, goddamnit!"

"Coming!" He turns to her, orders her. "Hide.
Now."
Not a request anymore, but an order, driving at her genetic heritage and her training.

Her body goes still, then suddenly she becomes animated. Nodding. "Yes. I will do as you say."

Already she is dressing. Her stutter motion is fast, almost a blur. Her skin gleams as she pulls on a blouse and a pair of loose trousers. Suddenly she's shockingly fast. Fluid in her movements, strangely and suddenly graceful.

"Hiding will do no good," she says. She turns and runs for the balcony.

"What are you doing?"

She turns back and smiles at him, seems about to say something, but instead she plunges over the balcony's edge and disappears into the blackness.

"Emiko!" Anderson runs to the balcony.

Below, there is nothing. No person, no scream, no thud, no complaints from the street as she spatters across the ground. Nothing. Only emptiness. As though the night has swallowed her completely. The banging on the door comes again.

Anderson's heart thuds in his chest. Where is she? How did she do that? It is unnatural. She was so fast, so determined at the end. One minute on the balcony, the next gone, over the edge. Anderson peers into the blackness. It's impossible that she jumped to another balcony, and yet. . . Did she fall? Is she dead?

The door crashes open. Anderson whirls. Carlyle spills into the apartment room, stumbling.

"What the—?"

Black Panthers pour in after Carlyle, slamming him aside. Combat armor gleams in the dimness, military shadows. One of the soldiers grabs Anderson, whirls him about and slams him into the wall. Hands search his body. When he struggles they jam his face against the wall. More men pour in. Doors are being kicked open, splintering. Boots thud around him. An avalanche of men. Glass breaks. Dishes in his kitchen shatter.

Anderson cranes his neck to see what is happening. A hand grabs him by the hair and slams his face back against the wall. Blood and pain flood his mouth. He's bitten his tongue. "What the hell are you doing? Do you know who I am?"

He chokes off as Carlyle is dumped on the floor beside him. He can see now that the man is tied. Bruises pepper his face. One eye is swollen shut, black blood scabs on the orbital bone. His brown hair is clotted with blood.

"Christ."

The soldiers wrench Anderson's hands behind his back and bind them. They grab his hair and jerk him around. A solider shouts at him, speaking so fast he can't understand. Wide eyes and spittle in his face as the man rages. Finally Anderson catches words:
Heechy-keechy.

"Where is the windup? Where is it? Where? Where?"

The Panthers tear through his apartment. Rifle butts to smash open locks and doors. Huge black windup mastiffs scramble inside, barking and slavering, snuffling everywhere, howling as they catch their target's scent. A man shouts at him again, some kind of captain.

"What's going on?" Anderson demands again. "I have friends—"

"Not many."

Akkarat strides through the door.

"Akkarat!" Anderson tries to turn but the Panthers slam him back against the wall. "What's going on?"

"We have the same question for you."

Akkarat shouts orders in Thai to the men tossing Anderson's apartment. Anderson closes his eyes, desperately thankful that the windup girl didn't hide in the closet as he suggested. To be found with her, caught out. . .

One of the Panthers returns, carrying Anderson's spring gun.

Akkarat makes a face of distaste. "Do you have a permit to be armed?"

"We're starting a revolution and you're asking about permits?"

Akkarat nods to his men. Anderson slams back against the wall. Pain explodes in his skull. The room dims and his knees buckle. He staggers, barely keeps his feet. "What the hell's going on?"

Akkarat motions for the pistol. Takes it. Pumps it idly, the heavy dull thing massive in his fist. "Where is the windup girl?"

Anderson spits blood. "Why do you care? You're not a white shirt or a Grahamite."

The Panthers slam Anderson against the wall again. Colored dots swim in Anderson's vision.

"Where did the windup come from?" Akkarat asks.

"She's Japanese! From Kyoto I think!"

Akkarat puts the pistol to Anderson's head. "How did you get her into the country?"

"What?"

Akkarat strikes him with the butt of the pistol. The world darkens.

—water gushes into his face. Anderson gasps and splutters. He's sitting on the floor. Akkarat presses the spring gun to Anderson's throat, pushing him to climb up to his feet again, then to teeter onto his toes. Anderson gags at the pressure.

"How did you get the windup into the country?" Akkarat repeats.

Sweat and blood sting Anderson's eyes. He blinks and shakes his head. "I didn't get her in." He spits blood again. "She was a Japanese discard. How would I get my hands on a windup?"

Akkarat smiles, says something to his men. "A military windup is a Japanese discard?" He shakes his head. "I think not." He slams the pistol butt into Anderson's ribs. Once. Twice. Each side, cracking. Anderson yowls and doubles over, coughing and cringing away. Akkarat drags him upright. "Why would a military windup be in our City of Divine Beings?"

"She's not military," Anderson protests. "She's just a secretary. . . was just a—"

Akkarat's expression doesn't change. He spins Anderson around and forces his face against the wall, grinding bones. Anderson thinks his jaw is broken. He feels Akkarat's hands, prying his fingers apart. Anderson tries to make a fist, whimpering, knowing what is coming, but Akkarat's hands are strong, prying them open. Anderson experiences a moment of tingling helplessness.

His finger twists in Akkarat's grip. Snaps.

Anderson howls into the wall as Akkarat supports him.

When he's done whimpering and shaking, Akkarat grabs him by the hair and pulls his head back so that they can look into one another's eyes. Akkarat's voice is steady.

"She is military, she is a killer, and you are the one who introduced her to the Somdet Chaopraya. Where is she now?"

"A killer?" Anderson shakes his head, trying to think straight. "But she's nothing! A Mishimoto discard. Japanese trash—"

"The Environment Ministry is right about one thing. You AgriGen animals can't be trusted. You call the windup a simple pleasure toy, and so conveniently introduce your assassin to the Queen's protector." He leans close, eyes full of rage. "You might as well have killed royalty."

"But that's impossible!" Anderson doesn't even try to keep the hysteria from his voice. His broken finger throbs, blood fills his mouth again. "She's just a piece of trash. She couldn't do something like that. You have to believe me."

"She killed three men and their bodyguards. Eight trained men. The proof is unassailable."

Unbidden, he remembers Emiko huddled on his doorstep, soaked in blood.
Eight men?
Remembers her disappearing over the balcony, plunging into darkness like some kind of spirit creature.
What if they're right?

"There's got to be another explanation. She's just a goddamn windup. All they do is obey."

Emiko in bed, huddled. Sobbing. Her body torn and scratched.

Anderson takes a breath, tries to control his voice. "Please. You have to believe me. We would never jeopardize so much. AgriGen doesn't benefit from the Somdet Chaopraya's death. Nobody does. This plays right into the Environment Ministry's hands. We have too much to gain from a good relationship."

"And yet you introduced the killer to him."

"But it's insane. How would anyone get a military windup here and keep it under wraps? That windup has been around for years and years. Ask around. You'll see. She bribed her way with the white shirts, her papa-san had that show running for ages. . ."

He's babbling, but he can see Akkarat listening now. The cold rage is gone from the man's eyes. Now there is consideration. Anderson spits blood and looks Akkarat in the eye. "Yes. I introduced that creature. But it was only because she was a novelty. Everyone knows his reputation." He flinches as a new surge of anger twists Akkarat's face. "Please listen to me. Investigate this. If you investigate, you'll find out it wasn't us. There has to be another explanation. We had no idea. . ." He breaks off, tiredly. "Just investigate. "

"We cannot. The Environment Ministry has the case."

"What?"
Anderson can't hide his surprise. "By what authority?"

"The windup makes it a case for their Ministry. She is an invasive."

"And you think I'm the one behind it? When those bastards are controlling the investigation?"

Anderson works through the implications, hunting for reasons, excuses, anything to buy time. "You can't trust them. Pracha and his people. . ." He pauses. "Pracha would set us up. He'd do it in a second. Maybe he's caught wind of our plans, he could be moving against us right now. Using this as cover. If he knew the Somdet Chaopraya was against him—"

"Our plans were secret," Akkarat says.

"Nothing's secret. Not on the scale we're working. One of the generals could have leaked to their old friend. And now he's just assassinated three of ours, and we're pointing fingers at each other."

Akkarat considers. Anderson waits, breath held.

Finally Akkarat shakes his head. "No. Pracha would never attack royalty. He is garbage, but still, he is Thai."

"But it wasn't me, either!" He looks down at Carlyle. "It wasn't us! There has to be another explanation." He starts to cough with panic, a cough that becomes an uncontrolled spasm. At last it stops. His ribs ache. He spits blood, and wonders if his lung is punctured from the beating.

He looks up at Akkarat, trying to control his words. To make them count. To sound reasonable. "There must be some way to find out what really happened to the Somdet Chaopraya. Some connection. Something."

A Panther leans forward and whispers in Akkarat's ear. Anderson thinks he recognizes him from the party on the barge. One of the Somdet Chaopraya's men. The hard one with the feral face and the still eyes. He whispers more words. Akkarat nods sharply.
"Khap."
Motions his men to push Anderson and Carlyle into the next room.

"All right,
Khun
Anderson. We will see what we can learn." They shove him down on the floor beside Carlyle. "Make yourself comfortable," Akkarat says. "I've given my man twelve hours to investigate. You had better pray to whatever Grahamite god you worship that your story is confirmed."

Anderson feels a surge of hope. "Find out everything you can. You'll see it wasn't us. You'll see." He sucks on his split lip. "That windup isn't anything other than a Japanese toy. Someone else is responsible for this. The white shirts are just trying to get us to go after each other. Ten to one says it's the white shirts, moving on us all."

"We will see."

Anderson lets his head loll back against the wall, adrenaline and nervous energy firing under his skin. His hand throbs. The broken finger dangles useless. Time. He's bought time. Now it's just a matter of waiting. Of trying to find the next fingerhold to survival. He coughs again, wincing at the pain in his ribs.

Beside him, Carlyle groans, but doesn't wake up. Anderson coughs again and stares at the wall, collecting himself for the next round of conflict with Akkarat. But even as he considers the many angles, trying to understand what has caused this rapid change in circumstance, another image keeps intruding. The sight of the windup girl running for the balcony and plunging into darkness, faster than anything he has ever seen, a wraith of movement and feral grace. Fast and smooth. And at speed, terrifyingly beautiful.