Alien Eyes (32 page)

He had the feeling he might be in a hurry.

He saw movement in the darkness, around the sides of the house, then heard a gun go off and the sputter of an automatic rifle. The lights in the house went dark. Sweat, sudden and rank, ran under his arms and down his back. He looked down the dark street for any sign of backup. Nothing.

The ground crunched under his shoes, noisy. Something moved, several yards ahead, and instinct made him dive, twisting to the right and going down hard. His teeth came down on his tongue and he knew he'd hit hard, but he didn't feel anything, not yet. The ground was warm, radiating the heat of the day.

Gunfire again, this time he saw flashes. It was all he could see. God, where were Mel, String, the uniforms?

He crawled, the ground gritty, scraping his belly, and dust clouded, getting up his nose and in his eyes. He was breathing too hard, too fast, and he coughed, and tried to choke it down.

Elbows and knees—what they called John Wayneing across the compound when he'd been in PD training. He had never figured out who John Wayne was, though he'd looked for him once, in a scan of contemporary and historical war heroes.

His elbows were raw, and blood welled, sticking his skin to his shirt.

Something, some noise, alerted him. They were rushing the house, a knot of them. More gunfire—this time coming from the house. Useless, he thought, trying to hit moving figures in the dark.

Elaki with guns.

David raised his own gun, then lowered it. Too much distance for him to hit anything, and no point giving himself away. And shooting without identifying himself would fry his ass with IAD no matter how justified. In the back of his mind, he felt their presence, second-guessing.

There was movement in the darkness. David squinted, counting five tall figures. They moved like Elaki. Two of them split off, heading around opposite sides of the house. The other three moved like a dark streak to the front door.

David went quickly, keeping his head down.

Painter must have barricaded the door. The three Elaki were having trouble. The door bowed inward suddenly, amid a clatter of gunfire. David heard a high-pitched whistle and a sobbing shriek that made the hair stand up on the back of his neck. The door cracked and broke open.

God
.

He saw shadows moving, going through the door. David was right behind them. He braced his legs.

“
Police
.” He zigged sideways immediately, going down. Gunfire, bullets over his head. Someone called out, then nothing.

It was pitch-dark inside the house. He stood up, tripping on a large, splintered piece of wood. His hair was wet and curly with sweat, his knees felt weak, the left one achy. Must have twisted it going down, he thought.

Yeah, yeah, big fucking deal.

He moved slowly, sideways, trying to see something in the darkness. It was cool suddenly, he was near the open door, the light was different here.

David smelled death in the room. His foot slid in something wet, and his leg went out from under him, stretching his thigh muscles to the limit. He went down hard.

Gunfire sounded from the back of the house.

There was something sticky all over the floor. Why did these things never happen in broad daylight? He grimaced, crawled, hand closing on solid mass. He heard a moan, his own. No light. He had to have light. He swallowed heavily, breathing hard, knowing the sound gave him away, knowing there was nothing he could do about it.

He kept crawling, out of the sticky wetness, away from the smells, careful, cautious. He thought about gunfire and tiny Elaki pouchlings.

It was the shatter of glass that broke him, hit him with the panic jolt that brought him to his feet, brought him running, stupid in the darkness, down the dark, twisted hallway to the back of the house.

“Police,” he shouted, maniacal, running into walls. “Hang on, Painter; hang on, babies; it's Silver, Detective Silver. Where are you, sweetheart? Where are you?”

Odd noises, unrecognizable, hissing and high-pitched whistles and clatter. He ran full tilt into the damp velvet mass of an Elaki, and they both went down.

The Elaki sagged under him. It was too dark to see, only feel. The Elaki wrapped fins around David, squeezing.

“Painter?” He wanted to yell, but he could barely choke the word out.

Hissing, groans. Something like gravel under his back. The Elaki squeezed harder. David brought the gun up between his belly and the Elaki's midsection and pulled the trigger. The Elaki splattered like a water balloon dropped from a two-story window.

Silence settled. Nothing but the hoarse sound of his own breath. He was trembling, coated with Elaki blood and chunks of tissue. The room was resonant with emotion—he could not be alone. He strained his eyes—it was dark, so damn dark.

Something he heard—what? A rustle, like rocks and gravel. A plaintive whistle and wail. A pouchling?

Movement across the room. David brought his gun up, palm wet on the butt, his finger slick on the trigger. The gravel sound again, digging, and David remembered the borders, the strips of dirt and gravel that had lined the sides of the room like raised bed gardens.

The wails got louder.

“Painter?” David said softly.

The digging stopped.

“It's Detective Silver. Don't be afraid. Stay where you are, sweetheart. Ask your lights to come up.”

“Lights?” Painter's voice was faint and shaky. But it was hers. “Lights
up
.”

Light, blessed light. David squinted and blinked. Painter was crouched over a gravel pit, digging with one fin. Her entire left wing had been severed, and hung like a broken kite. She had lost enormous amounts of scales, and her skin was raw and pinkish.

“Help for me,” she said. “My little ones. Here beneath.”

She had buried them, David realized. Hidden them away. David went up on his knees, scooting toward her, aware, from the corner of his eyes, of silent, crumpled Elaki. He bent down beside Painter and scrabbled in the rocks, scattering gravel. Could the pouchlings breathe? How long had they been buried?

They were buried no more than three inches deep. Dirt clumped and stuck in the yellow Elaki blood, blood that coated the gravel like batter.

An Elaki shot at close range splattered. David looked up every few seconds, trying for a body count. There had been five hunters. The carnage seemed a few shy.

Something moved beneath his hands. Something warm. He brushed gravel away and uncovered the black dusty back of a pouchling.

“Here,” he said to Painter. “Get him. Here's one.”

Painter was making odd noises, whistling clicks.

“Other one more that way,” she told him, pulling the pouchling free.

David's fingers were sore, bloody. He scattered gravel, saw an eye prong, then moved gently to free the second baby-one.

FIFTY-THREE

David counted bodies. There had been two in the back room—one Painter had shot, one his own victim. There were two bodies here, too. Only one was a cho killer. The other was Thinker.

The Elaki had tied himself across the door, holding it closed with his body, even after he'd been shot. They'd torn him in half to get inside.

David wondered if he'd been dead by then. He remembered the loud, whistling shriek. He closed his eyes tight, shuddered.

He hadn't wanted them on the team—Thinker, Walker, and Ash. They were inexperienced, no street eyes. His objections had all centered around their inability to do the job. Never once had he mentioned that they'd be a danger to themselves, something that was always a consideration with rookies. Why hadn't that come up this time?

He knew why. It hadn't come up because they weren't human.

“He try to give me time,” Painter said. “Hide the pouchlings.”

She was sagging. The pouchlings were silent, awed. Both of them wore Boy Scout shirts. David touched the neckerchief of the smallest Elaki, finding it dusty and stained.

“Elaki scouts?” David said softly.

“First meet tonight,” the little one said. “New troop.”

David glanced at Painter. She was swaying, leaking yellow blood from the damaged fin. He moved up beside her, and put an arm around her midsection.

She went tense.

“
Lean
on me.”

She did, lightly.

“Bodies only three,” Painter told him. Her eye prongs were losing their focus.

“There were at least five of them,” David said.

“The others run away?” The littlest pouchling skittered back and forth.

“Stay close to me,” David said. “Yes, kidlet, they probably ran away.” He moved toward the front door. “But I'm not leaving you here alone. And your mama-one could use some help.”

“No one to go to,” Painter said. “Would spread danger.”

“You're going with me. We should be getting backup anytime now. Nothing to worry about.”

David felt the tug on his belt as the pouchlings latched on with their fins. He moved awkwardly, dragging them along, supporting Painter and leading them into the night.

If the others were waiting outside, they'd make a hell of a target.

It was a long walk, across the bare dirt lawn to the street, then down to the car. He should have parked closer. David kept them moving, and he looked from side to side, watching. The other houses were quiet, dark.

The car was a haven in a night that had turned chilly. David opened the back door, scooting the pouchlings inside, shutting the door softly. He tucked Painter into the front from the driver's side, propping her head on the passenger door, trying to keep her from folding. He lifted her bottom fringe and slid into the driver's seat, letting her fringe rest in his lap. He locked the doors and scanned the street. No cho killers. No backup.

He picked up the radio. “Dispatch. Where the hell is everybody?”

“Who is this?”

“Silver, goddammit, where's my backup? Where's Detective Martinas? She was right behind me—is she okay, has she called in? Where's Burnett and String? I've been by myself in World War Five, for God's sake—”

“Okay, Silver, okay. Sit down and take a breath. You hurt? You—”

David took a deep breath. “I'm not hurt.”

“Good. Good. Look, your people are tied up in traffic gridlocks—”

“How far away?”

“Martinas is a half hour out. Burnett and String about forty-five minutes.”

“Uniforms?”

“Every available officer is out. There are two cars coming your way, Silver, we're putting avoidance routes into the computer that will keep anybody else from getting snagged in the gridlocks, but—”

“What in hell is going down?”

“Bomb scares. Six new warnings in the last hour. Another one went off fifteen minutes ago. We got people to evacuate.”

“God,” David said.

“We're getting off-duty people, but it's going to take time. Are you all right? Can you hold on?”

“I'm all right,” David said. “Cancel the backup. We got … we got dead Elaki, but they're not going anywhere.”

“You sure you're all right?”

David nodded to himself and shut the radio down. He glanced in the back seat. “You guys best stick with me.”

FIFTY-FOUR

David was driving too fast.

“Where you take us?” Painter asked.

“Bellmini General.” The lights on the car flashed. Emergency. He glanced in the rearview mirror at the pouchlings. They sat close together, watching the pulse of light.

Painter sagged against the car door. The yellow blood had stopped flowing and was forming a crust.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Is gun that hurts me. I shoot, and it sends me backward and off rip the fin. Did not know so dangerous to shoot.”

“Where'd you get the gun?”

“This place I find. I drive and look for bad spots. Find Little Saigo. Trade scales to make jewelry in exchange gun.”

“They wanted your scales?” That explained the bald patches. David felt queasy.

“Not take money credit.”

“You got your scales worth. Jesus, whatever happened to those old Saturday night specials? A Geld Brown is too damn much firepower for an Elaki. For anybody.”

“This you tell me now?”

“You could have come to me.”

“I would. But.”

“But what?”

“I see you there with her. The Angel.”

David clutched the steering wheel. It was hot in the car. He would have liked to open a window and let the night air in, but he didn't want to chill Painter or the little ones. Headlights flashed by in the opposite lanes.

“You mean the night at the university?” he asked flatly.

“But yes. And you work with this Izicho. Detective String. Do not know who to trust.”

“So you went to Angel.”

The Elaki stayed quiet.

“Where'd Dahmi get the gun, Painter?” He spoke softly, glancing sideways. “She got it from Angel. Didn't she?”

Packer hissed. “Such treachery.”

David took a breath. The pouchlings were quiet, quiet in the back seat.

“You must catch and punish.”

“Soon as I can. Soon as I drop you off.”

“Now. I will be well. This is not the fatality. And Angel could come for me at the Bellmini. You take Dahmi there. She does not come back. Where she?”

David thought of the Little Saigo sump pump.

“We not find her evermore,” Painter said. “Not ever, think I. Do not take me to hospital. We my babies stay in car. You catch the Angel.”

“When did she give Dahmi the gun?”

Packer hissed. “Dahmi some wary. All of us wary after number two cho killing. Dahmi think she will get out of Guardian lecture. She considering—one way, then another. She tell Angel this. She, Dahmi, has heard the bad stories, from old days, when students meet for snacks social.” Painter shifted sideways. “Humans do this snack social always.” She sounded petulant. “Too much eating.”