Fletcher (8 page)

I never saw him after that night. I didn’t particularly care.

***

I found Valerie spiralling with another girl on the dance floor. A lively beat carried them around. It sounded electronic. I realised that I was far too sober when an arm lashed out and leashed me into the mêlée. It was Valerie, bearing more tongue-offerings of
witchery
.

Standing on tip-toes above the crowd—was that Clarice at the bar?—I flicked my fingers at Dante. He nodded and started mixing. By the time I returned, Valerie and her friend were wrapped around each other.

It was a fun night, as I recall. The synaesthesia grew in strength until I couldn’t tell the music from the lasers. Faces hazed in and out of sight. We flitted between dancing and sprawling, languidly, in the Wasp Gallery. Valerie and her friend—the name escapes me, might have been Rachel?—vanished at midnight. I don’t know how long I was alone—it felt like minutes—but I entertained myself by dropping lit matches on the grinning flesh below. Some smiled at me; one beckoned me closer. I responded with a wink, and rose to my feet.

My memory falls away, briefly, resuming with the words “Lighten up, fiend”. Valerie was whispering in my ear; underneath my fingers, someone writhed. I held my grip until he was purple.

Valerie was alone again. Her top was badly buttoned, and the red marks on one side were smeared. A long set of scratches snaked down her neck.

“Where’s…whoever?”

“Danny’s problem now.”

“Vixen.”

We started giggling. It harmonised with the gasping from below.

“Roof?”

“Roof.”

After I paused to snatch a drink—not mine, but who cares?—we fled the crowds and found ourselves under the stars. Even the wind had died down to an easy gallowbreeze, and the sky opened up gloriously. The rain clouds had not yet arrived. Valerie was half-mumbling, half-laughing.

“The stars taste bitter. I will lick your face, and we’ll see who the moon sends. Dear, don’t fear my dance or my devil’s devices, my sinister step or my visceral vices. Sedation’s the damp on submission’s bright lamp, and submission sedition’s high treasonous tramp.”

She was clearly further gone than I. For a long time we lay on the slate, recuperating in silence, until she rolled onto her side and touched my face.

“And this maiden she lived with no other thought than to love and be loved by me.”

I stroked her hand and lay quietly, taking in the night. She broke the silence again.

“You said you had something for me?”

We were drunk and kiting. Who cares? I explained the situation with Cartwright, along with the call to NutCase, before pulling out my phone and passing it to her. She fumbled with the keypad until I snatched it back and opened the gallery. She whistled at the photo before commenting.

“That…that is a lot of mess.”

“I know.”

“Who is he?”

“A witness. Or a target. Something. Not sure.”

She dragged her fingers across the screen, leaving faint red smears. A new setting flashed—an abandoned classroom, and a fresh corpse.

“And this?” she asked.

“Experiments. I was trying to replicate the injuries. No one will miss him.”

“Naughty.”

“Convincing disguise, Vincent.”

She cuffed me lightly. “Rude. Explain.”

“Well, you’ve met Vin—”

“I meant the experiment.”

“Right. Needed something to compare to.”

A harsh curiosity was cutting through her mental torpor. “What are you—”

“Look at the cuts on the bone. The ribcage. Look.”

“Looks the same.”

“In what universe? Look closer. That one.”

A long sigh of realisation slid from her lips. Another silence set in, during which a fresh buzz hit me. Sound became muted, grayscale. A sting to the ear brought me back to reality.

“This looks familiar. Fourteen-year-old, gay, suicidal. Jumped from a third-storey building. His chest”—a bemused huff of air—“had been impaled on gate railings.”

“Kids.”

“It’s…similar. Similar, but smaller. Something thin and pointy.”

I faded out of the conversation again. Something rose from the corners of my mind, part hallucination, part imagination. A door, propped up against a wall. Silently removed. I stepped into Cartwright’s apartment—dark, save for his room. I stood at the doorway for a second, until he stood and his eyes met mine.

I squeezed a trigger. It felt glorious. Alastor snapped backwards, grating the chair over the floor. A long shaft protruded from his chest. The hallucination melted away as I started hacking at the body.

“Like an arrow?” I guessed. “Some kind of bolt?”

“I said that. Fifteen minutes ago.”

My trigger finger still felt amazing. Suspiciously so. I growled at Valerie, but she knew I wasn’t actually peeved.

“I’m going to have to take that lighter away from you,” I said.

“Doesn’t sound like a complaint.”

“Depends how much you like your eyelashes.”

She purred, but withdrew the flame. Another silence swallowed us. Valerie’s fingers trailed down my side, but we were both far away. I think I was sobering up.

Valerie drew in close and kissed me on the cheek before standing up to leave.

“Dancing. Come join?”

“In a sec.”

She traipsed off, mumbling poetry to herself. I caught the end of the stanza.

“That the wind came out of the cloud by night, chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.”

I stood and gazed out into the dark gutterage. The cold air began to tingle, and I followed Valerie downstairs. I experienced the next few hours in fast-forward. Valerie’s head spun in circles. Or was her body spinning? I was forcing
angel-rage
down the throat of a
hypno
user and screaming “Shake, puppet, shake!” to no avail. A lanky man was buying shots for everyone. A flash of heat—someone’s shirt, up in flames.
Whoosh
. The taste of fire extinguisher filled my mouth. Another blank patch.

Valerie was curled up in the crook of my arm. Heat radiated from her body. Teeth marks lined her shoulder. Neither of us were clothed. Thoughts continued to worry the corners of my mind, but for now, I was content.

***

“Why do you butcher?”

My burns throbbed. Tongue: dry. Head: painful. Diagnosis: poor. I just wanted to sleep.

“Wake up, you alcoholic addict.”

Valerie was on top of me, fingernails raking my shoulders. I focused all my energy towards opening my eyelids. Her face was inches from mine, a burning maniacism in her eyes.

“Why do you butcher?”

“Piss off.”

“Answer or get out. Why do you bu—”

“Because I’m bored. Because I’m angry. Because it’s someone I hate. Because an annoying little girl woke me up.”

Energy surged from my eyelids to my arms. Ignoring the pain, I went for the throat. Valerie rolled her eyes as my choke set in, and I felt a pinch in my neck.

Muscle relaxant.

“Bitch,” I tried, but it stumbled off my tongue awkwardly. “Blithch.”

“You were getting stroppy. Why else?”

I tried to think. My greatest precipitations of violence fell during my worst moods. Anger, annoyance, boredom, hatred. I’d indulge when I needed to send a message. When else?

Two words fought past my teeth.

“Hide. Evidence.”

Valerie grinned in a victory-rictus (victorictus?).

“Forensic countermeasures, K. It fits. Why go all chopper-crazy
after
he’s dead? The bolt, or whatever, to the chest would do that. The rage came after the death. That’s not how it works.

“Cartwright sees something, complains to someone and then gets murdered. That doesn’t look like rage, it looks like elimination. Unless, of course, you don’t want it to look like quiet elimination.

“Someone’s covering their tracks. They covered their tracks by killing Cartwright, and they covered them by mutilating the corpse. We’re looking for a group of people with a lot of precision and talent, experience in getting their way, and the resources to go about doing so. A group who would have access to email records detailing Cartwright’s complaint, and with the technological savvy and underground know-how to drop a few herrings of their own. Ring any bells?”

I didn’t respond; I was focusing on breathing. I knew who she was talking about, though.

RailTech.

Fuck.

#0786

“I spied him from the Wasp Gallery. He had an elegant air about him, classy, calculated. Purposeful.

“Our eyes met, across a bloody dance floor. The smallest drop graced his cheek, a relic of the earlier evening. That fact that his shirt was still crisp was impressive in itself.

“He smiled and touched my neck and laughed just-right at my snarky comments. His eyes flicked over me, affirmingly, when I thought he thought I wasn’t looking. And, before I knew it,
click
: the trap closed.

“We were back at…wherever he lived. Some border apartment. It’s a nice place. He was on top of me, one arm pinning me down. The other teased a knife to my stomach. He smirked. He’d won.

I smiled back, raised my head and touched my lips to his. He wasn’t expecting that. Realisation, understanding, confusion clouded his eyes. He
saw
me. He saw
me
.

“His hand relaxed, and I folded his knife into his stomach. Blood spilled from his mouth. He crumpled, silently.

“I think… I think I liked him.”

11: Bored

I spent a week in a state of masochistic schism (masoschism?). Ruthless K, inquisitive K, let’s-take-a-chancedance-down-the -rabbit-hole K wanted to take it further. That K wasn’t happy with “Oh no, it’s probably RailTech, let’s leave it at that”; that K embraced the curious approach to life.

Survivalist K was the leading voice for the opposing team. Rational K. Pragmatist K. “Don’t dredge up things you can’t put down,” went the counterargument. “RailTech can’t be put down,” it continued.

Second K had a point. I knew it was wise to listen. The clouds rolled in and I spent five long, boring days watching the rain outside. The bricks and mortar of the gutterage rejoiced, washed clean of the dust, but the damp weather muted me and left me feeling frustrated. I spent the time working on my throwing arm and arguing out loud. The argument culminated on the last day, a few hours after the clouds had cleared.

“On the one hand”—I drew my arm back—“this is what I do.” Metal flashed through the air.

“On the other hand, living is something I also do.” Flash. Thunk. Muffled screams.

“Hand number three—looking at you, girlie—is that I just can’t shake that feeling that there’s something big. Here we go.” Another flash. Another set of muffled screaming.

They were the three lurkers—the ones I’d spied from the top of the dome almost a week earlier. I’d snatched them in the last day of rain, poking around the perimeter wall. Two tranquiliser darts and a burst of small arms fire made the rest of the week a lot more entertaining. Two remained, but their friend hung from the ceiling by his ankle—an example for the grinning flesh.

Goddammit, septicaemia.

“Four—bear with me—is that I need an in. I can’t just go hacking around in the dark. If I don’t get shot, I’ll get nothing useful.”

I threw my last knife, watching her fingers contort and twist. I mused for a few minutes and went to draw them out. She had passed out. Vomit soaked his gag. I waited for them to come to before continuing.

“Dilemma, see? Dilemma. I don’t even know why I’m bugging you with this; I know what’s going to happen. I’ll try putting it out of my head. I’ll go drinking, or find a new case, or bring you some friends. If I get really bored, I’ll probably drop a cinderblock on your heads. Well, one of you, at least. No, no, stop throwing up. You’ll damage your teeth. I hate playing with broken toys.”

I glared at them. Her eyes crossed and she went limp again, while he quietly retched. I made a mental note to disinfect their wounds.

“Just you and me… Tim? I want to say Tim. You look like a Tim to me.”

No response.

“The problem is, I won’t stay focused—or unfocused, depends how you’re looking at it—for long. Three people are dead in intensely curious circumstances, Tim. You can’t expect me to just leave well enough alone.”

He raised his eyes. It seemed to take intense effort. I tilted my head to the side and made eye contact.

“No, Tim. That’s not how it works. I can’t just forget about it. It’s like me asking you to forget about the holes in your hands. Stigmata? I think it’s called stigmata.”

I had spent the time spinning a blade in my fingers. I threw it one last time, finding my mark in the dead one. The body swung gently.

“Yeah, I guess so. Have to try, I suppose.”

Before I sealed the doors, I looked Tim in the eyes again.

“I like you. Maybe I won’t kill you,” I lied.

***

Tim was right, but I knew that it wouldn’t help. I found myself reliving the suicide, over and over again. The Midnight Hour didn’t help either. Valerie was all too keen to facilitate my many addictions. I couldn’t even sit in my favourite mall-perch. The monolithic RailTech building teased me from across the perimeter. Instead I lurked around Vincent’s train station, soaking in the must and the silence.

On the Sunday—a week into my deliberations—I decided to tie off Sturrock. It would calm me down and stop him from becoming a recurring plot point. Tim and his lady-friend had started to bore me.

I walked in through the front door, wrapped androgynously in surgical scrubs. In my right hand was a clipboard. In my left I carried a cooler box. A security guard, wearing the traditional blue faux-officer outfit, stopped me in the lobby. My eyes twitched.

“Liver,” I said curtly. “Fourth floor, room four. They’re operating within the hour.”

I knew the layout of Riverside Mercy well. Sturrock was probably on the third floor, the long-term ward. The guard snapped something into his radio, and I tapped my foot impatiently.

“We don’t have a scheduled surgery.”

“Check again.”

More radio-whisper.

“I’m afraid we do—”

I pulled the lid open and waved the contents at him. Not strictly sterile procedure, but it had the desired effect. He put a hand over his mouth and went silent.

“This has been on ice for two hours,” I hissed, making up numbers on the spot. “If you’re not going to let me go to the fourth floor, at least let me into a cold-room on the second.”

He hesitated, but nodded, and pulled me through into the elevator.

“Thanks, Tim,” I whispered to the cooler box.

My annoyance returned when it became obvious that the guard was sticking with me. With short, stubby fingers he pressed the button for the second floor. The doors closed, and I took a deep breath.

What’s blue and white and dead all over?

They opened again, briefly, on the second floor, and again on the fourth. I pressed the basement button and stepped out before the doors closed, taking care not to get blood on my shoes. I had to work quickly. I took the stairs down to the third floor and scanned the whiteboard.

3.02: A. Sturrock.

Found. I wheeled a lunch tray down the hall, and took the second door on the right.

Sturrock was awake. A nurse leaned over his bed, adjusting his tubes. She straightened her back and turned around to face me.

No, she turned around to face the doorway. Or did she turn around to face me?

Tingle, tingle.

“We’ve already got lunch.”

“Strange choice of dying words.”

I grinned broadly from beneath the mask. I opened the cooler box and dug my hand past the ice and meat until I felt the freezing touch of steel. She dropped, quieter than the killing shot, facial expression caught between surprise and curiosity. Sturrock gasped in shock, but no scream for help was forthcoming. His eyes were fixed on the gun in my hand. I peeled the mask off my face and treated him to my most welcoming smile.

Nothing. No recognition in his eyes. Not a flicker. I sighed. Sturrock clearly had no recollection of who I was, or how he got here.

“Everyone’s so fucking boring these days,” I growled as the hospital alarm bells started to blare. I still had time—they would start by searching room
4.04
—but I had done everything I needed to. I pulled the trigger again, finishing what I had started. There was a final death-shudder, and Sturrock spilled onto the floor. Good enough.

I lifted the mask over my face and jammed the door before heading out the window. I shot one last glance inside at the body of the nurse. She’d been very helpful.

***

Later, safely home, I forgot about my pledge to ignore the case. Some final catch had been released, and it glowed with fresh energy. I’d been looking at something wrong.

The turn.

I hadn’t even considered an alternative. What did I say? Murder-suicides don’t turn away. It’s just
wrong
. Well, I was right. I called Valerie and got a groggy answer.

“The turn, Valerie. It makes sense. He didn’t turn away. He turned towards.”

“What?”

“The murder-suicide.”

“What abou—”

“He turned around. I think I know why.”

“It’s four in the afternoon, K. Seriously. I need my beauty sleep.”

“Your words.”

The line went dead. I called again, undeterred.

“He didn’t turn away.”

“You’ve mentioned.”

“He turned towards the doorway, Valerie. I think something...no, someone, was at the doorway. Someone was at the doorway. Someone watched John blow his brains out. The same person must have opened the window, and closed it again. Cartwright must have seen this person: that’s why he died. It fits, Valerie. It fits.”

“So what you’re saying is…”

“I don’t know. And I don’t know how it helps. It’s just so clear right now. I practically could have been there. I don’t know how RailTech got an employee to kill his wife and himself. But they had someone there. Someone in the field. Someone made sure that trigger got pulled, just like someone made sure Cartwright didn’t talk.”

There was silence at the other end.

“You still there?”

“Yes.”

“Well?”

“Well, now what? You’re exactly where you were a week ago, just with more nervous energy. We already figured that RailTech was pulling the strings. This is just old information in a pretty new wrapping.

“Let me speed up the next few weeks for you. You’re not going to let it go. This just proves it: look how worked up you’ve gotten over nothing. Call Vincent and see if he can get you inside. If you don’t, I will. You need help, K, or RailTech is just going to add another body to the tally.”

Her words snapped me into a sour state.

“Who put sugar in your engine?”

“No one. I’m just tired, K. You have the most beautiful energy, but that’s not what I need right now. I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

“And I’m sorry that I’m not. I want to be. Call Vincent, K. Get over your pride. If you try to take RailTech on by yourself, you’ll lose. And I’m not okay with that.”

The line went dead for a second time as an acidic retort brewed on my tongue, which sat there and sizzled, leaving a vile taste in my mouth. My mood had shifted drastically. I didn’t envy what’s-her-name downstairs.

Valerie...was right. Ugh. She was technically right, at the very least. She lacked understanding, though. More information is always a victory, even if it doesn’t open up the future; the pursuit of knowledge, simply for the sake of more knowledge, always struck me as a noble goal. Even by my definitions of the word noble. Regardless of the implications, I had a clearer timeline.

Valerie was just being a bitch. I should have expected it, interrupting her sleep. But, bitchy or not, she held some truth in her words. I navigated to Vincent’s personal number, and paused over the dial button.

This will probably cost you.

***

“Guess where I am?”

Vincent’s voice was loaded with venom. I hazarded something light.

“Enjoying sundowners on your balcony?”

I had waited a few hours before calling. ‘Waited’ is the wrong term–‘hesitated’ is closer to the truth. I had to wrap my head around the questions I needed to ask. I also had to fully consider how much of the truth I was going to share. Vincent didn’t seem to appreciate my first guess.

“Try again. Here’s a hint: it starts with an ‘R’, and ends with an ‘iverside Mercy’. Room 3.02 ring a bell?”

Great start, K. Keep it up.

“Are you sick?” I asked innocently.

“I’m sick of cleaning up after you, that’s for damn sure.”

I abandoned any pretence. He clearly wasn’t in the mood.

“Please. You’d think you were my caretaker, Vincent.”

“Aren’t I?”

“I don’t think caretakers are supposed to shoot their patients.”

“Still going on about the Seychelles? Never gets old.”

“Vincent.”

“Before you ask, you know the deal. If I have to come after you, I’m coming after you. Business is business.”

“Naturally. I know the rules. This isn’t related to Sturrock.”

“RailTech?” It wasn’t so much a question from him as it was a statement.

“Valerie has a quick tongue.”

“You’d know more than I.”

“Would I? It’s RailTech. I need access.”

“You know RailTech doesn’t let the government inside.”

“But you must know someone.”

A sigh filtered through the line. I could almost hear the numbers getting crunched in Vincent’s brain—calculations, expectations, forecasts. Checks and balances being checked and balanced.

“I might. But this won’t happen for free. You hear me? I’ll need assurances, and I’ll need some
quid pro quo
.”

“Name it.”

“No negotiation? Wow. Valerie was right. Are you feeling sane, K?”

I caught my retort before I damaged my case, opting to change to a more neutral response.

“What kind of question is that?”

“You’ve been a bit irrational as of late. Don’t think I haven’t guessed who last week’s mystery arsonist is. Sturrock. The boy. Are you in control?”