The Unseen (11 page)

After the fourth train disgorged its passengers, however, she left and walked up the concrete stairs with a very tall, very lean man.

Two more trains came and went, then Dark Suit was standing on the platform, appearing as if by magic: one moment he wasn't there, the next he was standing tall, an unmoving boulder in a river of people exiting and entering the train.

Lucas expected Dark Suit to retreat to the far end of the platform, to hide in the shadows. That was, after all, how it was done in all the spy movies. But Dark Suit made no move to blend in with his surroundings; he seemed content to stand on the island platform, his jacket fluttering in the tunnel's slight breeze as he waited.

Lucas paused a few more minutes, studying Dark Suit, watching his lips to see if he spoke into a hidden microphone, watching his eyes to see if he furtively glanced at a surveillance camera, watching his hands to see if he clutched at a hidden weapon of some kind.

Dark Suit, however, simply stood mute and motionless.

Lucas heard the approaching whoosh of the next train, pushing the heavy organic smells of the world aboveground toward him. It was time.

He waited for the train to pull into the station, then stepped through the security door in the midst of the disembarking crowd. Quickly, he mixed in with the others as he approached Dark Suit from behind.

“You're a bit late,” Dark Suit said without moving, staring at the concrete floor.

“A bit. Missed a connection before this train.”

Dark Suit turned to him, smiling. “Not much of an excuse for you, since you weren't on it.”

Lucas chose to say nothing. He didn't like the man's penetrating smile. They stood, facing each other, on a thick slab of dark bricks between the two sets of tracks—just them, the map kiosks, and a few concrete benches. Even at busy times of the day, people never hung around here; it was simply a stop on the way to other places, and the platform always emptied within a few minutes of each train departure. Part of the reason why Lucas had chosen it as a meeting spot.

Overhead, the station's arched ceiling seemed to glow. Lucas always thought most of the Metro stations, with their recessed white squares, looked like giant frameworks for spaceships under construction.

“So I assume you're ready to go to work. To do some . . . creeping.”
Blink, blink.

“I'm ready to listen.”

“Fair enough.” Dark Suit finally motioned toward a nearby bench, and they walked to it and sat. From the other side of the platform, Lucas could hear the sounds of an acoustic guitar drifting down the steps. At least, it sounded acoustic; had to be amplified for him to hear it down here. A musician at street level, playing a few notes for notes.

Lucas leaned back on the bench, putting his back against its hard concrete surface, trying not to concentrate on the geopatch he was cupping in his hand. In his ever-present backpack, he imagined the minidisc recorder spinning—no video signal, but capturing every word of their conversation.

“How's this gonna work? From now on, I mean?”

Dark Suit nodded thoughtfully a few times. He looked at the top of Lucas's head. “We'll meet twice a week, and you can give me updates.”

“Here?”

“It's a big city. I think we can find more interesting spots.”

Lucas listened to the guitarist upstairs stretching a note, then breaking back into a tune he didn't recognize. “And what if I just say no after all, walk away from it?”

Dark Suit retrieved his pack of cigarettes, shook one out, tilted it toward Lucas. The motion reminded him of Sarea with a stab of regret; if it had been her, he would have taken the smoke. Now, however, he shook his head. Dark Suit shrugged, flipped the cigarette into his own mouth, and lit it. He let a long stream of smoke slide from his mouth as he fixed his gaze on Lucas.

He repeated Lucas's question, but from his mouth, it was a statement. “What if you just say no.” A pause as his eyes searched Lucas's face.

Lucas wanted to drop his gaze, but somehow felt that would be a mistake.

“I guess that would call for Plan B,” Dark Suit said.

“And what is Plan B?”

“Ah, well, let's not give up on Plan A quite yet.”

“I'm just saying, you don't have anything on me. You've admitted you have trouble tracking the Creep Club—”

“But as we've both said: you're not one of them.”

“No. No, I'm not. But . . . I could just disappear and be gone forever.”

Dark Suit smiled. “That's pretty much what Plan B is.”
Blink,
blink, blink.

Lucas felt his face getting cold, but plunged on. “You'd have to find me first,” he said weakly.

“Would I?” Dark Suit offered the smile a vampire might show his next meal.

Lucas took a deep breath, tried to lean back on the bench casually and hide the sickening vortex of fear gnawing inside his stomach. He felt sweat beading on his hands and absently hoped it wouldn't ruin the geopatch he was still trying to conceal. These were all strange sensations for a man who had worked so hard to make his whole existence robotic and emotionless.

“Okay,” he offered, hearing his voice crack a bit despite his best efforts. “Let's not give up on Plan A quite yet.”

Dark Suit tossed his cigarette stub on the concrete floor without crushing it. “Ah, so we do speak the same language after all.” He reached down beside him, and for the first time, Lucas saw a briefcase by Dark Suit's feet. Was he carrying that briefcase earlier? Had to be. Dark Suit pushed the case toward him. “Merry Christmas.”

Lucas eyed the case. “What is it?”

“Your signing bonus. Some files—paper and digital. A few other surprises.”

Lucas made no move to retrieve the case; he would take it when he left. “Okay.”

“Now then,” Dark Suit said. “I believe the next meeting of the Creep Club happens . . .”

“Tomorrow, actually.”

“What say we meet after? Coffee? My treat.”

Lucas nodded. His brain felt as if it were swelling. Okay, he needed to make a move now, if he had a chance of planting the geopatch.

He bent, opened the briefcase, pulled out a file of papers. He let a few sheets of paper fall from the file as he lifted it, then grabbed at the papers as they fell to the floor next to Dark Suit's unmoving feet. As he retrieved the papers, he turned his right hand to the side and rubbed the geopatch against Dark Suit's shoe in a smooth, fluid motion. It stuck easily, and a quick glance confirmed it was mostly invisible.

“Sorry,” he said, playing up the gee-I'm-clumsy routine. “Guess I didn't expect quite so much paperwork.”

“Well, you are working for the government now.”
Grin. Blink.

“Am I?” He sat up again. “What branch of the government would that be?”

“That would be my branch,” Dark Suit said.

Lucas turned his attention back to the contents of the case. More files with photos and documents, some small packages wrapped in plain brown paper. He nodded, as if this was what he expected to see inside the case, then closed it.

Dark Suit rose, turned toward him. Lucas followed the motion and clasped his hand.

“Um, what should I call you?” Lucas asked hesitantly.

“Ah. Well, I guess you could call me Saul.”

“Saul. Why?”

“Because that's my name.” He began to walk away, toward the steps that led to street level. Up above, the guitar abruptly stopped pumping out its lonesome wail. “We'll see you on Tuesday . . . Humpty.”

Lucas stared across the station for a few minutes after Saul's departure, thinking as a few more trains pulled in and emptied their passengers.

Finally, he opened the briefcase again. He considered the folders and wrapped brown packages inside for a few moments before unslinging his backpack and transferring them to it.

Up above, the guitar began in earnest again, yet another bluestinged riff that sounded faintly familiar to Lucas; the tune, in an odd way, felt hypnotic. He listened to a few bars, closing his eyes as the chords seemed to fill the air around him. After a few seconds, he opened his eyes and looked around him, trying to see if anyone else was listening to the music. Another train stopped, emptying fresh passengers onto the platform, but the sounds of the crowd didn't seem to overpower the music from above at all.

Curious, Lucas stood and went toward the concrete stairs, his pack strapped to his back and the now-empty briefcase clutched in his hand.

At the bottom of the steps, he paused. A few people coursed around him. The music beckoned, and now he could hear a faint growl of someone singing, accompanying the tune. No distinct words that he could make out, just a dark growl that punctuated the chords strummed on the guitar.

He kept his gaze above as he climbed the stairs to the street level, pulled along by the siren sound of the music. At the top of the stairs he paused again, seeing the guitarist sitting on a crate near a bench. Lucas was aware of traffic noises, shuffling feet, honking horns, but somehow they all faded into the distance. The guitar and the low, guttural voice of the musician forced it all to the background.

The musician threw back his head and let out a wail, then launched into an intricate solo, making the guitar wail along with him. His eyes were closed, as if he were in pain, but Lucas could see a glint of white teeth shining in the light. A porkpie hat perched on the man's head and seemed in danger of falling off, but it refused to move in spite of the musician's gyrations. Through it all, the man kept his left leg bent, perched against the crate, as his right leg stretched in front of him and tapped out a beat.

Lucas stared around him again, noting the people moving up and down the stairs without taking notice of the wondrous sound in their midst.

He smiled, felt his feet taking him toward the figure on the crate.

He stopped in front of the musician, and as he did, the guitarist straightened his head again and opened his eyes. Another smile, another flash of white teeth. He nodded his head to Lucas, continuing to play but lowering the intensity of the music.

Lucas felt a smile come across his own face, found himself fumbling in his pocket and pulling out a few bucks. He dropped them into the man's guitar case, feeling like a robot; his own movements seemed stiff, awkward in the presence of . . . of this amazing sound.

Another nod from the guitarist as his fingers moved on the frets, shifting to a new tune but somehow flowing from the last one. The musician spoke.

“You wanna hear somethin?” he asked, continuing to play.

Lucas opened his mouth, but it was dry. He swallowed, feeling a click in his throat. “Just . . . this,” was all he could stammer.

The musician nodded. “You look like a man who could go for one of the old-time spirituals,” he said. His eyebrows arched, and he held Lucas's gaze as his fingers etched out a new tune. The man threw back his head and began to sing in that low, feel-it-in-your-bones tone.

Sometimes I'm up, sometimes I'm down

Oh, yes Lord

Sometimes I'm almost to the ground

Oh, yes Lord

Although you see me goin' along so

Oh, yes Lord

I have my troubles here below

Oh, yes Lord

Nobody knows the trouble I see . . .

Lucas smiled. Could be his theme. The man opened an eye and peeked at Lucas, who nodded back encouragement. For a few minutes he stood, transported to another world filled only with shifting chords and plaintive singing; the man performed the song, and Lucas simultaneously felt like crying and laughing. The music gripped him deep inside, matching the Dark Vibration that was always there. But while the music played, the Dark Vibration didn't demand to come to the forefront. It stayed in the background, comforted by the sounds.

Finally the musician finished, going back to some filler. His eyes opened again, the smile spreading from his mouth across his whole face.

“That's . . . amazing,” Lucas said.

“Ain't it, though?” the man said. “You feel it. Not many folks do.

Not many folks do at all. They hear, but they don't feel.”

The familiarity of the phrase struck Lucas; it sounded so much like
They look, but they don't see.
He understood this man very well, he thought.

The musician's eyes took on a faraway look for a few moments, as if lost in some memory. “Hard to feel it if you don't understand,” he said.

“Understand what?”

Another gleaming smile. “Ah, that's the question, ain't it?”

Lucas listened to the musician play for a few more minutes, then turned sadly back toward the steps that would lead him underground again. As he turned, the man spoke behind him once more.

“You just keep listening, son,” he said.

Lucas spun around, thought a moment. “You just keep playing, and I will.”

“Got yerself a deal there.”

Lucas listened to the sounds of the guitar fading away as he retraced his route to the underground. Back in the station, he scouted the platform and backtracked through the security door to bypass the gates, then out to the back tunnels of the Metro system. A few hundred feet down the catwalk adjacent to the rails, he paused and threw the now-empty briefcase out onto the tracks; it tumbled to a stop, resting askew on one of the rails. In a few minutes, the next train would rumble through, pushing the case back toward the station, mangling it in the process. He smiled, thinking about potential bugs or tracking devices hidden in the soft cloth lining of the case; let Saul's spooks kick around the dark stones on the floor of the Metro station, looking for broken pieces.

He turned down an access tunnel and toward the basement of a nearby office building he'd called home some months ago.

Of course, there was also the matter of the files and the wrapped packages Saul had given him; they were just as likely to carry tracking devices, so he couldn't very well take them with him. He'd hide them in the basement up ahead and come back to them at a later time for closer inspection.