Post by Aedh on Oct 4, 2013 16:01:57 GMT -5
069
Saturday, 17 October[/b]
It had just passed four a.m. when the man called Nick and Vartan hit the last “send” button, and, with a last searching look over each piece of equipment in his shadow-filled South Jackson street post, arose from his chair and collected his hat and coat from the stand. Then he secured the room and went out, down the hallway to the street door. Outside, Chinatown’s old brick frontages sweated damp from the chilly bayside fog; the wet cobblestones reflected shards of neon light from a few signs advertising dim sum or international legal services. A dark, hatted, trench-coated figure stood on the narrow sidewalk, awaiting him. He nodded; the other was expected, thanks to a cam. “Good evening, Detective.”
Jack Crowley returned a grunt. “I’m gettin’ a little old for walkin’ about in this weather, personally. But then, I’m only human, Kirin. Or whatever your name is.”
“Let’s get going, then, and warm you up,” returned Kirin. “I assume this is not about business.”
“Sorta.” Crowley fell in with the man as they started walking toward Second Avenue. “More of an unofficial talk about official business.”
“I am at your disposal.”
“It’s about these new killings, like the vampire ones we’ve worked on, but not quite the same. Starting with the Gary Hoffman case—you remember. They have similar vampire-style incisions and draining, but this new string of victims is all-male, and all have had sex just before. We have a suspect. If it’s all the same perp, she’s compiling quite a body count.”
“’She?’” returned Kirin. They stopped on a corner, under a light, and Crowley pulled out his PDA and showed Kirin the picture he had shown Rhys Macklin the day before. “Recognize her, by chance?”
The vampire took a moment. “Hard to tell from this picture. I might have seen her clubbing, but the hair, glasses, and coat don’t give away much. I’ve seen worse legs.”
“Someone’s been looking for her besides me. There’s been database access, some expert hacking, up to your standard, in fact. Would that be you?”
They started walking again. “I’m looking for leads on the vampire killer cases,” replied Kirin.
“That’s not what I asked. I asked if you are looking for the woman in this photo.”
“I’ve never seen that photo, and I have no idea who that woman is, so I don’t know if the person I’m looking for is her or not.”
“Right. Does the name ‘Jael Schlick’ sound familiar? Alias ‘Taylor Light?’”
“Yes. Prime suspect in the Gary Hoffman matter. What about her?”
“Last seen in the ferry terminal Wednesday evening, most likely headed for Alder Island. Where Gary Hoffman lived. The next night her apartment in Terrace Street turns into a shooting gallery, four gangsters and one zeke-oh crankhead, shot up very professionally, and a bloody set of woman’s prints leaving. Four more fuck-and-cuts the same night, and two brought in earlier this evening, with a few more on the way, I don’t doubt. This is no ordinary person. This is someone who is or has been an agent, or—between you and me--who is a posthuman evolution, or both. At that point, thoughts of you floated into my head.”
“I’m flattered, I think,” said the man.
“Look, Kirin. We’ve worked together a few times. I’ve seen your badge and your creds, and they’re real. I know that. I also know you’re not human—not all human, anyway. You’re a PHE of some sort—humod, vampire, something else—your agency is obviously okay with that, so I accept it, too. My job is to deal with the unbelievable.” They looked both ways before crossing Columbia Street, skirting the bombing area, surrounded with moveable chain-link fence units on big concrete-bottomed poles. “But I think you know who this person really is, and that you’re holding out on me.”
Kirin stopped and put his hand on Crowley’s shoulder, turning him around to face him. “I’ll level with you. I do not know if that’s Taylor-slash-Jael. But as for that person, unofficially, yes, I knew Jael Schlick very slightly. I was her client one time.”
“Wait—’knew?’ She’s dead?”
“For all I know. On that basis, I’m sure she killed Hoffman and the driver, and Tyrone Higgins. I’m also sure she’s not up to taking out professional hitmen. If that’s the person in your photo, then it’s not Jael Schlick. That is a fact.”
“That helps, I guess,” said Crowley.
“One more thing. Taylor-Jael recently became very friendly with a person called Liam. He’s a rich-boy clubber and dabbler in the occult. What he wanted with her I have no idea.”
“Liam? Liam Bates?”
“Possibly. You know him, then.”
“I know about him. You?”
“A lot of people know him by rep or by sight. I’ve seen him. My work has taken me to clubs sometimes. Do you think he might be the other person looking for Ms. Schlick?”
“I don’t know if he’s a savvy enough hacker personally. He might be. He certainly has the associates.”
“H’m. If I find out anything, I’ll let you in on it,” said Kirin. “It’s no more in my interest than yours to have more vampire killings making the news.”
“I s’pose it isn’t. Luckily, there’s plenty else going on to keep the fifth estate busy. There are a lot of questions I’d like to ask you. I’ll permit myself one. The answer will go no further unless by some chance I’m forced to testify about it.”
“Go.”
“What, exactly, is your mission here?”
“To keep tabs on suspected activities contrary to the amended Security Act of 2071, which prohibits the creation or modification of humans or material of human origin outside the limits of the Act, or trafficking in means to effect the same; to report instances of the same, and to take administrative action as authorized.”
“That keeping you busy?”
“Busy enough.”
“Rhys Macklin?”
The man called Kirin allowed himself a very small smile. “He’s the least of my worries.”
“Okay, fair enough. Thanks,” said Crowley. “See ya again some time, maybe.”
“I’m sure,” replied the vampire, and watched Crowley trudge up the steep, glistening slope to Third Avenue.
>< >< ><
After a wake-up and sex with Vonda, then with Shenandoah, then with Suzanne, whose mom dropped her off, and then with Suzanne’s mom, David, his morning needs taken care of for the moment, had a cold water shower and pulled on his CDF uniform, and emerged to a breakfast served up in his own kitchenette by Vonda, who had fetched it from the house’s main kitchen. She had set places for herself, Suzanne, and Holly as well. Suzanne, a healthy, big-boned girl, tucked in to hers, while Vonda ate a little. Holly hadn’t arrived, so David called her.
“Oh, David, hi,” came Holly’s voice, still wisped with sleep.
“Hey, Holly, zero-six-thirty! Are you comin’ to CDF with us, or are you AWOL?”
“No, not this time. I know I said I would, but something happened. I have to help Dr. Macklin out with something kind a’ important.”
“Oh, well, if it’s for Doc. Good luck with it, Holl.”
“Yeah—wait, David. I—I …”
“What?”
“I’m not one to—to get feelings and stuff, David, but … take care this weekend. Yeah, yeah,” she said over his grunt, “but I’m not just saying that to say it. I mean, take care. I’m concerned. I don’t know anything, but I’ve—well, I’ve been circulating a little. And it just seems like something might happen. So take care, you and everyone else.”
“Okay,” said David. “See you around, then.” Holly murmured something, and David ended.
“What did she say?” asked Vonda from the bedroom. Suzanne already had her fatigues on, and he hoped Vonda was changing. He had asked Shenandoah to see if she could scare up a set somewhere.
“She’s not coming,” replied David, putting away his PDA and picking up another piece of fruit.
“Too bad,” said Suzanne, helping herself to the last two pancakes. “Colonel George was looking forward to having her on board.”
“She didn’t say never, just not this time,” replied David. From the bedroom door, Vonda said: “Ta-dah,” and showed herself in the uniform. The pants bunched around her hips, but the web belt set off her waist well, and with her hair pinned up under the beret she looked pretty professional, except for one thing. “Remember not to wear your headgear indoors,” he cautioned. “Fold it and tuck it over your belt like Suzanne. Otherwise, cool! Okay, your kit’s downstairs, right, Suze?” She nodded, her mouth full. His was, too. Regina had packed it. He let her do it sometimes; he let no one else touch it. And Vonda didn’t have any kit yet, of course.
Five more minutes, and the three of them were in the Hummer. As David kicked it into gear, he wondered about Holly’s words. ‘Concerned?’ Since when was Holly ever concerned about anything except her job or her next fuck?
Momentarily, he had an urge to stop, let Vonda out, tell her to come next time instead.
“Let’s go!” urged Suzanne, giving him a slight elbow, and he spun the wheel, and didn’t give it another thought.
>< >< ><
Brionne’s day had started with soft chimes over a ceiling speaker, and, when she’d opened her eyes, had wondered for a moment where she was; but at the sight of the small, clean room with its modest Scandinavian furnishings, it had all come back to her, the ferry ride, the van ride with the friendly driver, the check-in and chat with the nice counselor. She was, of course, at the Alder Island Family Health Center.
Here, she thought now, it looked like they did serious family planning stuff. It was situated a little out of the commercial area. A very modern-looking main clinic/office/conference complex sat among trees; around it, sited carefully so as not to look boring, were smaller wood-sided buildings, labs, classrooms, meeting spaces, a library, and a media center, but also hostel accommodations, and her room was in one of these, where there were about a dozen similar rooms: a kitchen/dining area, a lounge, and a separate e-lounge, where you could do calls and ‘net from. Her own window had a view of trees with a peek of mountains, and she’d had a scary healthy breakfast of some sort of whole-grain protein mush, fresh fruit, and yogurt … well, you had to eat healthy stuff if you were pregnant, everyone knew that, she figured, and accepted it. So far, nobody had said anything about payment, either for breakfast or anything else. At check-in last night, they’d said, she would complete a financial aid form that might mean her whole stay and everything would be subsidized by community funds. That sounded good, as her meager state assistance payment had already evaporated from her account, as it always did before the month was half-over, and Marcus’ very part-time earnings didn’t always make up the rest. Her day’s scheduled activities would start in about a half-hour, so, she thought, time to get in a couple of calls from the cozy chair in the e-lounge, where you could see a bit of Puget Sound from.
Her first call, to Marcus, was disappointingly brief. “You okay, Bri?” he asked, sounding briefly anxious. “Yeah, there were a couple of people around askin’ about you—social services or sumthin’—no, I didn’t know. They said for you to call … uh-huh. Can’t talk much—I’m workin’, actually, hey howzaboudit! Call ya later? Tell me then—bye, Bri!” She didn’t even get to tell him where she was or about the family planning., but there’d be time for that tonight, for sure. Kamiko didn’t answer, and neither did Rayvyn. She tried Ashley, who picked up. “Hey?”
“’S’up, Shlee-gal?” greeted Brionne.
“Oh, hey, Bri! Whaffup?” came Ashley’s familiar, gum-tangled voice.
“Coolin’,” replied Brionne, kicking back. “Got some time, ‘Shlee? ‘S’up?”
“Nawmuch. At th’ corner, waitin’ for a buff. Metrothe’ fayin’ they’ll be gettin’ thum tranthit routche goin’ again. Here’the’ hopin’. Where you at?”
“Well, ya know I’ve been tryin’ to chase down some family planning. After what went down with Fawnie and Daniella, I’m so hosed with them, I’m pretty sure, so I hopped over to Alder Island.”
“Eww—I mean, kewwell, really! Never been there. Tho, whaffup wif that?”
“Nice, so far. The family planning place gave me a little room of my own, there’s classes and stuff, meals—all health food, I think. No pizza or nachos here, I betcha anything,” she sighed.
“Mm.” There was a loud pop of bursting gum. “ How long you gonna be there?”
“As long as I want, they say. Maybe a couple a’ weeks. There’s a zit-load of family planning to learn. I never s’pected.”
“Are you, like, um, locked in? Have they, like … um … done thtuff to you?”
“Huh? No, everybody’s nice.”
“Huh. Well, I f’pothe that’th how it ftartth,” meditated Ashley. “Ftill, I geff they can’t get you pregnant, anyway.”
“I already am,” Brionne pointed out. “No vacancy, like.”
“’N’ Marcuff ith cool wif dat?” There was another pop.
“I talked to him a bit just before I called you. He’s zeft,” she white-lied. “How’s Stosh?”
There was a brief pause as Ashley removed her gum, and Brionne prepared to hear something important. “I haven’t seen him yesterday or today. Two nights ago he freaked over something on the news, and he must a’ took off. Boom. No calls, no nothin’.”
“What did he freak about?”
“The Transit Tunnel thing. Not all of it, just the clips where they had CCTV of the guy who did it. You seen that?” Brionne nodded; she’d seen ‘net on the trip over.
“I said, did you see that?” Ashley repeated, and Brionne said yes.
“Well, I never told you about this, because Stosh said he couldn’t talk about his games-testing job, confidentiality and stuff. He only said this the other night when he was laid off. Seems the body armor the guy was wearing in the clips was the same as Stosh was testing. And the weapons, and everything, all the same. And he said that when we was testing, this guy was sometimes in there, and the guy was Leonard Chung, the County Executive. Or looked exactly like him. Stosh just totally lost it, Bri. He was all crying and stuff. He was realleay fuckin’ zit-arse freaked. Yesterday morning he wasn’t there, and I haven’t seen him or heard from him.”
Brionne thought of something from a cop show ‘vid. “Did he take any stuff, ya know, like he was goin’ going, or did he just take off?”
“No … I don’t think he took anything.”
“Weird. Sorry about that, boo. I’d give ya a great big huggy-hug right now.”
“Yeah, Bri. I’m actually goin’ on a weed run, but he smoked it more than me, and I’m not sure I should be spending the money if he’s gone.”
“Don’t know what to tell ya, ‘Shlee. Maybe you should just clear.”
“What if he comes back? No, can’t do that.”
Brionne looked at the time. “Well, I’m here for ya, grrl, but right now I got an intake appointment. Call me whenever, and if I don’t answer there I’ll call ya back ay-sap.”
They exchanged goodbyes, and Brionne ended. It really was time to go over, so she heaved herself up out of the chair, which seemed to have some kind of butt-suction action, and, putting away her PDA, flap-flapped toward the doorway. Of all the people she had to pay attention to, the first two were herself and Lucasta, or Maximilian. No way he’d get nicknamed ‘Max,’ if it was a he, not if she could help it.
>< >< ><
>< >< ><
Ralna’s morning had commenced in the mode usual for weekdays, except today her morning datasession had conveyed all the requisite details to supervise the move of Dr. Macklin’s office, and she could wear comfortable athletic clothes all day. She would arrive first, open up, and admit the four men Sir had hired, who knew only what was necessary to complete the physical work, which consisted of moving crates of electronics only, no furniture, which would all stay. Three of them would leave when the van was loaded. She would accompany the van and its driver to a set location, where the driver would leave. She herself would drive the van to a third location, arriving in biomorph, where a second set of men would meet her, and she would direct them to a third location nearby. Furniture would already be there, and when they were done shifting the crates, Ralna would unpack and place the electronics herself. For the moment, no one, no one at all, would know where Rhys Macklin’s new office was except he and Ralna. It was farther from her apartment than his old office, but not very much farther, and over quieter residential streets. There was very little actual work for her until the unpacking, so she could devote a good deal of capacity to free processing on priority tasks. During her yoga, workout, and shower, she kept her mind clear. She had less appetite for breakfast than usual, but all her internal signs fell within normal parameters; she checked her home monitoring projects, the highest priority being the trace on her one-time acquaintance Adela through her escort number—no activity yet; then it was time to pack, and make the jog to the office--for the first and last time at this location, she reflected, completing her final stretches.
She descended to the street, tasted the chilly air, gave her pack a final adjustment, and set off.
The Taylor incident was the key to a great deal that was going on with Sir, and having all the facts was necessary. If she could have thoroughly searched Taylor’s flat, that might have been of immense help, but that was not possible now. She had given Taylor’s PDA to Sir, as he had ordered, but not before copying every byte of information for analysis. Since then, its records, and the telecom databases it had connected to, had provided some significant data. She had done follow-up on the significant contacts; Liam, Nyree, Margoth, Shaz, and others. Sir was not among them. One reference had surfaced several times, nick, but used as a proper name, Nick. There were texts to and from him, referring to meetings at the KLSM nightclub, and one about him, Nick is not expecting you back, which was extremely suggestive given that it was sent and read at the time she must have been on the ferry, perhaps actually in Sir’s company. Liam she knew as William H. Bates VII of Microhard Corporation fame, and his interests were not secret. That merited further investigation, but not yet; Liam could keep, in Sir’s odd but effective phrase. Information on Adela would be forthcoming, in time; that, too, would keep. Nick was the unknown. Since Taylor’s death, Nick had attempted one call but left no message, and had not texted. It was possible he knew of her fate, and that could have repercussions for Sir and herself, especially as Nick was the one person whose identity she had not yet succeeded in establishing satisfactorily. Information was priority, and she needed another crack point or else to draw him out. Appropriate action then would depend on who he was and what he knew.
She rounded Queen Anne Avenue onto Denny Way, and shifted mental direction as well.
She had two whole days to herself; more than that, about sixty hours before office duty resumed. Yesterday she had formulated a plan to carry out Sir’s other directive, given three days ago now. In the light of morning, it seemed satisfactory, although it would entail considerable risk and time was short, given the magnitude of the task. But, if completed successfully, it would confer immense advantages in her basic mission to keep him safe and happy. Action would begin today, after completing the office move.
>< >< ><
After morning muster, formation, and training assignments, CDF members and trainees dispersed around Camp Freedom’s grounds, some to classes, others to courses or other outdoor activities. Near midday, David Thomsen slipped away from a climbing course, clad in his protective synthetic bodysuit under his fatigue trousers and boots, and made his way about a hundred meters through a short-cut trail to a range shed. He opened the door; inside, Janine put down something she was working on. “I got your message, big boy,” she said, holding up her PDA and wiggling it. “Time for pussy patrol already?”
“’Already?’ Damn, Janine, I’ve been without for an hour--I can’t stand it!”
“Well!” She started undoing her jacket. “Never let it be said I didn’t comfort a soldier in need.” He got his trousers open, and loosened the restraining panels on the lower portion of his bodysuit; his massive erection bobbed up, rooted atop a firm, hot, melon-sized scrotum, and within seconds she was on her knees playing with it, tickling it with her tongue, getting wet, and then flopping herself back, spreading wide, supported by a stack of tent bags, letting him enter her just in time for his first ejaculation. She grabbed something and he leaned in; her calves stroked his flanks as her hips moved around and around. It took only a few of his gigantic extrusions to fill her—in a moment it would be overflowing and she would be sucking him, masturbating him, just having fun with the hot shots—and there was a loud BAP—BAP!! and David stiffened. His body turned, Janine shoving and yelling something, rising up as he rolled, and she saw a raised automatic pistol, pointing straight at her--three-fourths nude—and, holding it, a strange figure, wearing a brown poncho with the hood up, over a gas mask, rubber hip boots below it.
“What the hell--?” yelled Janine; the shooter raised a gloved finger to the mask’s ventilator, holding the pistol steady, and then peeled back the hood to reveal a woman’s brown hair, then quickly pulling up the mask. It was Debi. David lay still. “I shot him,” said Debi, her face pale and clammy with perspiration. “But I’m not here for him. I’m here for you, skank.”
“How did you--?”
“I had to be creative. Yes, sunlight hurts, but I covered up, I got here, and came looking for you--you and your whole sick vampire sex blackmail thing. Who’s got who now, huh? Whatever you did to me, whatever you did to whoever, it’s over.” Her finger tightened on the trigger, but David’s leg had been lifting, and he kicked backwards, catching Debi behind one knee, felling her. Janine leaped, snarling, and grappled her. They rolled over and over on the dirty plank floor, back and forth. Debi’s gun arm pulled away, twisting—David’s doing--and she gasped as there was a snap and the weapon disappeared; Janine took that moment to heave herself up; Debi’s other arm was on her face, pushing desperately, but the older woman got both hands on Debi’s head, anchoring her fingers in her hair, then yanking it up and smashing it down. There was a kick, some things fell over, and Janine hammered and hammered the other’s head until something crunched and Debi fell still, her eyes wide open, blood spreading under the back of her skull where it had caved in against the corner of a fallen cement footer.
Janine scrambled. “David—David!”
He was on his elbows and knees now. “I’m … uck,” he said, “Been better.” He staggered upright, then sank against the tent bag pile. “You alright?”
“Let me see,” she said, looking around at his back. There were two nasty-looking wounds, oozing blood on his back, but no apparent exit wounds on his front. “Yeah,” he said. “Th’ bodysuit’s got protective properties--I think the slugs went in, not far. Only a thirty-two cal, I think. A nine-mil and I’d be dead.”
“Can you get up—can you move?” Janine asked.
“I think so … gimme a minute.”
“Give me your knife. Your sheath knife—give it to me now!” she commanded. David half-pulled the big, saw-backed blade out of its holster on his belt, and Janine took it and went to work, moving fast. First she looked at Debi again, then grabbed one foot and shook it, drawing off the rubber boot, then the other one, throwing both aside. Then she tore open the poncho snaps and stood up, taking the garment and letting it fall over her.
“What’re you doing, Janine?” asked David in a half-dazed voice.
“Get up,” she said sharply. “Get up, David! I know you’re hurt, but you won’t bleed out in three minutes, and that’s about all we’ve got.” She reached over to the place she’d been working and got a hammer, then knelt down over Debi, cutting her shirt with two, three strokes, and yanking hard at the pieces; she left the bra alone.
“What the fuck?” He was up and leaning against a post. “What are you doing?” he repeated.
“I’ll explain later. Go to the door and look out. Get a gas can. There should be two of them just outside. Go, Thomsen, do it!”
“Wait—“
“Suit yourself and watch, then,” retorted Janine. She used David’s razor-sharp knife to cut a deep trench in Debi’s flesh, just under the twelfth rib on the body’s left. Dark blood flowed out, but she paid no attention, cutting two down-strokes at the ends. She dug her fingers inside and pulled down, laying open the left side of the abdomen with a crimson splotch. David made a nauseated noise.
Then Janine pulled her right poncho flap up, baring her right hand and forearm, and got down, laying her head atop the groin area facing down. She reached up and into the blood-wet cavity, under the ribs. Her hand felt around, her face concentrating. Then she drew out, took the knife, thrust it in again, made several sawing cuts, and then took it out again. On the third reach in, she grasped something, yanked hard once, making the body’s head and shoulders flop, and pulled out a dark, drooling blob, sucking yet more blood out with it. She heard David retching, and screamed at him, “GAS! NOW, THOMSEN goddammit!! NOW!! DO IT!!”
She threw the heart on the floor, looking around—nothing she wanted, apparently, so she turned the hammer over and hit the thing with the claw end, piercing it to the floor. Then she got outside, shaving blood off her hands, took the gas cans from David, emptied one inside, around and around, then uncapped the other one and just threw it in. Then she drew off the poncho and threw that in too, and produced a lighter. A flick, a toss, and the gas lit with a poof, spreading fire quickly. She turned and saw David nearby. She went to him quickly and took his hands; luckily there was a field shower hanging from a nearby tree branch. The rest of the gas whumped, going up. She steered him to the shower, turning the spigot and pulling the cord, and letting the water flow.
“One more thing. Use your phone. Call HQ. Report an accident at Building 23, a small fire, controllable, but medical assistance required. Do it.” He did it, while she held the cloth to his wounds. She took the device and threw it aside and got him under the water.
“Finally,” she breathed. “Now, let’s see you.” He put his head against the tree trunk; she still had the knife, and with its now-nicked blade lifted up the surface of the bodysuit. The knife wouldn’t cut the super-tough polymesh, but she could see swelling and discoloration; a pass and another pass with her fingers, there were really no exit wounds. The slugs were inside him, but near the surface; one she could feel only a half-inch or so below the skin—the other could not be much farther in. She bunched up what was left of her undershirt and held it gently against the wounds, which were close together.
“What the fuck, Janine, what the fuck?” he moaned softly.
“She—she was sick, infectious, sick in the head and body. I’ll explain later. For now, say nothing to anyone, and I mean anyone. You were here, I was working, I had an accident, something exploded and ignited, a couple of ammo rounds cooked off and hit you. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll explain everything else.” She repeated the brief story. At that point, the field shower emptied to a trickle, and she helped him out, rinsing the knife in the last of the water. As it turned out, the incident had been noticed, and Bernd Behrens, as range officer, pulled up in his vehicle only a minute later. It had been a very near thing, in more than one way.
>< >< ><
Also on Alder Island, a tall young man in a hooded leather overcoat leaned on the car lot railing at the ferry dock, looking out over the harbor. The tide was out, exposing crumbling remains of old pilings and pavings, a rusty rail, some patterns in the mud that were footprints of forgotten works of a couple of centuries before. When he took the ferry before, Jason had always gone as a foot passenger and under cover of rush-hour commuters or darkness, or both. Now it was midday, and he was driving, taking his runabout. It was risky, and he’d be in trouble with his dad even if he didn’t get caught, but at least he’d taken some basic precautions such as removing the battery from his PDA. He had to see Lucky.
He didn’t really matter to anyone else, and no one else mattered to him, not really. Not his dad, nor his mom, or Candee, let alone the sister he barely remembered, or Michelle, or anyone else. They’d all do alright without him. Only one person in the world needed him, he felt instinctively, and that was Lucky. She’d lost a child. And him … he’d lost his parents, both of them. They were still around, but he had lost them, lost them long ago. There still had to be something worth having in this world. Maybe he finally had a line on it.
>< >< ><
>< >< ><
Saturday, 17 October[/b]
It had just passed four a.m. when the man called Nick and Vartan hit the last “send” button, and, with a last searching look over each piece of equipment in his shadow-filled South Jackson street post, arose from his chair and collected his hat and coat from the stand. Then he secured the room and went out, down the hallway to the street door. Outside, Chinatown’s old brick frontages sweated damp from the chilly bayside fog; the wet cobblestones reflected shards of neon light from a few signs advertising dim sum or international legal services. A dark, hatted, trench-coated figure stood on the narrow sidewalk, awaiting him. He nodded; the other was expected, thanks to a cam. “Good evening, Detective.”
Jack Crowley returned a grunt. “I’m gettin’ a little old for walkin’ about in this weather, personally. But then, I’m only human, Kirin. Or whatever your name is.”
“Let’s get going, then, and warm you up,” returned Kirin. “I assume this is not about business.”
“Sorta.” Crowley fell in with the man as they started walking toward Second Avenue. “More of an unofficial talk about official business.”
“I am at your disposal.”
“It’s about these new killings, like the vampire ones we’ve worked on, but not quite the same. Starting with the Gary Hoffman case—you remember. They have similar vampire-style incisions and draining, but this new string of victims is all-male, and all have had sex just before. We have a suspect. If it’s all the same perp, she’s compiling quite a body count.”
“’She?’” returned Kirin. They stopped on a corner, under a light, and Crowley pulled out his PDA and showed Kirin the picture he had shown Rhys Macklin the day before. “Recognize her, by chance?”
The vampire took a moment. “Hard to tell from this picture. I might have seen her clubbing, but the hair, glasses, and coat don’t give away much. I’ve seen worse legs.”
“Someone’s been looking for her besides me. There’s been database access, some expert hacking, up to your standard, in fact. Would that be you?”
They started walking again. “I’m looking for leads on the vampire killer cases,” replied Kirin.
“That’s not what I asked. I asked if you are looking for the woman in this photo.”
“I’ve never seen that photo, and I have no idea who that woman is, so I don’t know if the person I’m looking for is her or not.”
“Right. Does the name ‘Jael Schlick’ sound familiar? Alias ‘Taylor Light?’”
“Yes. Prime suspect in the Gary Hoffman matter. What about her?”
“Last seen in the ferry terminal Wednesday evening, most likely headed for Alder Island. Where Gary Hoffman lived. The next night her apartment in Terrace Street turns into a shooting gallery, four gangsters and one zeke-oh crankhead, shot up very professionally, and a bloody set of woman’s prints leaving. Four more fuck-and-cuts the same night, and two brought in earlier this evening, with a few more on the way, I don’t doubt. This is no ordinary person. This is someone who is or has been an agent, or—between you and me--who is a posthuman evolution, or both. At that point, thoughts of you floated into my head.”
“I’m flattered, I think,” said the man.
“Look, Kirin. We’ve worked together a few times. I’ve seen your badge and your creds, and they’re real. I know that. I also know you’re not human—not all human, anyway. You’re a PHE of some sort—humod, vampire, something else—your agency is obviously okay with that, so I accept it, too. My job is to deal with the unbelievable.” They looked both ways before crossing Columbia Street, skirting the bombing area, surrounded with moveable chain-link fence units on big concrete-bottomed poles. “But I think you know who this person really is, and that you’re holding out on me.”
Kirin stopped and put his hand on Crowley’s shoulder, turning him around to face him. “I’ll level with you. I do not know if that’s Taylor-slash-Jael. But as for that person, unofficially, yes, I knew Jael Schlick very slightly. I was her client one time.”
“Wait—’knew?’ She’s dead?”
“For all I know. On that basis, I’m sure she killed Hoffman and the driver, and Tyrone Higgins. I’m also sure she’s not up to taking out professional hitmen. If that’s the person in your photo, then it’s not Jael Schlick. That is a fact.”
“That helps, I guess,” said Crowley.
“One more thing. Taylor-Jael recently became very friendly with a person called Liam. He’s a rich-boy clubber and dabbler in the occult. What he wanted with her I have no idea.”
“Liam? Liam Bates?”
“Possibly. You know him, then.”
“I know about him. You?”
“A lot of people know him by rep or by sight. I’ve seen him. My work has taken me to clubs sometimes. Do you think he might be the other person looking for Ms. Schlick?”
“I don’t know if he’s a savvy enough hacker personally. He might be. He certainly has the associates.”
“H’m. If I find out anything, I’ll let you in on it,” said Kirin. “It’s no more in my interest than yours to have more vampire killings making the news.”
“I s’pose it isn’t. Luckily, there’s plenty else going on to keep the fifth estate busy. There are a lot of questions I’d like to ask you. I’ll permit myself one. The answer will go no further unless by some chance I’m forced to testify about it.”
“Go.”
“What, exactly, is your mission here?”
“To keep tabs on suspected activities contrary to the amended Security Act of 2071, which prohibits the creation or modification of humans or material of human origin outside the limits of the Act, or trafficking in means to effect the same; to report instances of the same, and to take administrative action as authorized.”
“That keeping you busy?”
“Busy enough.”
“Rhys Macklin?”
The man called Kirin allowed himself a very small smile. “He’s the least of my worries.”
“Okay, fair enough. Thanks,” said Crowley. “See ya again some time, maybe.”
“I’m sure,” replied the vampire, and watched Crowley trudge up the steep, glistening slope to Third Avenue.
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After a wake-up and sex with Vonda, then with Shenandoah, then with Suzanne, whose mom dropped her off, and then with Suzanne’s mom, David, his morning needs taken care of for the moment, had a cold water shower and pulled on his CDF uniform, and emerged to a breakfast served up in his own kitchenette by Vonda, who had fetched it from the house’s main kitchen. She had set places for herself, Suzanne, and Holly as well. Suzanne, a healthy, big-boned girl, tucked in to hers, while Vonda ate a little. Holly hadn’t arrived, so David called her.
“Oh, David, hi,” came Holly’s voice, still wisped with sleep.
“Hey, Holly, zero-six-thirty! Are you comin’ to CDF with us, or are you AWOL?”
“No, not this time. I know I said I would, but something happened. I have to help Dr. Macklin out with something kind a’ important.”
“Oh, well, if it’s for Doc. Good luck with it, Holl.”
“Yeah—wait, David. I—I …”
“What?”
“I’m not one to—to get feelings and stuff, David, but … take care this weekend. Yeah, yeah,” she said over his grunt, “but I’m not just saying that to say it. I mean, take care. I’m concerned. I don’t know anything, but I’ve—well, I’ve been circulating a little. And it just seems like something might happen. So take care, you and everyone else.”
“Okay,” said David. “See you around, then.” Holly murmured something, and David ended.
“What did she say?” asked Vonda from the bedroom. Suzanne already had her fatigues on, and he hoped Vonda was changing. He had asked Shenandoah to see if she could scare up a set somewhere.
“She’s not coming,” replied David, putting away his PDA and picking up another piece of fruit.
“Too bad,” said Suzanne, helping herself to the last two pancakes. “Colonel George was looking forward to having her on board.”
“She didn’t say never, just not this time,” replied David. From the bedroom door, Vonda said: “Ta-dah,” and showed herself in the uniform. The pants bunched around her hips, but the web belt set off her waist well, and with her hair pinned up under the beret she looked pretty professional, except for one thing. “Remember not to wear your headgear indoors,” he cautioned. “Fold it and tuck it over your belt like Suzanne. Otherwise, cool! Okay, your kit’s downstairs, right, Suze?” She nodded, her mouth full. His was, too. Regina had packed it. He let her do it sometimes; he let no one else touch it. And Vonda didn’t have any kit yet, of course.
Five more minutes, and the three of them were in the Hummer. As David kicked it into gear, he wondered about Holly’s words. ‘Concerned?’ Since when was Holly ever concerned about anything except her job or her next fuck?
Momentarily, he had an urge to stop, let Vonda out, tell her to come next time instead.
“Let’s go!” urged Suzanne, giving him a slight elbow, and he spun the wheel, and didn’t give it another thought.
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Brionne’s day had started with soft chimes over a ceiling speaker, and, when she’d opened her eyes, had wondered for a moment where she was; but at the sight of the small, clean room with its modest Scandinavian furnishings, it had all come back to her, the ferry ride, the van ride with the friendly driver, the check-in and chat with the nice counselor. She was, of course, at the Alder Island Family Health Center.
Here, she thought now, it looked like they did serious family planning stuff. It was situated a little out of the commercial area. A very modern-looking main clinic/office/conference complex sat among trees; around it, sited carefully so as not to look boring, were smaller wood-sided buildings, labs, classrooms, meeting spaces, a library, and a media center, but also hostel accommodations, and her room was in one of these, where there were about a dozen similar rooms: a kitchen/dining area, a lounge, and a separate e-lounge, where you could do calls and ‘net from. Her own window had a view of trees with a peek of mountains, and she’d had a scary healthy breakfast of some sort of whole-grain protein mush, fresh fruit, and yogurt … well, you had to eat healthy stuff if you were pregnant, everyone knew that, she figured, and accepted it. So far, nobody had said anything about payment, either for breakfast or anything else. At check-in last night, they’d said, she would complete a financial aid form that might mean her whole stay and everything would be subsidized by community funds. That sounded good, as her meager state assistance payment had already evaporated from her account, as it always did before the month was half-over, and Marcus’ very part-time earnings didn’t always make up the rest. Her day’s scheduled activities would start in about a half-hour, so, she thought, time to get in a couple of calls from the cozy chair in the e-lounge, where you could see a bit of Puget Sound from.
Her first call, to Marcus, was disappointingly brief. “You okay, Bri?” he asked, sounding briefly anxious. “Yeah, there were a couple of people around askin’ about you—social services or sumthin’—no, I didn’t know. They said for you to call … uh-huh. Can’t talk much—I’m workin’, actually, hey howzaboudit! Call ya later? Tell me then—bye, Bri!” She didn’t even get to tell him where she was or about the family planning., but there’d be time for that tonight, for sure. Kamiko didn’t answer, and neither did Rayvyn. She tried Ashley, who picked up. “Hey?”
“’S’up, Shlee-gal?” greeted Brionne.
“Oh, hey, Bri! Whaffup?” came Ashley’s familiar, gum-tangled voice.
“Coolin’,” replied Brionne, kicking back. “Got some time, ‘Shlee? ‘S’up?”
“Nawmuch. At th’ corner, waitin’ for a buff. Metrothe’ fayin’ they’ll be gettin’ thum tranthit routche goin’ again. Here’the’ hopin’. Where you at?”
“Well, ya know I’ve been tryin’ to chase down some family planning. After what went down with Fawnie and Daniella, I’m so hosed with them, I’m pretty sure, so I hopped over to Alder Island.”
“Eww—I mean, kewwell, really! Never been there. Tho, whaffup wif that?”
“Nice, so far. The family planning place gave me a little room of my own, there’s classes and stuff, meals—all health food, I think. No pizza or nachos here, I betcha anything,” she sighed.
“Mm.” There was a loud pop of bursting gum. “ How long you gonna be there?”
“As long as I want, they say. Maybe a couple a’ weeks. There’s a zit-load of family planning to learn. I never s’pected.”
“Are you, like, um, locked in? Have they, like … um … done thtuff to you?”
“Huh? No, everybody’s nice.”
“Huh. Well, I f’pothe that’th how it ftartth,” meditated Ashley. “Ftill, I geff they can’t get you pregnant, anyway.”
“I already am,” Brionne pointed out. “No vacancy, like.”
“’N’ Marcuff ith cool wif dat?” There was another pop.
“I talked to him a bit just before I called you. He’s zeft,” she white-lied. “How’s Stosh?”
There was a brief pause as Ashley removed her gum, and Brionne prepared to hear something important. “I haven’t seen him yesterday or today. Two nights ago he freaked over something on the news, and he must a’ took off. Boom. No calls, no nothin’.”
“What did he freak about?”
“The Transit Tunnel thing. Not all of it, just the clips where they had CCTV of the guy who did it. You seen that?” Brionne nodded; she’d seen ‘net on the trip over.
“I said, did you see that?” Ashley repeated, and Brionne said yes.
“Well, I never told you about this, because Stosh said he couldn’t talk about his games-testing job, confidentiality and stuff. He only said this the other night when he was laid off. Seems the body armor the guy was wearing in the clips was the same as Stosh was testing. And the weapons, and everything, all the same. And he said that when we was testing, this guy was sometimes in there, and the guy was Leonard Chung, the County Executive. Or looked exactly like him. Stosh just totally lost it, Bri. He was all crying and stuff. He was realleay fuckin’ zit-arse freaked. Yesterday morning he wasn’t there, and I haven’t seen him or heard from him.”
Brionne thought of something from a cop show ‘vid. “Did he take any stuff, ya know, like he was goin’ going, or did he just take off?”
“No … I don’t think he took anything.”
“Weird. Sorry about that, boo. I’d give ya a great big huggy-hug right now.”
“Yeah, Bri. I’m actually goin’ on a weed run, but he smoked it more than me, and I’m not sure I should be spending the money if he’s gone.”
“Don’t know what to tell ya, ‘Shlee. Maybe you should just clear.”
“What if he comes back? No, can’t do that.”
Brionne looked at the time. “Well, I’m here for ya, grrl, but right now I got an intake appointment. Call me whenever, and if I don’t answer there I’ll call ya back ay-sap.”
They exchanged goodbyes, and Brionne ended. It really was time to go over, so she heaved herself up out of the chair, which seemed to have some kind of butt-suction action, and, putting away her PDA, flap-flapped toward the doorway. Of all the people she had to pay attention to, the first two were herself and Lucasta, or Maximilian. No way he’d get nicknamed ‘Max,’ if it was a he, not if she could help it.
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>< >< ><
Ralna’s morning had commenced in the mode usual for weekdays, except today her morning datasession had conveyed all the requisite details to supervise the move of Dr. Macklin’s office, and she could wear comfortable athletic clothes all day. She would arrive first, open up, and admit the four men Sir had hired, who knew only what was necessary to complete the physical work, which consisted of moving crates of electronics only, no furniture, which would all stay. Three of them would leave when the van was loaded. She would accompany the van and its driver to a set location, where the driver would leave. She herself would drive the van to a third location, arriving in biomorph, where a second set of men would meet her, and she would direct them to a third location nearby. Furniture would already be there, and when they were done shifting the crates, Ralna would unpack and place the electronics herself. For the moment, no one, no one at all, would know where Rhys Macklin’s new office was except he and Ralna. It was farther from her apartment than his old office, but not very much farther, and over quieter residential streets. There was very little actual work for her until the unpacking, so she could devote a good deal of capacity to free processing on priority tasks. During her yoga, workout, and shower, she kept her mind clear. She had less appetite for breakfast than usual, but all her internal signs fell within normal parameters; she checked her home monitoring projects, the highest priority being the trace on her one-time acquaintance Adela through her escort number—no activity yet; then it was time to pack, and make the jog to the office--for the first and last time at this location, she reflected, completing her final stretches.
She descended to the street, tasted the chilly air, gave her pack a final adjustment, and set off.
The Taylor incident was the key to a great deal that was going on with Sir, and having all the facts was necessary. If she could have thoroughly searched Taylor’s flat, that might have been of immense help, but that was not possible now. She had given Taylor’s PDA to Sir, as he had ordered, but not before copying every byte of information for analysis. Since then, its records, and the telecom databases it had connected to, had provided some significant data. She had done follow-up on the significant contacts; Liam, Nyree, Margoth, Shaz, and others. Sir was not among them. One reference had surfaced several times, nick, but used as a proper name, Nick. There were texts to and from him, referring to meetings at the KLSM nightclub, and one about him, Nick is not expecting you back, which was extremely suggestive given that it was sent and read at the time she must have been on the ferry, perhaps actually in Sir’s company. Liam she knew as William H. Bates VII of Microhard Corporation fame, and his interests were not secret. That merited further investigation, but not yet; Liam could keep, in Sir’s odd but effective phrase. Information on Adela would be forthcoming, in time; that, too, would keep. Nick was the unknown. Since Taylor’s death, Nick had attempted one call but left no message, and had not texted. It was possible he knew of her fate, and that could have repercussions for Sir and herself, especially as Nick was the one person whose identity she had not yet succeeded in establishing satisfactorily. Information was priority, and she needed another crack point or else to draw him out. Appropriate action then would depend on who he was and what he knew.
She rounded Queen Anne Avenue onto Denny Way, and shifted mental direction as well.
She had two whole days to herself; more than that, about sixty hours before office duty resumed. Yesterday she had formulated a plan to carry out Sir’s other directive, given three days ago now. In the light of morning, it seemed satisfactory, although it would entail considerable risk and time was short, given the magnitude of the task. But, if completed successfully, it would confer immense advantages in her basic mission to keep him safe and happy. Action would begin today, after completing the office move.
>< >< ><
After morning muster, formation, and training assignments, CDF members and trainees dispersed around Camp Freedom’s grounds, some to classes, others to courses or other outdoor activities. Near midday, David Thomsen slipped away from a climbing course, clad in his protective synthetic bodysuit under his fatigue trousers and boots, and made his way about a hundred meters through a short-cut trail to a range shed. He opened the door; inside, Janine put down something she was working on. “I got your message, big boy,” she said, holding up her PDA and wiggling it. “Time for pussy patrol already?”
“’Already?’ Damn, Janine, I’ve been without for an hour--I can’t stand it!”
“Well!” She started undoing her jacket. “Never let it be said I didn’t comfort a soldier in need.” He got his trousers open, and loosened the restraining panels on the lower portion of his bodysuit; his massive erection bobbed up, rooted atop a firm, hot, melon-sized scrotum, and within seconds she was on her knees playing with it, tickling it with her tongue, getting wet, and then flopping herself back, spreading wide, supported by a stack of tent bags, letting him enter her just in time for his first ejaculation. She grabbed something and he leaned in; her calves stroked his flanks as her hips moved around and around. It took only a few of his gigantic extrusions to fill her—in a moment it would be overflowing and she would be sucking him, masturbating him, just having fun with the hot shots—and there was a loud BAP—BAP!! and David stiffened. His body turned, Janine shoving and yelling something, rising up as he rolled, and she saw a raised automatic pistol, pointing straight at her--three-fourths nude—and, holding it, a strange figure, wearing a brown poncho with the hood up, over a gas mask, rubber hip boots below it.
“What the hell--?” yelled Janine; the shooter raised a gloved finger to the mask’s ventilator, holding the pistol steady, and then peeled back the hood to reveal a woman’s brown hair, then quickly pulling up the mask. It was Debi. David lay still. “I shot him,” said Debi, her face pale and clammy with perspiration. “But I’m not here for him. I’m here for you, skank.”
“How did you--?”
“I had to be creative. Yes, sunlight hurts, but I covered up, I got here, and came looking for you--you and your whole sick vampire sex blackmail thing. Who’s got who now, huh? Whatever you did to me, whatever you did to whoever, it’s over.” Her finger tightened on the trigger, but David’s leg had been lifting, and he kicked backwards, catching Debi behind one knee, felling her. Janine leaped, snarling, and grappled her. They rolled over and over on the dirty plank floor, back and forth. Debi’s gun arm pulled away, twisting—David’s doing--and she gasped as there was a snap and the weapon disappeared; Janine took that moment to heave herself up; Debi’s other arm was on her face, pushing desperately, but the older woman got both hands on Debi’s head, anchoring her fingers in her hair, then yanking it up and smashing it down. There was a kick, some things fell over, and Janine hammered and hammered the other’s head until something crunched and Debi fell still, her eyes wide open, blood spreading under the back of her skull where it had caved in against the corner of a fallen cement footer.
Janine scrambled. “David—David!”
He was on his elbows and knees now. “I’m … uck,” he said, “Been better.” He staggered upright, then sank against the tent bag pile. “You alright?”
“Let me see,” she said, looking around at his back. There were two nasty-looking wounds, oozing blood on his back, but no apparent exit wounds on his front. “Yeah,” he said. “Th’ bodysuit’s got protective properties--I think the slugs went in, not far. Only a thirty-two cal, I think. A nine-mil and I’d be dead.”
“Can you get up—can you move?” Janine asked.
“I think so … gimme a minute.”
“Give me your knife. Your sheath knife—give it to me now!” she commanded. David half-pulled the big, saw-backed blade out of its holster on his belt, and Janine took it and went to work, moving fast. First she looked at Debi again, then grabbed one foot and shook it, drawing off the rubber boot, then the other one, throwing both aside. Then she tore open the poncho snaps and stood up, taking the garment and letting it fall over her.
“What’re you doing, Janine?” asked David in a half-dazed voice.
“Get up,” she said sharply. “Get up, David! I know you’re hurt, but you won’t bleed out in three minutes, and that’s about all we’ve got.” She reached over to the place she’d been working and got a hammer, then knelt down over Debi, cutting her shirt with two, three strokes, and yanking hard at the pieces; she left the bra alone.
“What the fuck?” He was up and leaning against a post. “What are you doing?” he repeated.
“I’ll explain later. Go to the door and look out. Get a gas can. There should be two of them just outside. Go, Thomsen, do it!”
“Wait—“
“Suit yourself and watch, then,” retorted Janine. She used David’s razor-sharp knife to cut a deep trench in Debi’s flesh, just under the twelfth rib on the body’s left. Dark blood flowed out, but she paid no attention, cutting two down-strokes at the ends. She dug her fingers inside and pulled down, laying open the left side of the abdomen with a crimson splotch. David made a nauseated noise.
Then Janine pulled her right poncho flap up, baring her right hand and forearm, and got down, laying her head atop the groin area facing down. She reached up and into the blood-wet cavity, under the ribs. Her hand felt around, her face concentrating. Then she drew out, took the knife, thrust it in again, made several sawing cuts, and then took it out again. On the third reach in, she grasped something, yanked hard once, making the body’s head and shoulders flop, and pulled out a dark, drooling blob, sucking yet more blood out with it. She heard David retching, and screamed at him, “GAS! NOW, THOMSEN goddammit!! NOW!! DO IT!!”
She threw the heart on the floor, looking around—nothing she wanted, apparently, so she turned the hammer over and hit the thing with the claw end, piercing it to the floor. Then she got outside, shaving blood off her hands, took the gas cans from David, emptied one inside, around and around, then uncapped the other one and just threw it in. Then she drew off the poncho and threw that in too, and produced a lighter. A flick, a toss, and the gas lit with a poof, spreading fire quickly. She turned and saw David nearby. She went to him quickly and took his hands; luckily there was a field shower hanging from a nearby tree branch. The rest of the gas whumped, going up. She steered him to the shower, turning the spigot and pulling the cord, and letting the water flow.
“One more thing. Use your phone. Call HQ. Report an accident at Building 23, a small fire, controllable, but medical assistance required. Do it.” He did it, while she held the cloth to his wounds. She took the device and threw it aside and got him under the water.
“Finally,” she breathed. “Now, let’s see you.” He put his head against the tree trunk; she still had the knife, and with its now-nicked blade lifted up the surface of the bodysuit. The knife wouldn’t cut the super-tough polymesh, but she could see swelling and discoloration; a pass and another pass with her fingers, there were really no exit wounds. The slugs were inside him, but near the surface; one she could feel only a half-inch or so below the skin—the other could not be much farther in. She bunched up what was left of her undershirt and held it gently against the wounds, which were close together.
“What the fuck, Janine, what the fuck?” he moaned softly.
“She—she was sick, infectious, sick in the head and body. I’ll explain later. For now, say nothing to anyone, and I mean anyone. You were here, I was working, I had an accident, something exploded and ignited, a couple of ammo rounds cooked off and hit you. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll explain everything else.” She repeated the brief story. At that point, the field shower emptied to a trickle, and she helped him out, rinsing the knife in the last of the water. As it turned out, the incident had been noticed, and Bernd Behrens, as range officer, pulled up in his vehicle only a minute later. It had been a very near thing, in more than one way.
>< >< ><
Also on Alder Island, a tall young man in a hooded leather overcoat leaned on the car lot railing at the ferry dock, looking out over the harbor. The tide was out, exposing crumbling remains of old pilings and pavings, a rusty rail, some patterns in the mud that were footprints of forgotten works of a couple of centuries before. When he took the ferry before, Jason had always gone as a foot passenger and under cover of rush-hour commuters or darkness, or both. Now it was midday, and he was driving, taking his runabout. It was risky, and he’d be in trouble with his dad even if he didn’t get caught, but at least he’d taken some basic precautions such as removing the battery from his PDA. He had to see Lucky.
He didn’t really matter to anyone else, and no one else mattered to him, not really. Not his dad, nor his mom, or Candee, let alone the sister he barely remembered, or Michelle, or anyone else. They’d all do alright without him. Only one person in the world needed him, he felt instinctively, and that was Lucky. She’d lost a child. And him … he’d lost his parents, both of them. They were still around, but he had lost them, lost them long ago. There still had to be something worth having in this world. Maybe he finally had a line on it.
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