Husk (15 page)

‘All of you big-spending, fast-living, hard-partying
fools … and now my son is dead because of it.’

She turns and walks away, disappearing into the gathered crowd. I’m left to face Miller’s father and brothers. They do not look impressed. The dad takes two steps forward, close enough for me to smell the liquor on his breath.

‘High finance,’ Mr Miller whispers. ‘I know what you really are.’

His displeased expression turns to anger. He flicks a
glance at my friends, then boss, then co-workers. I see him tense up, the look in his eyes weighing the pros and cons of a decision he has yet to make. Then they become resolute and I see the punch coming.

Not the face
, I think, but do nothing to avoid it.

His fist catches me clumsily on the edge of my jaw and sinks into my neck. The old man put some weight behind it, but it’s not the worst
punch I’ve taken in my time. What it symbolizes though hurts plenty. I’m sent sprawling, my fall partially broken by my friends. When the back of my head hits the floor things go black for a bit. In the dark I hear raised voices, swearing and cursing, a series of small crashes. Sounds of a fight starting rise above the ringing in my ears, followed by the sounds of its diffusion.

I open my eyes
to see Baxter standing over me. She bends down, face leaning in to examine the spot where I was struck.

‘Ah, shit,’ she says.

‘Shit what?’

‘That’s going to leave a mark.’

‘How bad?’

‘Bad enough for business,’ Baxter says, helping me up. ‘You’re booked with Winslade again tomorrow.’

Looks like I’ll be missing Miller’s funeral.

My headache is decidedly above average. The old man had a surprising
right. I guess I deserved it. After all, it was my gig that Miller was covering when he died. I sit in a corner of the room with my head hung, staring at the floor, pressing a bag of ice to my jaw. Most people have left the wake. A few stragglers hang about, people I don’t know who talk in low voices, mostly about the fistfight earlier that laid me out. Could use another drink, but the booze
has been cleaned up and packed away. Phineas and Nikki left about ten minutes ago. Ryoko is still around somewhere, gone to see if she can find some aspirin for my throbbing head. I figure I’ve got about fifteen minutes before the funeral home director shuts this little lingering party down.

Somebody slips quietly into the wake, the last latecomer. I don’t bother to look up, just watch his shoes
cross the floor and stop before Miller’s casket. By the time I raise my eyes the man has turned his back to me and bowed his head. Even from behind, I recognize the guy.

‘Clive?’

Clive turns around slowly, looks at me with one eye. Bandages cover the left side of his face from chin to brow, reaching back as far as his ear. At the edges of the dressings I can see raw, swollen skin. I rise from
my chair, cross the room quickly with arms open wide.

‘Oh my God, Clive, what are you
doing
here?’

I hug him tight. The embrace he gives in return is weak and tentative. I stand back, look him over, trying to determine how salvageable my friend is as a product. When I ignore what’s on the left, his right still looks gorgeous. He’s got the side profile of a pretty boy that causes people to stop
and stare. Clive’s baby blue eye wells up with tears, his bottom lip quivers. He puts a hand on Miller’s casket to steady himself.

‘I had to come and pay my respects.’

‘Of course, of course,’ I say. ‘What I mean is how the hell did you get here?’

‘The client paid my bail, and happens to have friends in high places. I flew back from Paris yesterday.’

‘Oh.’ I nod vigorously. ‘Why didn’t you
come earlier? You just missed everyone.’

‘I didn’t really want anyone to see me, Rhodes. Not like this. Not after what happened. I need time to get my head right.’

A tear spills down his cheek. He wipes it away slowly, careful not to touch his bandages. The strangeness of this encounter becomes more evident. Last time I saw this man he was no killer. I still don’t know how he could have committed
such an act. Maybe I’m not the only Husk
destabilizing around here. Maybe we all sail over the edge if pushed too far. I want to reach out and hug him again, tell him not to worry and that everything will be okay, but that would be doing my friend a disservice. I place a hand on his shoulder instead.

‘Sure, I understand … Jesus, it’s just so good to see you. I had no idea you were released from
custody. Did you check in with Solace?’

‘Yeah, I had a meeting with Baxter as soon as I got back. That’s how I found out about Miller. Right before I was told our company will no longer be requiring any of my services.’

‘She fired you?’ I ask, acting shocked, knowing it was inevitable.

Clive hangs his head in shame. ‘She didn’t use those words, but yeah, pretty much. I mean, look at me, Rhodes.
I’m no use to Solace now.’

‘Stop it, you still look stellar. Those injuries can totally be fixed.’

‘You think so?’

‘I know so.’

Clive gives a nervous smile, runs an effeminate hand through his hair. ‘I’ve got my first round of reconstructive surgery tomorrow, some initial skin grafts. Doctors say there is a chance they could restore sight in my right eye too. If it all goes well I reckon I
could be top tier again.’

I give the biggest grin I can muster, one that masks the wince that is starting to come at his optimism. He’ll never be top tier again. He’s an athlete with a permanent injury now, one that will cripple him in every game he tries to
play. But Clive’s a friend. The least I can do is pretend to believe these lies he’s propping himself up with. I clap him on the back and
nod in mock agreement.

‘That’s great news, man, really great. Look, if you need some work in the meantime, my roommate could probably hook you up with some bartending gigs.’

‘Actually, I’ve already signed up with someone else.’

‘Really? Who?’

That shameful look returns. ‘Eternity Executive.’

‘Those guys? Really?’

‘Had an interview first thing this morning. They hired me on the spot. I’m
definitely taking a pay cut, but I need the work. These medical bills are going to put me in the red pretty quick.’

‘Hey, it means you’re still a player in the game,’ I say, feigning enthusiasm. ‘You gotta do what you gotta do, right?’

‘Guess so.’

There is a moment of unwelcome silence. I can’t stop glancing at Clive’s bandages. He notices every time. Tiny light yellow is spotting in places
on the white dressing, pus or fluids starting to seep through. Clive turns his head, keeps it that way, showing me a bigger portion of the perfection he once had.

‘When do you start with EE exactly?’ I ask.

‘Right away. I’m going back to their head office this afternoon for my orientation and security clearance. They’re going to profile me as an option for some future clients. Once the plastic
surgery smoothes out these new wrinkles, I’ll be ready to go.’

‘So you’ll have access to the company starting today?’

‘Yeah,’ Clive replies, a little suspicious. ‘Why? What’s it to you?’

‘I might have a favour to ask.’

The frozen gel pack pressed to my neck does little to ease the pain as I sync my Liaison to the HG in the living room. The balm Ryoko applied to the swelling before she left my apartment is making my face numb, but the cold feels comforting. I’ve spent the
last few hours trying to find information on any of the three employees at Eternity Executive via the net, but have come up empty-handed. The curtains are drawn to every potential window into their lives, past and present. In a world where practically everyone’s existence is on record, the absence of theirs is concerning. The hollow feeling in my stomach is growing, slowly expanding into a miniature
black hole, coring my guts and sucking everything I thought I once knew into oblivion. I wonder if this is what being shot in the stomach with a Rapier feels like, minus the unbearable pain.

Back at the wake, Clive came and went before Ryoko returned with the aspirin. She never saw him, and I didn’t mention his visit. My friend was adamant that I not tell a soul he was back in town, told me he
wasn’t willing to face anyone until he’d at least got through a couple plastic surgeries. He said I owed him that much. I’d have to agree. Getting the guy to do some snooping for me at Eternity Executive after all he’s been through was a dick move on my part. Clive refused outright when I asked, but I leaned
on him, harder than I should have, and the boy broke. Just minutes ago I got a message
from him saying he scored some hits on the names Nikki supplied me. He’s included attachments on two of the former employees: Brad Garrison and Cameron Tate. According to Clive, no information is available on Kirk King.

I open the attachments, confidential company records, and examine Brad Garrison’s first. A holographic of the man in nothing but his underwear pops up. Even I’m surprised by his
looks. Blue eyes, blond hair, freshly shaven face of a cherub. His body is absolutely ripped, a Husk of high quality indeed. All his information is there: age, attributes, employment history, nightclub and gym affiliations, hobbies and tastes. I read his arrest record, noting that he’d been busted for prostitution several times and drug possession twice when younger. That Baxter undoubtedly has
similar files on all Solace Strategies employees is not lost on me.

I skim the records until I see something of interest: a log of requests and complaints from Garrison to the company directors. The dates on them are more than a couple years old now. All entries were logged over the course of several months, spaced a week or two apart.

Brad Garrison (314-A68):

Request full medical evaluation:
Request granted.

Complaint filed: Abnormal post-session stress.

Request technical evaluation: Request granted.

Complaint filed: Unacceptable post-session injuries.

Complaint filed: TC-87 ‘Ouija’ malfunctioning (unconfirmed).

Request psyche evaluation: Request granted.

Request reassignment: Request denied.

Request additional personal days: Request denied.

Complaint filed: Abnormal post-session
stress.

Request sick leave: Request denied.

Request reassignment (re: Wilhelm G. Winslade): Request denied.

What follows is a record of infractions by Garrison and disciplinary actions taken by Eternity Executive. His behaviour required an increasing attitude adjustment according to his superiors. A stint in rehab was ordered for alcohol and narcotics abuse. He was put on probation after failing
to show up for sessions with Winslade. EE came down on him hard for his refusal to work, forced him to do the gigs. The threats they made were empty, scare tactics, but according to what I’m reading it seemed to keep Garrison in line for a while … right up until he was suddenly and unceremoniously let go.

I can find no reason why the company dropped him. After the termination of his contract,
the trail goes cold. There is a phone number listed for Brad, but I find it no longer in service when I call. His mother is listed as his next of kin, currently residing in New Jersey. An old land line is provided. I place my bets and punch the digits.

A woman picks up, voice gravelly and curt, speaking in a southern accent with a matter-of-fact tone. I talk in my friendliest manner, introduce
myself with a fake name, address her as Mrs Garrison, tell her Brad and I used to work together way back when, tell her I’m calling to see how my old buddy is doing these days.

‘There’s been no change in him.’

‘Would it be possible to speak with him?’ I ask.

‘What?’ she says. ‘Brad … Brad isn’t available.’

‘Do you know when he’ll be back?’ I ask. ‘It’s most important that I talk to him sooner
rather than later.’

‘Back?’ She sounds confused. ‘He’s never left. But you can’t talk to him. You won’t get anything out of him.’

‘Pardon?’

‘He’s still in a coma.’

My pause is long and unsteady. ‘What happened?’

I shudder as the woman feeds me the same lie every PR agent and publicist states for the unglamorous and untimely death of every A-lister, rock star, celebrity and socialite, the
same lie we touted for Miller today.

‘Accidental prescription drug overdose.’

‘Oh.’

‘Hey, where did you say it was you worked with Brad?’

I hang up quickly, frightened by what she’s told me. Cameron Tate’s file is next, and I open it with trepidation. He’s another looker, tanned and muscular, a blond as well. After scanning through his unremarkable profile, I find the log of his requests and
complaints. What’s listed before me looks eerily similar to the problems Garrison reported. It also looks like Eternity Executive took Tate’s complaints more seriously than those of his co-worker. The company’s follow-up is more thorough, detailed reports instead of dismissive memos, video recordings of meetings and evaluations. There are several on file. I play the first one, watch as Tate sits
at a table across from two men in lab coats. Another man in a charcoal suit paces
the room irritably, asking questions. Cameron does not look well.

The video becomes pixilated, starts to glitch. Soon the picture and audio stutter, skip, stop. I try to play it again from the beginning, but the whole thing breaks down before my eyes. I’ve tripped something. There is a security
measure at work here, a virus embedded in the files that is designed to eat the information if its programming becomes suspicious of unauthorized access. I attempt to play the other videos, but find each of them in the process of being deconstructed and erased. I go back to Tate’s profile and commit some things to memory before the
pages burn up. The virus works fast, sentences flickering and
disappearing as I try and read. I scroll down and set sights on Cameron Tate’s notice of termination. The last words I manage to take in before everything disintegrates are
mentally unfit
and
Bellevue Hospital Center.

The HG goes blank. Seconds later I’m flying into a rage, an unexpected tantrum that both fascinates and terrifies me. White-hot anger sparks violent urges that are uncharacteristic.
My fingers tear into a nearby pillow and rip the stuffing out. My Liaison almost finds itself pitched across the room. I want to choke the living shit out of someone. I want to make someone pay.

When I finally calm down I get back on the net and visit the Bellevue Hospital Center website. I poke around until I find myself reading up on its newly renovated and expanded psychiatric wing. No individual
patient information is available, but my suspicions are strong. Running on instinct, I grab my wallet, throw on a jacket and leave the apartment.

At the nearest ATM I withdraw a thousand dollars cash and stuff it into an envelope. Then I hail a cab and tell the driver to get me to Bellevue Hospital pronto. As we speed through the streets of New York I notice more of the city’s ignored and avoided
inhabitants. People yelling at nothing, men in rags running from invisible monsters, women with too many layers of clothes wailing at things unseen and pitiful. These poor folk, I think, minus their medication, lacking the money and means to get fixed. I see so many characters that should probably be locked inside the walls of the very place I’m headed to. Then I
realize that their mental states
are perfectly acceptable in a world gradually going insane. We’re all losing it a little. Places like Bellevue are just microscopes focused on a sliver of the evolving brain disease which escaped the lab decades ago.