Metal Fatigue (20 page)

She turned in the doorway. "Yes?"

"What colour are Cati's eyes?"

"Grey," she said. "And black."

He smiled widely. "Thanks. That's all I need to know."

She opened her mouth, as though about to speak, but turned away and disappeared up the hallway without looking back.

Barney closed the door and returned to her seat, where she leaned back with her legs crossed.

"So," she said. "Cati is the man from Old North Street. The description of his appearance matches almost perfectly."

"He's much more than that." Despite the aches and pains of his body, Roads had begun to feel good about the day at last. "His description matches that of the Shadow on the library roof."

Barney frowned. "How do you figure that?"

"Red skin, grey-black eyes and no hair." He could no longer suppress a grin of triumph. "That's the face I saw looking back at me through the skylight."

"Through the ...? So
that's
what you saw. Why didn't you tell me?"

The lie came all too easily: "Because I wasn't certain my recollection was accurate."

"And you've let her go?" She leaned forward, half out of the chair. "He's her boyfriend, for God's sake! She must be worth holding for interrogation, if nothing else."

He held up a hand. "She doesn't know anything more than she told us. I'd bet money on it. She's just a frightened girl afraid that her boyfriend's in an awful lot of trouble."

"He might well be, Phil."

"But not for the reason you think."

She frowned. "I don't understand."

"Cati is biomodified."

Realisation dawned. "And she thinks we're after him because of that. Of course she would."

"He is both mute and physically intimidating. He looks worse than a berserker, and wouldn't stand a chance of defending himself before a Humanity court. He'd be expelled from the city for sure, or killed outright."

"So why did she come to
us
?"

"Because she wants to find him, first and foremost, and to discover how much we know. I don't think we've put her mind at rest on either score, but at least she's done something. It'll make her feel better, having tried."

Barney collapsed back into her seat. It was clear that she was unsatisfied with his reasoning, but he could give her nothing more.

"So what do we do now?" she asked.

"I want a stake-out on her building just in case Cati comes home. If we can haul him in, we might find out exactly what he was doing last night."

"Right. I'll organise it straight away."

"And then you can help me look through the datapools."

"For?"

"Anything." He went back to the screen of Katiya's Missing Persons report. "His name rings a bell, but I don't know why."

"A hunch?"

"Maybe. I don't think he's the Mole, but he's certainly involved. He'll lead us somewhere, I'm sure of it."

"You bloodhound, you. Half a sniff and your tail starts to wag." She smiled. "The resemblance between you and the Mole obviously goes deeper than I thought."

He pointed at the door, and she took the hint.

4:45 p.m.

He sent the report identifying Cati to Data Processing, where it would be put onto the daysheets for the attention of the next shift. He doubted the prompt would produce any results, but figured it was worth a try. Then he logged into Kennedy's central datapool and began to browse.

His first line of inquiry hit a brick wall within half an hour. The name 'Cati' had no reference anywhere in the files he pulled, except for one misspelled word in an old street directory. Next he scanned an alphabetical list of every name on record, but found nothing between Cathy and Catic.

If Cati was not officially listed among Kennedy's two million citizens, then trying to find him by inference would be like looking for one grain of sand in a salt-shaker by touch alone. Without a genetic sample to cross-reference through the population records, that avenue was closed.

Giving up on Cati for the time being, he moved to the Mole. Barney's 'weirder things have happened' theory didn't hold water as far as he was concerned, but he had to consider it regardless. He called up a file on werewolves and skimmed through it to the end. Most of it was hearsay and legend, with a brief mention of the pop-culture that had grown around the myth during the mid-twentieth and early twenty-first centuries. The only thing he learned that he didn't already know was that there
had
been werewolf sightings reported to RSD since the War, but none more recent than two years earlier.

That left the cloak of invisibility, and another long shot.

He buzzed the switchboard.

"Marion? See if you can track down O'Dell. I don't know where he is, but I need to talk to him ASAP."

"Yes, sir." She returned a moment later: "He's tied up in a meeting. I can't break in."

"Okay. Leave an urgent message for him to call me as soon as he's free, will you?"

"Certainly."

He killed the intercom and glanced at his watch; time was running away from him. If the origins of both the Mole and Cati had eluded him temporarily, then he hoped that their motives would not.

Calling up a new notepad on the screen, he drew a series of circles linked by arrows in an attempt to organise his thoughts:

(1)CATI → ROADS → MOLE

Cati must have been following Roads during the preparation for Blindeye in order to know how to sidestep the trip-wires on the roof of the library; Roads had been after the Mole for six weeks. The progression was smooth and simple, but not entirely self-explanatory. The Mole had also been trailing Roads — at least to the extent of breaking into his house every now and again — so that meant another arrow. And Roads, with the information given to him by Katiya, was now chasing Cati, giving:

(2)MOLE → ROADS → CATI
(1)CATI → ROADS → MOLE

The immediate temptation was to link each Cati/Mole pair with its own arrow, if only for the sake of symmetry. The simplicity, however, was deceptive. If the Mole and Cati were independent, then it was entirely possible that they were acting at odds with each other, with the question of motive unresolved. As far as he knew, Cati might be nothing more than an innocent bystander tangled in the web of the Mole's erratic exploits; or he was yet another player in the game of Catch the Mole. To suppose that both Cati and the Mole were after each other as well as Roads seemed ludicrous.

What made more sense was:

ROADS ↔ MOLE & CATI

It not only simplified the equation, but made his task a little less daunting. Supposing that Cati and the Mole were on the same team — maybe a team fraught with its own internal problems — meant that he only had one mystery to solve instead of several. If he could track down one correct solution, then the others would quickly follow.

His terminal flashed. It was Barney.

"The stake-out's organised."

"Good."

"What would you like me to do now?"

"That depends on how tired you are."

She shrugged. "I'll cope. If you think we're close to something, I'll work until I drop."

"I don't think it'll come to that, but thanks for the offer. I'm about to send you a file containing everything we know about the case, including some stuff I haven't told anyone about. Hunches, guesses, wild stabs in the dark — that sort of thing."

"Understood. And?"

"I want you to strip it bare, reduce it to as small a list of nouns as possible. Names, places, numbers, anything you think has an outside chance of being relevant."

"You want to run a search through a datapool?"

"Yes, but not just any datapool. I have something a little more dramatic in mind. A last-ditch effort."

"Do you want to tell me what we're looking for?"

"I would if I knew." He ran a hand across his ribs, fighting the urge to take another tablet. "Our problem is that we have too much unconnected information. We need to trim it back to a solid core of data from which we can extrapolate our way outward. As it is, I feel like I'm drowning — with werewolves, redskins and politicians pushing me under."

"I know what you mean." She brushed away a strand of blonde hair that had fallen across her eyes. "I'll get onto it as soon as you send the file."

"Thanks, Barney." Another icon flashed at him from the corner of the screen. "Gotta go. Call waiting."

He waved and killed the line. A second face appeared in place of hers.

"Hello, Phil," said Keith Morrow.

"Shit. Give me a second." Roads closed the office door and locked it, then regretted moving from the chair. "Ouch — sorry. What the hell are you doing, calling me here?"

Morrow tilted his head to one side, feigning hurt. "My, we're paranoid today, aren't we?"

"Not without good reason. I'm in trouble enough without my shady connections putting in an unexpected appearance."

"This line is secure. You can rest easy."

Roads tugged a cigarette from his pocket. "I hoped you'd say that. What can I do for you, or is this just a social call?"

Morrow leaned forward; a virtual light source cast deep shadows in his eye-sockets. "I've called to give you a warning, Phil. You may be in deeper trouble than you realise."

Roads drew a deep, smoky breath. "In what way?"

"You've stepped on someone's toes, Phil — heavily enough for them to want you dead."

"Who?"

"I can't tell you."

"Why?"

"I can't tell you that either."

"Then what
can
you tell me?"

"That there's a price on your head. A big one. It went on the market fifteen minutes ago."

Roads scratched absently at the stubble on his chin, trying to think who might want to kill him that wasn't able to do so themselves. Not the Mole, or Cati; he wasn't a match for either of them, and he was sure they knew it. It had to be someone else, someone who wanted to keep his or her hands relatively clean of Roads' death.

Someone he was obviously getting close to, without knowing it.

He smiled. "Thanks, Keith. That's the best news I've had all day."

"I'm glad you think so." The Head leaned back. "Can I assume, then, that the information I gave you the other night has been of use?"

"I think you can, yes. Is there anything you'd like to add?"

"Nothing that appears to be relevant. Someone vandalised one of the old buildings at the harbour last night, but I can't see how that would connect with your investigation. We get a lot of that sort of thing down our way. An occupational hazard, if you will."

Roads nodded, remembering the article he had read about the disturbance. The harbour — being a meeting place for all manner of criminals, from drug-addict to bounty-hunter — was often transformed into a battlefield for rival interests. Morrow's main role was as mediator, not instigator. The relative stability of Kennedy as a whole owed more than a little to the paths of communication the Head established and maintained in the underclass. This, Roads supposed, was why the Head would not reveal the identity of his would-be killer: thief's honour, or something similar.

A thought struck him: "What about Barney?"

"Your friend is safe. The contract is only for you."

"Good. Let me know if anything else turns up, won't you?"

"I will if I can." Morrow winked farewell. "Good luck."

"Thanks."

Roads extinguished the cigarette and reached for a pain-killer. It was all very well knowing he was close, but, without knowing what he was close to, it didn't really help. Was it DeKurzak's Old Guard, the Mayor's machinating RUSA, or someone else entirely? And how did they relate to the Mole/Cati dyad?

The matter of the contract itself did not greatly concern him; it would probably be a while before someone took the offer, and he could look after himself when the time came. He hoped. It was just not knowing who was behind it that bothered him.

He took Morrow's data fiche and added it to the official RSD file on the Mole, then sent the whole package to Barney. Barely had he completed that task when his terminal buzzed again.

This time it was Margaret Chappel. She looked frustrated and tired, as though she hadn't slept since the night before Blindeye — which, he supposed, she probably hadn't.

"How are you feeling, Phil?"

"Still a little sore." He tossed the tablet idly in one hand. The pain was returning, but nowhere near as severe as it had been earlier. "Looks like I'll live."

"Good. Any progress?"

He hesitated, then told her about Morrow's warning.

She shook her head, half-smiling. "And you take that as a positive sign?"

"It's the best I've had so far."

"Fair enough. Have you written a report?"

"Not yet, no."

"Then, without intending to seem callous, let me advise you not to waste your time. David's will be enough, if DeKurzak's corroborates it."

He let the advice sink in for a moment before replying: "That bad, huh?"

"Let's just say I'm doing the best I can to slow things down."

"How long do you think?"

"I may be able to stretch it until after Reassimilation, but I doubt it. It depends entirely on what sort of report DeKurzak submits."

"In that case, maybe it won't be so bad after all."

She looked surprised. "That's not what I expected you to say."

"I saw him this afternoon. He said he'd tell the Mayor it's not my fault Blindeye went so wrong."

"Well, well. That
is
interesting. I'll only believe it when I see it, though."

"I think you're underestimating him, Margaret. He's in a difficult position, stuck between the RSD and MSA, but he's genuinely trying to do his job — a job he didn't really want in the first place."

"Did he say that?" Chappel's eyebrows went up. "Don't let him fool you, Phil. He campaigned quite vigorously to get this assignment."

Roads mulled this over. "That's not the impression I got. Anyway, bad luck happens to everyone. Even me. No-one will deny that I'm one of the best officers in RSD."

"But what happens when he finds out
why
you're so good?"

"You and I both know that's irrelevant. I do my best, like anybody else."