The Acolyte (22 page)

Not quite human
. This was the how the Quints were described by those forced to interact with them. Some critical facet of their humanity, judged injurious to future endeavors, had been burned out of them.

And indeed, lounging next to Exeter with long limbs dangling, the Quints did look somewhat less than human. Lean of body—whippet-like, the word that sprang to mind—with limbs that tapered, thick where they met their torsos but turning leaner, bonier, toward the extremities: arms and legs like honeycomb candles. They wore woolen stovepipe trousers, Kevlar vests over black tees, albino calfskin dusters so white you could see the tracery of blue veins shadowing the uncured leather. The shade suited the Quints, whose skin was so shockingly pale nobody could be blamed for the assumption they’d spent the last decade denied access to sunlight. Hair delicate as spider threads spilled over their duster collars. Prematurely balding at the same pace: four widow’s peaks sliced back from their foreheads in equilateral
V
s.

There were only two ways to tell them apart. The first was the pattern of scars hacked into their flesh. Each bore traces of brutal wounds on their necks and faces and hands and, I suspected, parts of their bodies hidden under clothes. The plainer identifiers were the three-inch numbers tattooed on their necks: 1, 2, 4, 5 respectively.

So far as I knew, the Quints were nameless—or not quite, as their names were numbers: Quints One through Five.

What was most remarkable this morning was their number: only four. Number Three was missing. AWOL? Unlikely. Dead? Considering their reputation, this seemed equally unlikely.

I slid into a chair as Exeter went on:

“
. . . Operation of the precinct will be remanded into the care of these gentlemen here.”
Exeter nodded at the Quints. “We plan to throw our full support behind their designs to stem the issues currently disrupting the long-held serenity of our city.”

Hollis sat on the opposite side of the lectern. He looked utterly exhausted: skin drooping on his neck like a tube sock round a skinny shank. Every man in the muster room looked much the same. A lot of sleepless nights were carved into their faces.

“Now, these gentlemen have just arrived, so I haven’t had an opportunity to speak to them about coordinating efforts—”

“You’ll be granted no such opportunity,” said Quint Two. “Coordination bespeaks parity, of which there will be none.”

“We put ourselves in the hands of these capable men,” Exeter went on anxiously. “The Lord shall guide us. Should they require intelligence in the way of known heathens, ghetto hotspots, etcetera, we are duty-bound to provide it.”

Quint Four rose. His movements were chillingly brachial—a spider with half as many limbs. He crossed behind his brothers to hover directly behind Exeter.

The Chief flipped a glance over his shoulder, gripped the lectern, swallowed, went on: “In the interests of public tranquility, I expect we’ll continue to search out and punish the culprits, as our Prophet has requested—”

Quint One, legs crossed and fingers knitted over his kneecap, tilted his chin and said, “Is that what your Prophet requested?”

When Exeter affirmed this, the Quint removed one hand from his knee and ran a finger down a scar curving under his jaw.

“Requests made by your Prophet will forthwith be afforded as much attention as the howling of a dog.”

Quint Five, sitting closest to the lectern, stood, crossed in front of his seated brothers and stopped behind the seat vacated by the Quint who currently stood behind Exeter. That Quint, Four, guided Exeter from the lectern and bid him sit in the unoccupied seat.

“Gentlemen,” said Four, “my brothers and I extend our thanks for welcoming us into your bosoms. Evidently you are unable to keep the devil off your doorstep.”

The Quint standing behind Exeter produced a small bundle from his duster pocket and unfolded it on his flattened palm: a black satin sack.

When he slipped the sack over Exeter’s head, one plain-clothesmen laughed: actually more of a hysterical, confused yip. The sack was pulled sheer across Exeter’s face so we could all see his nose and the jut of his chin.

Exeter spoke the first few words of a prayer before the Quint to his right pulled a thin bone-handled knife from his boot and stuck it through the black cloth and into Exeter’s neck.

Exeter made a sound like he’d been doused with icy water. The blade passed through his throat, through his windpipe, the tip winking out the far side. His arms dipped then went up again, fists clenched, thumbs stuck out: giving us an involuntary thumbs-up. Gurgling, drowning on his own blood. Loafers beating a rat-a-tat-tat on the tiles. Blood from his carotid artery jetted round the knife handle.

The Quint who’d done it, Two, leaned in close to Exeter’s ear. I watched his lips move.

What do you see
? he asked.

Exeter’s legs slowed and stopped. Gravity pulled his neck from the knife blade; he fell sideways into the Quint on his left, who raised a knee to casually deflect Exeter’s bagged head from his lap. The body thumped on the floor.

Four cleared his throat. “It is difficult to find the right words at times like this.”

Hollis jerked up, teeth bared like some feral animal, backing through the throng and out the door. The Quints let him go.

“Should your services be required,” One addressed the rest of us, fingers re-knitted over his knee, “we’ll reach out and touch you.”

Two: “Questions?”

Five: “No?”

Four: “Dismissed then, gentlemen.”

Out in the parking lot I had to force myself not to break into a run. I needed to put space between myself and the sight of Exeter laid out on the piss-yellow tiles, a pool of blood shaping itself around his head. The motor pool cage was unmanned. I grabbed a set of keys and scribbled my name on the sign-out sheet . . . then crossed it out. It was stealing, technically—but when a man takes property that isn’t his and uses it as a tool of survival, does it count as stealing?

I ran into Garvey in the garage. A rumpled combat jacket draped over his shoulders, paper-bagged bottle of Hallelujah Energy Boost sticking from one pocket.

“What the hell happened?” His canines were stippled with pinholes of decay. “I never had much use for Exeter, but hog-sticking him like that . . .”

He pulled the bottle from his pocket, tore the bag in thin strips around the mouth and took a desperate chug. “Where are you going?”

“Haven’t thought that far ahead,” I told him.

“Can I come with?”

The prospect of sharing a car with an antsy, drug-addled Garvey was not one I relished.

“We should work separately. Cover more ground.”

He gripped my shoulder. His fingers—blackened tips, as if he’d burned them on a hot plate or something—twined with my hair at the back of my neck and twisted through it. Slowly, deliberately.
Lovingly
.

“We’re buddies, aren’t we?” he asked. “Been through a lot. Still pals, right?”

“We’re whatever you want us to be, Garvey.”

“We’re close.” Twisting, twining. A rash of gooseflesh broke out over my upper arms. “We go
waaaaay
back. . . .”

I removed his fingers, gave his hand back to him. He tucked it to his chest as a cripple might.

In the prowl car, I scanned the CB dial: nothing but static. On a channel way down the dial I swore I heard someone sobbing softly into the open frequency. Chalked it up to some atmospheric anomaly.

Goat and Rabbit

The heathen girl was still there when I got home.

She’d showered and eaten and now sat in the farthest corner of the room, balled up where the walls met, as if her being there might be tolerable so long as she took up as little space as possible. She looked much nicer having reacquainted herself with soap. Kitchen countertops gleaming, the air hung with a hint of pine. She’d tidied up.

I plodded into the living room, kicked off my brogans and slumped on the sofa. Amira’s gaze was latched on me.

“Okay?” she said.

Okay her still being here, or was I okay? In either case, “Okay.”

She uncoiled herself and traipsed delicately across the room like a schoolgirl attempting to sneak out of class unbeknownst to her headmaster. She poked a finger through the birdcage’s lattice, wiggling it. Bird twittered, pleased with the attention.

“She’ll bite you.”

Amira yanked her finger back.

I said, “Can you blame her? What if a giant came along and stuck its big fat finger through your window?”

She said, “It’s a pretty bird,” in a way that suggested such a creature wasn’t capable of anything so mean-spirited as biting her.

“Her name is Bird.”

She asked, “Do you play with it?”

“You can’t play with a bird. They don’t fetch sticks.”

She gestured to the aquarium. Her top lip curled to touch the tip of her nose.

“He looks slimy.”

“Plenty of animals are slimy or ugly or smelly,” I said. “So are lots of people. You stunk this morning. Frog can’t help being slimy. That’s the way God made him.”

“I like furry animals,” she offered.

“He’s really more sticky than slimy. Touch him. You’ll see.”

Amira was disinclined to accept my offer.

“What are you, afraid to touch him?”

Her eyes held mine. A calm dauntless shade of grey. “I’m not afraid.”

“Well, he needs to be fed.”

I cracked the freezer door and shoved aside butcher-wrapped goat flanks until I located the package of beef heart. I hacked off a half-ounce and popped it in the microwave.

I said: “How old are you?”

“Eleven.”

I rubbed my jaw, considering her. This was a shrewd eleven-year-old. The microwave dinged. I cut the meat into tiny cubes and slid them off the cutting board onto a saucer.

“Grab some toothpicks,” I said to Amira, pointing to the drawer they were in.

The frog swam circles round the flat rock in the centre of the tank.

“He’s blind,” I told Amira. “But he’s got a great sense of smell.”

I pinned a shred of meat on the point of a toothpick. Frog clambered onto the rock and nosed along in his ungainly way, zeroing in on the beef heart and, with a graceless little lunge, snatched it off the toothpick.

Amira was fascinated. “Can I try?”

She laughed excitedly when Frog made his move and snatched the meat. Amira stuck a cube to her finger and waved it before the frog’s mouth. She did not draw back at his lunge. The cube disappeared, leaving a spot of wetness on her fingertip.

Now I was fascinated. “Did it hurt? Does he have teeth?”

“No teeth. It felt . . .”—a considerable pause—“. . . slimy.”

“You like furry animals, do you?”

She said, “Furry’s nice.”

“Alright, then. Come with me.”

The shop front was tall and narrow, wedged between a soup kitchen and a blood bank, both of which were closed. A wooden ram’s head dangled on a single chain above the door, the other having snapped. The neon sign was busted.

The shop was locked. I knocked. The funereal-looking proprietor shuffled to the door and unsnapped the deadbolts.

“Officer Murtag, do come in.”

When I stepped aside he got a glimpse of Amira. He set a hand on my shoulder and in an apologetic tone said, “I’m afraid there are still limits to the sacrifices we can arrange.”

I shouldered past him. The goods were picked over ruthlessly. A scrawny molting dove lay asleep in its cage. A goat with ribs poking out like staves.

“Look around,” I said to Amira. “Pick whatever you’d like.”

The owner gripped my elbow. “You realize it won’t matter if they’re sacrificed on her behalf. Her soul is permanently stained.”

“Are you saying we can’t conduct business?”

I’d known this man on an informal basis for years; he wasn’t the type to let moral qualms intrude on a sale.

“You’d be throwing your money away but—”

“—so long as it’s thrown into your pockets, right?” I said.

After a thorough scouting of the goods, Amira settled on a small brown-eared rabbit, the only one left.

I said: “How much for the cage?”

The owner frowned. “What use is its—?”