The Business Of Death, Death Works Trilogy (45 page)

“Look, I didn’t buy it.” (Actually, I don’t think Mr. D
bought
it, either.) “But you have to admit it’s funny in this context.”

Solstice peers at all the mayhem on the panel. “If you say so.” He
walks to the window and pushes his face against the glass. “So the body fell…? Where am I looking?”

“That’s Hell,” I say, pouring myself a glass of rum. “You’re looking into Hell.”

Solstice blinks. “Remarkable. It’s not exactly what I was expecting.”

“It never is.” I offer him a drink.

He shakes his head. “On duty, and all that.” He goes back to peering out the window.

He jabs a thumb down. “So the body struck the ground and it disappeared?”

“Yeah, someone cut the rope a few moments after I’d knocked him out.”

Solstice looks at me. “You knocked him out?”

“I got lucky.”

“Very lucky.” He scrawls something in his notebook. “So someone cut the rope. Are you sure you weren’t that someone?”

“Very sure. I wanted to know what he was doing. Why he was there, and how.”

“Couldn’t you have just asked his ghost? Maybe killing him was an easier, safer way of getting the information you required.”

I shook my head. “It doesn’t work like that, not as neatly anyway. I pomped the soul, and the body returned to wherever it was when it entered Hell.”

“You didn’t think to ask the spirit any questions?”

“Oh, I tried, but with a death that violent, the soul just usually blazes through. I didn’t get much more than rage and anger at being betrayed, I guess, and then I was losing consciousness myself.”

I hobble over to the window beside Solstice. Stare down. “What I want to know is how a living person ended up out there.”

“Is it really that odd? I mean, I’m here right now, aren’t I?”

“It’s remarkable, all right,” I say. “In here you’re not really in Hell,
just a point that juts into Hell, and even that involves quite a bit of power. Two worlds are mixing here, and it’s not a very good mix. A lot of people have trouble with this room; they get all sorts of migraines, dizzy spells. It’s why we do our job interviews here. If you can’t cope with the energies in this room, you really shouldn’t become a Pomp. You’re handling it very well, Detective.”

Solstice rubs the bridge of his nose. “Hm. I do have a bit of a headache, but that could be just the condition I suffer from.”

“What’s that?”

“Hypochondria.”

Yeah, funny guy. I point down at the footpath. “Down there. To get down there with the possibility of returning involves serious pain. The Underworld doesn’t like life, just afterlife. Its barriers are permeable, but not without incredible effort, arcane knowledge, and a lot of blood.”

“Blood?”

“Yeah, you need to die and not die. It’s about as easy as it sounds, believe me.”

Solstice’s pen gets to work again in his notebook. He has a swift, neat writing style—a dot-the-“i”s-cross-the-“t”s sort of thing. “Well, he didn’t stay living for long.” Solstice scratches the bridge of his nose. “But then that seems to be something that happens to people who spend any time with you, doesn’t it?”

“What are you implying?”

Solstice grins. “Nothing at all.”

“I honestly don’t know how you’re going to uncover anything,” I say. “There’s no body that we could find. Who knows where it is? Number Four is healing itself, and we’ve never used closed circuit TV here.”

“You leave that to me,” Solstice says. “There’s a body somewhere. And there will be a gun.”

“I don’t know about that—oh, sorry, Detective, just a condition I suffer from.”

“Yeah, and that is?” he asks.

“Pessimism.”

“I like you already,” Solstice says, patting me on the back. His rolled-up shirt sleeve slips back to reveal a rather large tattoo.

I get a good look at it before Solstice pulls down his sleeve in what must be an automatic gesture. I’m not sure how they regard tatts in the force.

“You’d make a good Pomp,” I say, nodding at his arm.

“What? Oh, yeah.” Seeing no point in hiding it, he grins a little crookedly and pulls up his sleeve to reveal more. A dragon extends all the way along his forearm, the tail disappearing under the fabric. Its scales are a luminous green, narrow red eyes stare at me, and a tiny puff of smoke curls from its nostrils.

“Nice work isn’t it?” Solstice says. “Guy who did it won a lot of awards.”

“Yeah. Your own design?”

Solstice dips his head. “A little bit Tolkien, a little bit Chinese. I call it Smauget.”

I’m not about to compare tatts. Wal isn’t quite as fierce, and his creation was less considered, more alcohol-fueled.

Solstice peers at his phone. “No bloody signal.”

Closers certainly don’t have access to a phone network as good as ours.

Solstice reaches over to the black phone in the middle of my messy desk. “Mind if I make a call?”

“Not with that, you won’t.” I lift up the tattered end of the phone cord, bits of rusty wire jutting out.

“What is it then, a paperweight?”

“Internal line,” I say with a lame grin. I’m not about to tell him
it’s a direct line to my old boss, Mr. D. The fewer people who know, or even suspect, that he’s still about, the better.

Solstice nods his head and glances at his watch. “I’m going to have to leave. Believe it or not we have more than one case.”

“You Closers,” I say, “you’re a big department?”

“Big enough.”

“Why haven’t I heard of you until today?”

“You’ve never needed to.” He glances at his card on my desk. “You call me if anything happens.”

“I will.”

He slips on his Akubra. “And try not to give us any more work.”

T
im and I meet at a park in the leafy suburb of Paddington, near enough to some decent pubs if we feel so inclined. It’s a meeting place that we use if we want a little privacy. And I’m not sure whom I can trust in the office right now; most of my staff are brand new. But last time we met here I was on the run for my life and Lissa was dead, so things could be much worse. Silver lining, right?

After two months of me being ignored, the afternoon had seen a flood of RM visitors. I’m not sure if it was because I’ve finally peformed the Convergence Ceremony, or that I was shot at by an unknown assassin, but they certainly didn’t talk much about the latter.

China’s RM, Li An, was the first to visit. He surprised me; just sat down across from me and didn’t say a word. His eyes fixed on me.

I didn’t know what to say, I just stared right back. Finally, after twenty minutes, his lips just hinting at a smile, Li An nodded his head and stood. I shook his hand. It was dry, and just a little cold.

“I think she made the right choice. It was a pleasure getting to know you, Mr. de Selby,” he said. Then he shifted out before I could ask him what he was talking about.

East Europe’s RM, Madeleine Danning, came and gave me a pot of daisies. “They’ll look good in the corner, over there. But you mustn’t forget to water them. I always thought they’d cheer this place up.”

England’s RM, Anna Kranski, wanted to talk early Hitchcock films, and was mortified that I hadn’t watched
The 39 Steps
.

No one suggested any deals. Not Kiri Baker from New Zealand. Not Devesh Singh from India. No one made any offers. I didn’t know how to take it. This was the Orcus. These were the Deaths of the world, and I was treated with nothing but the utmost politeness.

Those who did talk were anxious about the Death Moot. Had the Caterers hinted at what they were doing this time? Was the bridge prepared? Which bridge was it exactly?

The fact that it was a footbridge seemed to impress Japan’s RM, Tae Sato. “A good omen,” he said. “You’ll find it to be a good omen.”

Charlie Top, Middle Africa’s RM, was also pleased.

All this RM happiness. And there I was with that image in my head of them at the Negotiation: the hungry gleam, bordering on naked bloodlust, in their eyes.

The only two RMs who didn’t visit were Neill Debbier and Suzanne. I didn’t know what that meant, but by the time I was ready to leave my office I was tired and didn’t really want to know.

“You’re one of the club now,” Tim says leaning back on the bonnet of his car. “It’s a good thing.”

He passes me a beer, and I twist off the cap. “Yeah, but none of them wanted to talk about the attempt on my life.”

“Maybe it’s more common than you think.”

“No, Mr. D would have mentioned it.”
Or would he?

The sun’s set, but the night is slow in cooling, the air close and thick. We used to sneak off to this park and smoke. Tim’s furiously working his way through a packet of cigarettes between mouthfuls of VB. I’m not such a fan of the beer—I like my Fourex—but at least it’s cold. Our stubbies are beaded with beerish sweat. I could do with something stronger though.

“So who do you think’s responsible?” Tim asks. “Stirrers?”

“No, I’d have sensed them if it was. We all would have.”

Tim nods. You can smell and feel a Stirrer from a long way off. Their presence pulls at the throat, burns the nose like a bad chemical. There’s been enough Stirrers rising to get us far too used to the sensation.

“I’ve been dreaming about Morrigan, lately. Maybe …”

Tim leans in toward me, eyes hard. “No, he’s gone. You told me that yourself. He’s deader than dead.” His voice is strident, but he looks like he needs reassurance.

“Yeah, I saw him die. He’s gone. Would have been easier though, knowing it was him.”

Tim shakes his head, jabs his beer in my face. “Morrigan was a devious, murdering prick. Don’t you dare wish him back on us!”

I draw back at his vehemence. “No, they were just dreams. That’s all, they can’t be anything else. So where does that leave us?”

“One of the Orcus, then?” he suggests.

“But which RM wants me dead? All the RMs are capable of it, but I don’t think it’s one of them. And certainly not after this afternoon. It’s in the Orcus’s interests to maintain stability. And I think if one wanted me dead, well, they wouldn’t screw it up so badly, and they wouldn’t be so underhanded about it.” I glance at Tim. “Do you think Solstice will have any luck?”

Tim shrugs. “Those guys know less about our organization than we do.”

I fix him with a stare. “How long have
you
known about these Closers?”

“Not too long. Actually, I thought they were a bit of a joke.” Tim takes a slow mouthful of beer. “What they’ve done is built on an idea I had years ago at the department—a group to actually work in tandem with Mortmax, to help out if the Stirrers ever became too much of a problem. I thought it would be a good thing, maybe increase the flow of information between both sides, and reduce some of the fear. But they’ve started it too late.”

“You didn’t think it worth your while to give me a heads-up about it?”

“Like I said, I thought they were a bit of a joke, though I’ve changed my mind, now. A scared government is a dangerous government.”

I glower at him. It’s bad enough feeling the scrutiny of the Orcus without knowing the federal government is looking into us, too. There was a time when no government would even consider questioning our actions. Trust them to decide otherwise when I’m in charge.

Something crunches in the undergrowth close to us. Tim and I spin toward the sound.

“Down,” I say, and Tim drops behind his car.

I can hear a heartbeat. It’s racing, and it’s not Tim’s. I grab the only weapon at hand, my stubby. The heartbeat is coming from behind a nearby tree. Taking a deep breath, I rush toward it and catch sight of a dim shape there, a large figure, hunched down.

There’s a flash. I hurl my stubby at the form. Beer splashes back at me. Glass shatters.

There’s no detonation of a gun firing. No bullets penetrating my thick skull. The heartbeat is gone. I scramble around the tree.

Nothing. Just a torch, its beam directed at my feet—the source of the flash, I guess. I can feel the residual warmth of a body from where it had leaned against the tree, and the slight electrical residue of a shift. It’s less than the memory of a ghost post-Pomp.

Whoever was here is good. They know how to hide their movements, even if they’re heavy on their feet.

“It’s all right,” I yell at Tim, holding the torch in the air.

He gets up and curses. Seems he threw himself onto his packet of cigarettes. Every single one of them is bent or broken.

“At least you’re not drenched with beer,” I say.

Tim grins staring at the mighty stain spreading across my trousers. “Are you sure that’s beer?”

I give him the most sarcastic smile I can. “Who the hell was that?”

“Now,
that
could have been one of the RMs, or an Ankou. Spying on us, maybe wondering why the hell we were out here.”

“They know how little we know then, if that’s the case.”

After another drink we’ve relaxed a little, and the beer down the front of me has evaporated. I might smell like a brewery but at least I’m dry. I’ve had two texts from Lissa, asking where I am, and I’ll respond to them soon.