“Do you have an impound here? My car was jacked near Cross Plains.”
“We may have the guy.” He opens the gate and invites me back.
Jails the world over have the same smell. Stale booze, sweat, shit, piss, and blood. We walk down the hall while I check for security cameras. There is one, but the indicator light is dark. There are a surprising number of cells for such a small burg. I hear labored breathing as we approach the last one.
A tiny figure is seated on the thin mattress of the cot. He leans back against the wall, a hand pressed to his chest. He is whispering softly to himself. A prayer? A string of curses? I can’t make out the words. A shock of carrot-colored hair falls across his sweat-beaded forehead.
I shake my head. “No, not the guy.” The cop looks disappointed, but I don’t want to spend time filling out paperwork for a crime that never happened.
The street is lined with low-end businesses. I slip behind the 7-Eleven and transform back into Bahir. I make the jump directly into the cell.
The little man opens his eyes and looks up at me. They are pain-filled but brightly intelligent, with a wry light in their cinnamon depths.
“Well, this is something you don’t see every day,” he rasps.
I press a finger to my lips, lift him in my arms, and take us out of there.
It’s all mental, but I feel too tired to travel very far. I spent a relatively pleasant evening in the Old Town of Albuquerque, New Mexico, a few years back. There was a nearly deserted parking garage directly across the street. I jump us to the top floor. It’s deserted. Americans really do hate to walk. I allow my features to shift back to me.
“Thanks for the rescue,” the little man says, “but why?”
“I’m looking for Niobe,” I say as I lay him down on the cold concrete floor.
“That’s nice.”
“You’re the one who caused all the chaos at Cross Plains.”
“Yep.” The word resonates with pride and something else . . . love is the only way I can describe it.
“Got her some traveling money and a car, did you?” I kneel at his side.
“Might be.”
I keep a flask of brandy on me at all times. Along with cigarettes, a gun, and a knife, it means I’m prepared for almost anything. I hold it to his blue-tinged lips and he sips hungrily.
“I don’t suppose you’d tell me where to find her?”
“Nope.”
Again there is a wealth of information in a single word. There is determination and, unfortunately for me, not a hint of bravado. Clearly the homunculus is dying. Hurting it will only hasten its death, and probably won’t garner any results.
My knees are aching so I sit down and now the rough concrete is digging at my seat bones. Usually I’m not this aware of physical discomfort. I must really be tired. Trying to keep my tone very conversational I say, “You know I won’t be the only person who will figure out how to find you.”
“You seem brighter than they are,” he says.
“Granted, but they do have the resources of the American government.”
“And Mom has us.”
My reaction surprises me. Instead of finding it unbelievably creepy I find it sadly touching. “Your mom?”
There’s a faraway look in the strange eyes as if he’s hearing a distant voice. “Yes. She loves us . . . love you, too.” For an instant I think he’s talking to me, and there’s a sudden tightness in my throat. I shake my head hard. “I did my best,” he whispers softly toward the stained concrete overhead. His eyes close briefly and the pain-wracked features soften.
A pager starts to buzz. Breath-stopping panic constricts my chest and sets my gut to aching. I start pulling them out. I can’t remember where I put them. I assign pockets for each pager. Why can’t I remember? Which one is it? Oh, Christ, not that one, please. Not yet. Not yet.
It’s not the med-alert pager. It’s the Committee pager. I’m holding one in each hand. The urge to throw John Fortune against the wall is strong. Instead I mute the page and thrust it back into a pocket. I start to put away the med-alert when a small hand closes on my wrist.
“Who’s sick?” The tone is gentle.
I answer. “My dad.” Why did I answer?
“I’ve had one. Mom’s had one,” the little man adds quickly. It snaps into place. There are more than two people in this garage. She’s here, too. “So she would know when we were dying. ’Course she knew anyway. We’re part of her.”
“You always die?” A mute nod. “How many?”
“One hundred and seventy-nine. I remember all their names.”
“He has a name?”
“Of course I do. I’m her son, I’m Baxter. You don’t forget your children.” I’m suddenly back in my parents’ yard.
“And what did you get?”
“You.”
The sob erupts from my chest, tears across my throat, and echoes in the garage. The little man lays a hand on my arm. I wave him off with one hand, cover my eyes with the other. “I’m all right. Just tired.”
I pull away my hand and stare into his eyes. Can she see me? Or does she only know what he’s telling her? I try to look through him to the woman. “I’ll bring him to you.”
“What?”
“I can bring him to you. So you can see him before he dies. I just need to know where you are.”
“Don’t do it, Mom. It’s a trick. He’ll hurt Drake.”
“No!” Urgency makes my voice rough. “Don’t let him die without seeing you.” It hurts to swallow. I don’t know this man who’s suddenly living inside my skin. Bloody hell, I’m melting down. Dad, are you listening?
The homunculus grips my hand. “She says to bring me to her,” he whispers, and he tells me where they are.
It’s like carrying a corn husk or a nautilus shell when the inhabitant has vacated. I can’t pinpoint a hotel room so we arrive in the parking lot. The asphalt is cracking and there’s only one car. The Rube Goldberg contraption on the hood and the faint smell of rancid grease and french fries indicate that it’s been rejiggered to burn cooking oil. The motel is two stories with exterior entry. Just a concrete strip. The sign declares it to be the Sleep Inn. Underneath it used to read AMERICAN OWNED, but someone has tried to paint over it. As I hurry past the front office I smell the pungent aroma of vindaloo.
I’m taking the stairs two at a time. Is he still breathing? I can’t feel his heart over mine, which is wildly beating. They have the corner room at the far end from the office. A pudgy young teenager is holding open the door. I recognize him from the photo Ray displayed. I rush into the room. It’s dingy, the spreads are threadbare, but it’s meticulously clean.
She’s waiting. The photo from BICC doesn’t capture her. In the photo she’s ugly. In person, her life and soul are in her gray-green eyes. She spares me not a glance. She gathers Baxter into her arms, and settles onto the end of one bed holding him in her lap. It’s hard for her to arrange the fat, bristly tail, but I scarcely notice that. It’s a pietà.
“It’s okay, kiddo. Momma’s here.” She has a warm, low voice with a husky little catch in it, and that overlay of East Coast money. The little ace reaches up and tangles his hand in the chocolate-colored hair that falls over her shoulder. “Drake,” Niobe says. “Would you go get me a Coke? I think there’s still a few cans in that machine.”
The nuclear ace goes.
“Is that wise?” I ask.
She shrugs. “You either brought people or you didn’t. And I don’t want him to see this. He knows too much about death.” She leans forward and gently kisses Baxter on the forehead. The small chest is barely rising and falling.