“Stay,” he panted, “out.”
His face looked as drained as I felt, except he was able to stand, while all I could do was flounder on the floor, flopping like a fish. Forcing myself into another person’s mind was a violation like no other and it tore at my nerves as if I had run into an electric fence. It wasn’t something I ever wanted to repeat. It had weakened me more than psychometry usually did. Maybe tapping into another living creature used up more energy, on top of the pronounced unpleasantness of it all? I didn’t know. I started fishing in my pocket for my Life Savers. Faisal and Davidson turned away.
“We’ll be in touch,” Davidson said as they started for the door.
“I say, so shall we,” the Inspectre said, stopping them in their tracks by the door. “It’s awfully brave of you to intimidate my young initiate here, old boy, but you’ll find me a different story. Rest assured, I will get to the bottom of all this.”
Faisal glanced back as he reached for the handle. “The only thing you’re bound to reach the bottom of is a bag of chips, old man…or the East River.”
As soon as he and Davidson walked out, the divisional managers scrambled out of their chairs and followed, leaving just Connor, the Inspectre, and me. Connor helped me up in the immediate and heavy silence that hung in the air as the door closed. None of us dared looked at the other.
“Well, that was certainly different,” I said.
“You look like hell, kid,” Connor said.
“Good. Ifeel like hell.”
“Hope it was worth it. Did you get anything?”
“Most of what he said about Irenewas true,” I said. “She was a thief, like a freelancer to them, but she wasn’t holding out for more money. She refused to help him when she found out what the Sectarians were going to use the wooden fish for.”
“And what were they planning?” the Inspectre asked.
I shrugged. “I don’t know, sir. That’s when Faisal went all Cassius Clay on me.”
“Well, that’s a start,” the Inspectre said encouragingly. “That’s more than we knew before. And we do have an avenue or two more to explore…”
Connor and the Inspectre exchanged that look again. I was too wiped to say anything more. Connor took the empty clipboard and slid it in his satchel.
“I could use a stiff drink after that,” Connor continued as he ran his hand through the white streak in his hair. “Shall we?”
“Hrooom!” the Inspectre blasted as he headed for the door. “That may indeed be the best idea I’ve heard all night, boys. Tonight the drinks are on Other Division.”
33
Eccentric Circles was the ancient dive that catered to a clientele of the mysterious and the strange. Naturally, it was a departmental favorite. As usual, the place was packed with secretive folk who wanted little in the way of small talk or questions, but it was a safe bet that just about all of its patrons dabbled in something arcane, otherworldly, or just plain fucked up. We fit in perfectly.
The first few drinks helped rebuild my sugar depletion, but the trade-off was that I was slowly getting drunk. Three rounds into it, I started feeling bad. There was a growing mountain of things I should be dealing with and I was sick of not dealing with things-it had gotten Tamara killed. Also, I had essentially abandoned Jane right after she had helped me bring in Faisal, and now she was somewhere out there alone in the city, unsure of her own fate. Irene had yet to manifest again, and I didn’t know if she’d be hostile or not when she did. I attempted to leave at one point to check my messages, but the Inspectre stopped me and confided that our drinking and bonding were every bit departmental job functions as time in the office was. I wasn’t sure I believed him, but after my third pint I was willing to give it a shot. Other Division was buying, and after the downward spiral my day had taken, I found it a meager but welcome reward. Three cheers for job-sanctioned drinking!
Connor returned from the bar, pushing his way through the buzzing crowd. He was carrying several pints, which he slammed down on the table. Having matched the Inspectre and me drink for drink, he was in a jovial mood.
“Sorry it took so long,” he said. “Some of the guys from Greater and Lesser Arcana were up at the bar and pulled me into the old argument.”
“What argument?” I asked, grabbing one of the glasses.
“Historically,” Connor said, “drinking is a common pastime among agents. There’s a lot of stress on everyone and the biggest in-Department pissing contest is over who suffers the most. Those guys always think that they’re the ones.”
“They could be right,” the Inspectre said. “They do carry the additional burden of answering to Thaddeus Wesker.”
I liked hearing the Inspectre be a little cheeky, and knowing Director Wesker as I did, I thought the old man made a pretty convincing argument.
“I don’t think they do,” Connor said. “Shadower has the largest group of heavy drinkers. I think their world of infiltration, subterfuge, and constant surveillance might take the prize.”
I stared at my pint as the foam slowly settled, and I felt the weight of the past day pressing down on me.
“You okay, kid?” Connor asked.
“None of today happened the way I imagined,” I said with a sigh. I took a sip, relishing the oaty thickness of the brew.
“Anything particular?” Connor asked.
I sipped at the dark pint again, having no recollection of what I had ordered but happy with it nonetheless. “Everything! The entire evening. The whole epic struggle between good and evil. We’ve dead-ended on tracking down Cyrus even.”
The Inspectre laughed as he took a swig. His mustache was covered with foam as he pulled the pint glass away. “Not quite the theatrics you were expecting, eh?”
“I guess not,” I said with a shrug. My moment of triumph had turned into two separate games, one that ended in a stalemate during the questioning of Faisal Bane and the second of departmental politics that generated so much red tape that I was sure I could patch theTitanic with it.
Connor shook his head at me, and started speaking with that lecturing attitude he had been taking all too frequently lately. “You can keep your ideology when it comes to the battle between good and evil, kid. The somewhat romantic notion of the clear-cut struggle doesn’t exist. None of the fight has ever been black-and-white, or if it has, I sure as hell ain’t ever seen it.”
He put his pint down, leaned across the table, and gave me a serious look that was undercut by the amount he had been drinking.
“There’s more to be seen in the shades of gray,” he added.
“Then how the hell do we fight it if we can’t make heads or tails of where the line is?” I asked.
The Inspectre looked at me with a mixture of kindness and inebriation. “My boy, you are talking about evil as a concept. You can’t fight a concept!”
I slammed my glass down on the table a bit too hard, and its contents sloshed onto my hand. “But I expectedsomething to come out of tonight! Conflict, fighting, something, anything!”
“Evil is damned peculiar that way,” the Inspectre said. He picked up a napkin and wiped the foam from his mustache with it. “It takes many forms, as you might well expect, but evil is at its most devious-at its worst, actually-when it makes us lazy, when we cease to take action against it. Evil is slow, crafty, and even slothful at times.”
“You speak of it like it’s a person, not an idea,” I said.
The Inspectre leaned closer. “Isn’t it like a person? What makes up the essence of a person but the totality of their actions, Simon? Every person has the chance at any moment to choose their own path, their actions coming down to simple good or bad intent. Conceptually, evil itself is not half as frightening as the actions of those who follow its path.”