Her name was Olive. She told him the details, not bothering to complain about having to go through it all again. Averroes, she explained, had not done or said anything unusual. Then again, he was a quiet one, anyway. He often relieved stress by digging in the yard. This had been his master’s house, and the act of burying something, sniffing it out, and digging it up again reminded him of a simpler time.
When Olive was finished, she stood up and headed for the kitchen. The teapot whistled, and Mort(e) thought that she was fetching something to drink. Instead, she returned with a silver necklace. “If my daughter had worn this,” she said, “she’d still be alive today.”
Mort(e) extended his hand for it. The medallion had an image of a bearded man in robes, a perfect ring around his head. St. Jude, it said. He had seen one before, but could not remember when or where. “Why would she still be alive?”
“St. Jude is the patron saint of lost causes,” Olive said.
“So the medallion would have reminded your daughter to—”
“It wouldn’t have reminded her of anything,” Olive said. “You soldiers are like robots, you know that? I’m telling you that St. Jude would have protected her.”
Mort(e) stopped himself from asking how much exposure she had had to her son-in-law. It was a moot point now.
“And I don’t care what you say,” she continued. “Write it in your report. Tell the ants I’m crazy. You’re all spying on me anyway, right?”
That was correct. Mort(e) thanked her for her time and tried to leave. She insisted that he take the medallion, pointing out that the army had already ordered her to undergo the battery of physical and cognitive tests proving that nothing was wrong with her. “Other than being an old bitch,” she said. “No law against that.”
When he refused again to accept the medallion, she told him it could be part of his investigation. “I don’t care if you’re a cat, squirrel, whatever,” she added. “You need St. Jude’s protection more than anyone if you’re in this line of work. I can feel it.”
Mort(e) took the medallion, promising to return it. She laughed and told him that she would probably be dead by then.
“And you won’t want to give it back, anyway,” she added.
MORT(E) WENT HOME. By then, he had converted the Martinis’ garage into a command center. That way, he could remove the investigation from the house entirely. On the floor of the garage, he drew out a map of the entire sector, first in plain white chalk, and then in more detail with colored pencils. He needed to be able to stand in the middle of it and think. Still not satisfied, he decided to make the model three-dimensional, with cardboard boxes and rocks to depict some of the larger buildings and structures, and a hole in the cement foundation — dug with a pick axe — to indicate the quarry where the deer committed suicide.
He hung the medallion from his desk lamp, where it dangled beside his computer screen, the image of the pious man swinging like a pendulum on a clock. Despite the late hour, Mort(e) decided to call Bonaparte. It was something Culdesac liked to do, to show the underlings that the boss could rouse them from their sleep on a whim. Bonaparte answered groggily, which compelled Mort(e) to sound even more chipper.
“The murder scene,” Mort(e) said. “I want you to round up a few people and dig up the backyard. Tell me what you find.”
“We could get a truck over there in the morning—”
“Now, Specialist.”
“Okay, I’ll get right on it.”
Bonaparte sounded annoyed. Mort(e) was not proud of it, but part of him liked spreading the misery around. If the Red Sphinx wanted him to work on this investigation, they would have to deal with him on his terms.
Mort(e) rose from his chair to get some water. That was when he spotted the raccoon through the window. The creature stood in the middle of the grass, facing the garage.
Many animals, especially those who had not been pets, seemed to have liberal views of property. This same raccoon may have even rummaged through the Martinis’ trash before the war. So many of these bottom-dwellers had waited out the conflict living on garbage and grubs. Still, the messenger bag slung over the raccoon’s shoulder showed that he must have had some function other than creeping around at night.
Mort(e) lifted the door of the garage and was immediately overcome with the sweet stink of a feral raccoon, thick as mist. He scrunched his eyes, forcing his senses to grow accustomed to the assault.
The raccoon did not move.
“Are you lost?” Mort(e) asked.
His eyes adjusted. There was something wrong with the raccoon’s face. With his whole head, really. The raccoon’s neck had been split open, and the severed chin and jaw pointed straight upward. But where there should have been the pulsing insides of the throat was, instead, a face. A human face.
All thought left Mort(e)’s mind. Now there was only movement. Calculating distances. Erasing fear and doubt. This was the counterattack he had been trained to expect. His hind legs tensed, his tail straightened. Mort(e) leapt at the intruder, his clawless hands ready to land on the man’s chest. But the man was fast. Before Mort(e) could seize the human, a piercing noise paralyzed him. A screeching sound that rattled inside his brain like an angry insect. Mort(e) collapsed. With his hands on his ears in a futile attempt to block the noise, he tilted his head up to see that the man held some metal device, about the size of his hand. Whatever it was, it seemed to focus the noise on Mort(e) like a laser.
The noise stopped. The ringing in his head lasted for a few seconds before fading out.
“Get up,” the man said.
“Who are you?” Mort(e) asked.
The noise again, like a horde of ants invading his skull. It was so human of this raccoon to answer a question with more punishment.
“Quiet,” the man said. “Get up and go to the garage.”
Mort(e) obeyed. The temporary fog of the raccoon smell had already begun to disperse.
“Sit down,” the man said.
Mort(e) sat in the chair at his desk. The man closed the door halfway. Perhaps he wanted an easy escape in case Mort(e) somehow overcame the stun weapon.
The human sat on a nearby stool and placed the bag on his lap. The suit, Mort(e) noticed, had been built from the hide of a real raccoon. The mask was perched on the crown of the man’s bald head. He had brown skin. The stubble of a beard framed his jaw. The device remained firmly in the man’s hand, the pad of his thumb poised over the power switch.
“I am Elder Briggs,” the man said. “I know you have a lot of questions. Please feel free to ask them.”
The words had been chosen carefully, most likely rehearsed. They give away so much in their eyes, Culdesac had told him in their human interrogation training seminar years before. You have to watch the eyes. It’s harder for them to lie, and yet they do it so often.
Briggs’s pupils quivered. He was clearly in awe of Mort(e). Perhaps Briggs had been given a photo of him to study.
“How did you get here?” Mort(e) asked.
Briggs sighed. “You’re starting with a question that you can’t possibly expect me to answer,” he said. “Let’s say I dropped in.”
“How many humans are with you?” Mort(e) said. “How many are in your resistance?”
“Too many for the Queen’s taste. Enough to fight.” Briggs grinned. It made him more difficult to read.
“What is it?” Mort(e) asked.
“Most people would have asked ‘why’ next. But you’re a warrior. Always analyzing the tactical situation.”
“I imagine you’re here because of my investigation,” Mort(e) said.