“Did they see her with anyone?”
“Yes. No. Wait.” Legrange struggled with fatigue, trying to remember who had seen exactly what, exactly when. “Sheila?”
“No, ma’am. When you got here, I was sittin’ with her on that log. And the jackets was already on. And her face was all hid anyway. She was lookin’ down at the groun’.”
“What about the rest of the troops?”
“Ma’am, I bin sittin’ here thinkin’ on it. It happened so fast, but see, when she fell, she got up lookin’ away from anyone. An she’s wearin’ that big ole’ bonnet. An’ then I was with her on that log, an she was mostly lookin’ down. An’ those boys with the jackets, they was our boys. They weren’t none of that MP shit. Sorry ma’am. I jus’ don’t like them boys. They make me a lot of trouble over nuthin.’”
Legrange merely nodded. Thompson went on. “So, I don’t think anybody could say for certain it was her. I mean, some of ‘em might know there’s a girl walks this way every mornin,’ but mos’ of the regulars, like me, was way at the back and didn’t see nuthin.’”
“Are you sure? She told you her name, didn’t she? Didn’t they hear that?”
“No ma’am. I don’t think so. Even Major Trippe was all, like, do this, do that, come here, go there. He ran off with that detail, and sent Theo to get you, but nobody really talked to her ‘cept me, an,’ an’—Honey, did you even tell me your name?”
Sharply, emphatically, Marul shook her head no.
Legrange thought a moment. “Did you tell anyone your cousin’s name? Before I got here, I mean?”
No, again.
Legrange turned to Thompson. “So the banana boys with the jackets know that she recognized the body, but that’s all?”
“Ma’am I think that’s pretty much it. I mean, I think a bunch of people might know that she recognized him, but only those boys with the jackets, and me, and you even heard his name. And nobody knows her name but us.”
But Marul started shivering again, uncontrollably, and new tears welled. “Wayan! Wayan knows!”
Linda was already in motion, grabbing Marul’s hand, towing the girl behind her. “That’s it. That sniveling little shit will tell. He’s a typical, pampered, spoiled brat of an eldest son, and he’ll delight in telling. Her Uncle’s her only chance.”
Legrange jogged after her, shouting, “But how can he help?”
Linda stopped abruptly, incredulous. “Jeri, haven’t you put this together? That’s Hugo Azhad in that tree. Ollie Azhad’s son. Marul’s cousin.” And when the penny still did not drop, “Jeri, Ollie Azhad. Chief of TCM Contract Security. His youngest sister married the piece of crap that did this to her. You see how that boy was murdered. It’s nothing to do with Marul. This isn’t personal. It’s professional.”
“But they’ll want a witness statement!”
“I’m getting this girl out of here. They don’t need her. She witnessed nothing. You could get anybody in Saint George to identify that boy. Anybody local.” And with that, they sprinted for the bridge.
Legrange jogged to a stop, turned, walked back to Sheila Thompson. Thompson’s face was stone. “Ma’am, that girl was jus’ walkin’ by. Didn’t see nuthin’, didn’t know nuthin’. I will swear that to a Magistrate.”
Legrange smiled wanly. “What girl was that, Sergeant Thompson?”
7
Forty Thieves
You follow the laws because they are your laws—not always, because you perhaps cheat on your tax forms, but normally you do. Nationalism encourages good behavior.
—Benedict Anderson
Bonneville, New Utah
They wound their way through the city center, working vaguely uphill, finally squeezing into streets so narrow that they must have dated to Foundation times. Individual buildings gave way to long, massive walls punctuated by small, massive doors. The streets became rougher, then narrower, then rougher again, until the street proper ended at a cul-de-sac broken by footpaths fanning off into the blackness. The lads were no longer grinning. As he dismounted, the driver rummaged under his feet—until Asach stopped him with one curt shake of the head.
“But—”
“We’ll be fine.”
“But this is—”
Asach smiled, and finished the sentence. “—my world, now. It is possible, you know, to leave the Ward, and leave the Stick, and live to tell the tale. Think of it as a Mission.”
The Lads nodded sheepishly, and fell in step behind Asach.
They wound down a short alley, turned a sharp left, and halted before a door barely visible in the black. Asach balled a fist and pounded three dull blows. They were swallowed up into what sounded like a vast cavern within.
They waited. The Lads fidgeted, standing back-to-back facing opposite ends of the alleyway. Asach smiled privately, without moving. Eventually, footsteps echoed within, a light snapped on above them, and a disembodied voice said, “Yes?”
“Is Michael in?”
“Who asks?”
At which point Asach pushed back the cloak hood and stared up into the button camera. “Quinn. Asach Quinn. And two friends. If he’s there, we’ll just go on back to—”
But the door burst open before the thought was finished, and a tiny man was already pulling Asach into the compound with one hand, waving the others to cross the threshold with the other, and shouting to two even tinier women across the courtyard.
“My dear friend! My dear friend! What brings you here! What brings you here! We did not think we would ever—Lena! Bring—Asach? What do you need? We will—Lena!—How came you to be here? How can we help you, my friend?—Lena, get the—”
“Sleep.”
“The cots! Lena, three cots!—I am sorry my friend, the rooms are all—”
“The roof is fine. Better, even.”
“Lena! Three cots! On the roof! And towels. And—are you refreshed? Do you desire—”
“We’ve eaten,” Asach lied.
“Just tea, then! Lena, hot towels, and tea!”
Much banging and clanking ensued just out of vision, as the little man finally turned full attention to the little entourage, one hand patting the center of Asach’s back to punctuate each sentence. For a moment, he looked downcast.
“You know there is trouble in the House?”
Asach scanned the immaculate courtyard, floors, square columns, walls washed white with gypsum. Lamplight flickered over the intricate lacework, carved from soapy rock, that covered each ground floor window. Stone steps, made from solid blocks stacked one above the other, led to the second story, where the pattern was repeated in carved wooden shutters, now thrown open to the nighttime air. In the opposite corner, a river of basalt, clad in green tracery, plunged from the roofline, through the balustrade, to the entry yard, as backdrop to a gentle spray and fall of water. The stone was cratered with fist-sized holes. Warm air gushed through, was cooled by passage through the mist, and made a gentle breeze as it sank into the courtyard. The Lads gaped, dumbfounded.
“Trouble? What trouble could there be, here in Heaven?”
The little man grunted. “As I love you, do not blaspheme.”
Asach smiled.
“Michael’s mother—”
“She has returned?”
“No.” He frowned. “No. She has withdrawn her share, and so Michael cannot—”
“But surely the major work is done?” Asach scanned the fresh plaster, restored shutters, rebuilt staircase, waterfall fountain. Even the cross, carved into the lintel beneath which they had passed as they entered, was carefully cleaned and repainted, with polished stones set into each of the trefoil tips that terminated the corners of each arm. Above it was inset a glazed tile depicting an eye: blue-green iris, black pupil, enclosed within a triangle overlaid on radial rays of aquamarine and white. The script enwrapping all was archaic, flowing, not at all Anglic. Asach made out: May His Eye be upon us.