When Bleak and Fellburnie ran out of questions, they turned to Cheticamp to see if he had anything to ask. He shrugged… and Tic immediately stepped forward, as if he’d only been waiting for the police to finish.
"Turiff" Tic said. Dear madam. "How much did Dr. Cuttack actually stay in her room here? Three or four nights a week? More? Less?"
The hostess thought for a moment. "A day here, a day there… perhaps it added up to a week every month. The rest of the time, she was visiting Bonaventure or camping on the land."
"Just one week," Tic said. "My, my. Wouldn’t it be less expensive paying by the night, rather than booking a month at a time?"
"That’s true," the hostess admitted. "Our monthly rate is an excellent value… but if Dr. Cuttack had only paid for the nights she was here, she could have saved a good deal of money. And for such a frequent guest, we’d gladly store her luggage between times if she didn’t want to take everything camping. Our manager once mentioned that to her — we don’t want our guests thinking we take advantage of them. But Dr. Cuttack said money was less important to her than convenience: being able to come and go without always signing in."
Tic tossed me a meaningful glance; I didn’t need it. In her letter to Chappalar, Maya claimed to be underfunded. So why was she blithely forking out cash for a hotel room she hardly ever used? Even in the off-season, the HSGH had to be a pricey place to stay.
Captain Cheticamp picked up on the implications too. "How did Dr. Cuttack pay for her room?" he asked.
The hostess hesitated a moment, probably weighing a guest’s personal privacy against whatever pressure the cops could bring to bear. Then she whispered into her wrist-comm and turned to the desk screen. "Charged to a numbered account, in the Free Republican Bank."
Tic beamed an angelic smile. I could practically read his mind. Maya. Murderer. Bankrolled by the Freeps.
Rattlesnake, Cheticamp mouthed to me.
Of course, the detectives asked to search Maya’s room. Of course, the hostess said they’d have to discuss that with the manager. Of course, the manager took a long time to find and a longer time to convince that he should let the police barge in without a warrant. Everyone accepted this as routine — a well-practiced waltz that the cops and hotel had to dance before Maya’s door would open.
When we finally got to the room, it was empty… by which I mean Maya’d left nothing incriminating. Yes, there were clothes in the closet — expensive-looking things, with labels from fashion houses in the Free Republic — and the loo contained the usual toiletries… again top-of-the-line stuff, and thanks to my darling Peter, I knew something about the cost of cologne. (The man loved perfume and loved all the women in his life to be wearing it. Unlike my other husbands, who didn’t notice, or wrinkled their noses and made little cat-sneezes.)
If you’re interested, Maya’s room contained a huge wood-frame bed made of paper-peel branches still covered with bark… a state-of-the-art comm console discreetly hidden in a wall niche… a small cleaning servo that followed Fellburnie around, fussily fluffing up the carpet wherever the detective’s TyeTye weight squashed down the pile… but nothing you couldn’t find in any other "woodsy-decor" hotel room on the planet. No jacking equipment that would allow Maya to program killer androids. No scribbled manifestos explaining why the Vigil should be eradicated. No crumpled purchase order for three dozen jelly guns. Nor did we find clues to where Maya had gone.
(Tic had me distract the others while he talked to the cleaning servo. The things I do for the Vigil. And according to Tic, the devil-be-damned machine didn’t have a word to say except, "Muddy boots. Muddy boots. Muddy boots.")
Bleak and Fellburnie slogged off for more legwork — questioning the staff and finding guests who’d spoken with Maya last time she was here. Cheticamp ordered half the ScrambleTacs back to the skimmer for a tour of the area, checking the known mines to see if Maya was camped in the neighborhood. At first he thought it would be enough to do an IR scan from the air… but I told him they should peek into the mine tunnels themselves. "If I were camping this time of year, I’d tell my tent to set itself up a little ways down the mine. Best to be out of the wind in case a blizzard blows up."
"If these mines are three thousand years old," Cheticamp said, "isn’t it risky to go inside? They must be ready to cave in."
"We kids sneaked into the mines all the time," I replied. "Never went very deep, but the upper tunnels are still holding up with nary a crack. Whoever dug them cared more about permanence than Homo saps do; and it helps that Great St. Caspian isn’t an earthquake zone." I pointed to a dot on Cheticamp’s map. "This is the only one that’s dangerous, and the government sealed it off years ago."
"What’s special about that mine?" the captain asked.
"It had some explosions. Made it unsafe."
Tic’s ear-sheaths flicked opened with interest. "Explosions? What kind of explosions?"
"Uhh… gas."
"Tell us more, dear Faye." Tic composed his face into a wait-forever look of pleased interest. I could see he wouldn’t budge till he’d heard the whole story.
"Fine," I growled, "we used that mine to hold corpses, all right? During the plague. The soil around here is only a few centimeters of dirt over hard bedrock — no room for burials, and besides, we thought that when the epidemic ended, we’d need to return bodies to next of kin." I lowered my eyes, avoiding everyone’s gaze. "We slapped the dead into body bags, but there was still some leakage. Gas leakage. Eventually there were explosions."
"And the bodies got sealed in?" Tic asked, horrified. Nothing gives an Oolom the willies like the thought of being buried under tonnes of stone. Even if the corpses were already dead.
"The tunnel didn’t collapse," I told him, "but Rustico Nickel refused to let people go down to check the damage. Since the company owned the land, they’d be liable if anyone got hurt. After the plague, the Mines Commission decided it wasn’t safe for anyone to remove the bodies; so some charitable group named Dignity Memorials paid to send in…"
I stopped, thinking back to the afternoon the bodies were removed. It’d been almost a year after the plague, when Ooloms were taking to the skies once more: people starting their new lives by closing off the old. No one had imagined Sallysweet River could acquire a tourism industry… but day after day, Ooloms glided silently overhead, circling above the Big Top’s trampled mud, landing by my father’s grave and touching their foreheads to the green quartz monument.
Dozens of them stood outside the old mine tunnel to see the Big Top’s dead brought out. The wind was snapping-brisk, and the Ooloms all anchored themselves by holding on to trees in the nearby forest, hugging the trunks as if they were shyly trying to stay out of sight.
I was the only Homo sap there — come to watch mostly because everyone else stayed away. The humans of Sallysweet River didn’t want to be reminded of the corpses, or the way we’d giggled as we lit off the vapors of rot. Who could stand seeing what the bodies looked like? Browned by the explosions. Nibbled by insects. Cracked and dried by the previous winter’s cold. Ugly. I couldn’t stay away.
I planned to tell my neighbors the details. Make them lose their lunches when I described what had come out of the ground. And maybe I was trying to sicken myself, the way I sickened myself with everything else I did in those days.
Not to mention that I wanted to see what it looked like to be dead. Not the limp-in-a-bed death we’d gloomed over daily in the Circus, but skin-off-the-bones death, lying fallow in the ground, really and truly finished. What Dads would look like in his grave. What I might look like if I couldn’t find something to care about.