“Weather any better? Can we move these parasites out?”
Probably not. Not comfortably. Unless you move fast.
“Huh?”
An associate of Mr. Dotes brought a message while you were loafing. There was an overwhelming implication of paybacks for all the times I’d complained about him snoozing when I had a strong desire for a little genius backup.
“What’s on your mind?”
Iwish to propose that you have fulfilled your abiding obligation to Mr. Contague.
“What? He’s just… he’s still…”
He remains confined to his wheelchair. It is unlikely that he will ever leave it. Only a Loghyr mind surgeon can repair damage done by a stroke. Loghyr mind surgeons were rare as roc eggs even when our tribe was bountiful. But Mr. Contague is possessed of a powerful will. I would not bet heavily against him accomplishing anything — if he can stay out of the hands of those who wish him ill.
“Meaning family?” Family was snoring a yard from my feet. Belinda and Singe had quaffed a few quarts after I went upstairs.
Family, yes. But Miss Contague was not the worst of his tormentors. He possesses recollections of being force-fed by persons other than his daughter. Persons most likely associated with Merry Sculdyte. Who was not always forthright with his brother.
“Merry was working against Rory?”
At cross-purposes, certainly. Mr. Contague recalls incidents that distinctly suggest an enduring hatred by Merry toward his brother. There are deep shadows in Sculdyte’s mind. He is twisted and torn because he loves Rory, as well. You will find the details in the written history. That is not important at the moment. Decisions about what to do with Mr. Contague and Mr. Temisk are.
“Huh?”
Have you not been considering what to do next?
“Sure.” Though not very hard. Chodo and his pal couldn’t hang out here forever. And I couldn’t see Chodo going back home. That would put him back where he started. But my conscience wouldn’t turn him loose on the world again, either. Nor would it allow me to tell Old Bones that I was satisfied that I no longer owed Chodo.
Ianticipated as much.
Uh-oh. He was up to something. And was way ahead of me in whatever his scheme was.
“You say he’s more or less sane now?”
As much as can he. To roughly the baseline that existed at the time of his stroke. More than that is beyond even the Luck of A-Lat. And that will persist only so long as he remains within the influence of the child and the kittens.
“So what do we do with him?”
Exactly.
“Well?”
Waiting on you, Garrett. I owe him nothing. I would hand him off to Colonel Block. Along with his memoirs. Then he issued one of his cryptic, one-hand-clapping pronouncements. There is a workable answer implicit within the existing situation, though it is as complicated as the situation itself
All right. He’s a little windy for a perfect master.
Passing everything and everyone off to the law was, no doubt, a rational final solution. And one I wish I was hard enough to invoke. But I’m me. Garrett. The old softy. “What about his family?”
Also as healed as can be. But wounds leave scars. And scars never go away.
“Hey! What about that message from Morley?”
PAN id=title>
Whispering Nickel Idols
A GARRETT, P.I. NOVEL
By
GLEN COOK
This one is for my mom, who was a rock in aturbulent stream.
With thanks to Jim K. and Ellen W.
1
There I was, galumphing downstairs, six feet three of the handsomest, ever-loving blue-eyed ex-Marine you’d ever want to meet. Whistling. But it takes me a big, big bucket to carry a tune. And my bucket had a hole in it.
Something was wrong. I needed my head examined. I’d gone to bed early, all by my own self. And hadn’t had a dram to drink before I did. Yet this morning I was ready to break into a song and dance routine.
I felt so good that I forgot to be suspicious.
I can’t forget, ever, that the gods have chosen me, sweet baby Garrett, to be their special holy fool and point man in their lunatic entertainments.
I froze on the brink of my traditional morning right turn to the kitchen.
There was a boy in the hallway that runs from my front door back to my kitchen. He was raggedy with reddish ginger hair all tangled, a kid who was his own barber. And his barber was half blind and used a dull butcher knife. There were smudges on the boy’s cheeks. He stood just over five feet tall. I made him about twelve, or maybe a puny thirteen. His tailor was a walleyed ragpicker. I assumed he had a pungent personal aura, but wasn’t close enough to experience it.
Was he deaf? He’d missed the racket I’d made coming down. Of course, he had his nose stuck in the Dead Man’s room. That view can be overwhelming, first time. My partner is a quarter ton of dead gray flesh resembling the illegitimate offspring of a human father and pachydermous mother, vaguely. In the nightmare of some opium-bemused, drunken artist.
“Makes you want to jump in his lap and snuggle up, don’t he?”
The kid squeaked and backed toward the front door, bent over so he sort of probed his way with his behind.
“And you would be?” I asked, more interested than I could explain just by my finding a stranger marooned in my hallway.
The kitchen door squeaked. “Mr. Garrett. You’re up early.”
“Yeah. It ain’t even the crack of noon. Clue me in, here.”
The party exiting the kitchen was Dean, my live-in cook and housekeeper. He’s old enough to be my grandfather but acts like my mom. His turning up explained the kid. He was lugging something wrapped in dirty old paper.
Dean collects strays, be they kittens or kids.
“What?”
“You’re up to something. Else you wouldn’t call me Mr. Garrett.”
Dean’s wrinkles pruned into a sour face. “The sun always sets when there is fear of saber-tooth tigers.”
That means you see what you’re afraid to see. My mother said it a lot, in her time.
“This house is safe from tigers.” I stared at the boy, intrigued. He had a million freckles. His eyes sparkled with challenge and curiosity and fright. “Who’s this? How come he’s poking around my house?” I kept on staring. There was something appealing about that kid.
What the hell was wrong with me?
I expected psychic mirth from my deceased associate. I got nothing.
Old Bones was sound asleep.
There’s good and bad in everything.
I focused on Dean. I had a scowl on. A ferocious one, not my “just for business” scowl. “I’m not whistling now, Dean. Talk to me.” Grease stained the packet the old boy carried. Once again, at second hand, I would be feeding a stray.
“Uh… this is Penny Dreadful. He runs messages for people.”
Dreadful? What kind of name was that? “There’s a message for me, then?” I gave the urchin the benefit of my best scowl. He wasn’t impressed. Likely nothing troubled him as long as he stayed out of grabbing range.
I saw nothing suggesting aristocratic antecedents, though Dreadful is the sort of name favored by the sorcerers and spook chasers on the Hill, our not so subtle secret masters.
“Yes. There is. In the kitchen,” Dean blurted. He pushed past. “I’ll get it in a minute. Here, Penny. Mr. Garrett will let you out. Won’t you, Mr. Garrett?”
“Sure, I will. I’m one of the good guys, aren’t I?” I stood against the wall as Dean pushed past again, headed the other way.