Alien Blues (24 page)

“They'll come after you, Dennis.”

“No, listen. Why do you think I haven't talked before now? I'm not kidding about the Diamond. The Elaki have done it! I may not agree with their methods, but they've made incredible progress. They should announce a cure anytime. Think of that. A cure
not just
for drug addicts, but for addictive behavior, across the board. Societal cure.”

David sat back down. “Suppose, for reasons I won't go into, suppose I believe you're right. Why don't they announce now?”

“Look, this isn't what you may expect. We're not talking about a magic pill here. It's a whole concept of a balanced mental state and a balanced life. They have to go through the proper channels, have to maintain credibility. That's why I haven't blown the lid on this. I could have gone to the press any day I wanted, torn the whole thing wide open. Can you imagine—Elaki using humans as lab subjects? They won't even let us have mice these days and hey”—he held up a hand—“I'm all for simulation models. But you tell John Q. Public they got people in cages and that's it. People will want to kick butt. Nobody will listen, and nobody will care.”

“We'll do what we can,” David said.

“Just think on it. Think what
your
job will be like—no addicts, no drugs.”

“First they take away traffic, then they cure the schizos, now you say the addicts will be gone.” Mel stood up and stretched. “What the fuck am I going to
do
all day?”

THIRTY-SIX

David sat beside Mel and tried to pretend that his co-workers weren't taking surreptitious looks at him. He could thank Rose for this.

Captain Halliday sat at the end of the table, his head back on the edge of the chair, fingers making a tent. His eyes were closed. String stood quietly in a corner. Someone had put a podium in front of him, so he could stack his notes.

Pete Ridel was handing everyone a piece of paper.

“This the stuff on Machete Man?” Mel asked.

“Naw, that's not up yet. This here's the list of what everyone's bringing to the department picnic. Labor Day, remember? Hey, everybody, captain's springing for the meat this year. Thanks, Roger.”

“Yeah, Roger.”

“Thanks, man.”

Captain Halliday waved a hand, his expression glum.

“Mel, you going to be able play in the game this year? Your leg okay?”

“Yeah, I'll just hobble from base to base. You'll have to make allowances.”

“We always do.”

“David, you bringing Rose and the girls? I swear, Rose pitches like a son of a bitch.”

“We're not pitching this year. Gonna use a tee so the kids can play.”

“Aw, shit, whose idea was this?”

“Yours. Last year, remember? So nobody has to sit on the sidelines and watch.”

“Bring the Elaki. He can be the tee.”

“Yeah, String—why don't you come?”

“Della's boys will knock us out of the ball field.”

“Just make sure the beer's
cold
this time. Man, this is going to be pitiful.”

“Dawn, you bringing that Mannelli guy this year? He's a hell of a hitter. What's he do, anyway?”

“He's a gangster.”

“So long as he don't pack a machete.”

The room grew silent. Halliday looked at his watch. “I have to be at a departmental meeting in twenty minutes.” He cleared his throat. “The results are back from the lab. The suspect apprehended by Rose Silver was our boy. Machete Man. What we don't understand is what motivated him to show up at David's place.”

It wasn't a question and David said nothing. Halliday had accepted his story quietly, with unusual seriousness. There was a wedge of discomfort between them.

Dawn Weiler cleared her throat. She sat between Pete Ridel and Della Martinas, and she looked through some notes.

“There's an old case file, some of you may have read it, on one Rory Hardin.”

David frowned. The name was vaguely familiar.

“Rory Hardin spent a little time in Austin, Texas, and parts of Mexico. Used a machete.”

“Same M.O.?” David asked.

“No. Just the machete. But there's another one, a Clifton Webber. Sexual sadist, very fond of a butcher knife. He took hands, feet, placed them over the victim's abdomen, et cetera, et cetera.”

“Jacked off,” Mel said.

“Yes, Mel. Jacked off, shot his wad, got his rocks off.”

Somebody laughed.

“Is this in the realm of normal sexual behavior?”

Dawn gritted her teeth.

“Not for people, String,” Mel said slowly. “I can't account for Elaki.”

Halliday's tone was cutting. “Both perps dead?”

“Executed,” Dawn said. “One by electrocution, that was Webber. Hardin's was lethal injection.”

Ridel grimaced. “DNA doesn't match, I reckon.”

“Information unavailable. But what it looks like, to me, is someone read up on these cases, maybe a few others, and came up with a deliberate M.O. that combined the habits of Webber and Hardin.” She looked at David. “That would keep us busy, looking for a sociopath. Everything would ring right for the shrinks. Everything except the selection of victims. But it kept us looking for random psychopaths—crazies work alone, so we're out hunting one little nut, not extortionists, or drug dealers going for enforcement.”

“Why?” Ridel said. “Dealers off people every day, think nothing of it. Why get so elaborate?”

David leaned forward. “Project Horizon had to be kept going—no interference. At least until they got the Diamond in production, and their people in place.”

“So now what?” Della said.

Halliday looked at Silver.

David sat back in his chair. “You've read the report. Maybe Project Horizon found a cure for addicts, maybe not. One thing we're sure of. They've started a distribution network for this new drug. Vice is only just starting to see it on the streets, but if it's as cheap and effective as they say it is, we may find ourselves back in the 1980s.”

“Where do we go from here?”

“According to Dennis Winston, the project is still ongoing, still researching. There's lots more work to do, duplicating results, so the research can be published through legitimate channels, with no taint of sloppiness or unprofessionalism. These things take time.”

“So they still need guinea pigs,” Mel said. “Little Saigo, then.”

“Right,” said David. “We go to Little Saigo, set up someone as bait. Follow through to the lab. That way we'll get our evidence, and things hold up in court.”

Pete looked at String. “Excuse me, Captain. But what's to stop this Elaki here from blowing it all to his friends at Horizon?”

“Project Horizon is in violation of Elaki law. As member of Izicho—”

“Pete.” David's voice was quiet, but everyone grew silent. “String is okay.”

“But what if they have the cure?” Della said. “We could blow that wide open.”

“We'll be careful. We'll be quiet. We'll be discreet.” David rubbed a hand across his jaw. “But we go after these dealers.
They're
endangering the project, if that makes your conscience easier. No telling what will happen when they get everything they want.”

Ridel looked up. “Vice in on this, Captain?”

Halliday looked at all of them. “No.”

No one said anything for a long moment.

“Who's the bait?” Dawn asked.

“Please explain term of bait.”

“The hook, the lure, the tease, the—”

“Ah,” String said. “Like the hormone.”

Mel frowned. “I don't think so.”

“I grew up there, Dawn, in Little Saigo,” David said. “I'm bait.”

THIRTY-SEVEN

It was good to know he could still have fun, good to know he could throw off Machete Man, and Little Saigo, and feel that lift of the heart that turned his mind to nothing more taxing than hitting a ball and running a base.

And somehow the hot smell of asphalt and dusty grass filled his mind with a vision, of himself as Elaki, standing in a mound of churned-up dirt, miles and miles of emptiness in every direction. A warm breeze blew around and through him, and the aloneness made him sad.

David shook his head.
Elaki memory
.

He felt the sun on his back, and wondered if his neck would burn. He wiped sweat from his eyes, adjusted the ball cap that shaded his head, scratched the new beard.

Rose stared at him from the pitcher's mound. The women were two runs ahead. David concentrated.

The ball sailed close to his shoulder. He swung and missed.

String stood behind him in full catcher's regalia. Mel had been teaching him a song while they were waiting around for the game to start. David could still hear the Elaki monotone.

“‘Take me out to the ball game …'”

Was String unusual or were all Elaki unable to carry a tune?

“‘Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jacks'… who, Detective Mel, is this Jack Cracker?”

Something about the song was sticking in David's mind. He shook his head, realizing that the Elaki had signaled Rose. She nodded, rubbed her right shoulder, and threw again.

The ball came fast, and David pulled back. He felt the crack of the bat as it connected and sent the ball between second and third. He ran to first, the loose red dirt of the playing field clouding his feet.

There were lots of kids in the outfield, including his daughters, and he had to restrain himself from running to second. Candy Ridel screamed for Lisa to get the ball that had rolled an inch from her foot. It was a different game this year, with the kids and an Elaki involved. David enjoyed their pleasure and the camaraderie they brought out, but another part of him wanted them safely tucked in the stands, so he could do some down and dirty playing.

Lisa picked up the ball and threw it to Rose. The ball fell short, but the aim was good. She had the moves, Lisa did, if she'd pay attention. He needed to get out with her, and pitch a ball around.

Mel was in the lineup behind him. He hit the ball between first and second, limping his way slowly to the base. Della was on second and, damn, Rose had the ball already. Della's mitt was out, waiting to catch it.

David ran hard, barely aware of the heat and humidity, his stomach tight. Della was straining backward, her tongue stuck out like it did when she was concentrating. He was going to have to slide.

He was down, now, skidding on his right thigh, dirt swirling, leg hurting, hip aching where he'd twisted sideways. The ball smacked into Della's glove as the tip of his shoe slammed into the white square base. He stayed where he was, heart slamming in his chest. He wiped the grime from his face with the bottom of his T-shirt.

Captain Halliday's arms swung out.

“Safe!” he yelled.

David grinned, felt grit between his teeth, and spit. He got up slowly, under Della's hot glare, knowing he was going to pay for the slide in the morning. Rose raised her arms to the heavens, then turned her hard cold gaze to the next hitter.

She didn't throw the ball right away. Something in the stands surprised her, and David knew from the lines of tension in her shoulders, and the sour set of her face, she'd caught sight of something she didn't like.

The next guy she struck out.

David wondered about it later, while they ate. The sun was going down, and it was cooler. His plate was piled with potato salad, baked beans, and three hot dogs running over with ketchup, mustard, onions, and sauerkraut. His stomach yearned toward the food, but he patiently cut up a hot dog for Mattie, and poured ketchup in a large red pool beside it. She swung her legs and ate an empty bun.

“Just a few beans,” he said.

She shook her head. He put them on her plate anyway, scoring points for parents. Rose had seen to Lisa and Kendra; it was legal to eat now.

No, not quite.

String stood near the grill, smoke from the charcoal blowing across his eye stalks. He held a plate in one fin, and a beer in the other. David waved at him.

“Come on over. Share the table.”

String came toward them.

“Rest your plate here,” Rose said, “and you can eat.”

“Not necessary.” Another section of fin extruded and picked up a bean.

“His hand split!” Mattie said.

“Useful,” David said.

“These are the baby humans of your pouch?” String asked.

“He's the father,” Rose said. “But they come from
my
pouch.”

“Most honored, the Mother-One.”

“Call me Rose.”

David took a bite of hot dog. The meat had been cooked just a shade too long and tasted slightly of charcoal, reminding him of other summers, ball games, and picnics. He watched Kendra hold a can of Coke with both hands—sipping, sipping, ignoring her food. He took a large swallow of cold beer, and realized he had nothing to eat his potato salad and beans with.

Rose absently handed him a fork. “See those two guys over there?” She nodded toward two men joylessly tossing a football back and forth. “CIA.”

“What?”

“Central Intelligence Agency,” String said.

“I
know
that, but what makes you think, Rose, that—”

“Central Intelligence Agency,” Mattie chanted. Kendra and Lisa picked it up. “Central Intelligence—”

“
Hush
,” David said. “Rose, are you sure?”

“Look at them. Tall, sunglasses, hair cut an inch away from their ears. The main thing is the skin. Pink and waxy and fresh-scrubbed. Got to be.”

“Maybe they're on a break or something. Taking the day off.”

“Nah.” Rose gave him a crooked half smile. “I'm under surveillance.”

That night he leaned against the kitchen counter and rubbed lotion into the sunburn on the back of his neck. He was dirty and tired, his muscles stiff, his breath rich with beer and onions.