Alien Rites (21 page)

He was a good hiker, a tireless hiker. He could tramp back and forth across his farm and think nothing of it. When he was well.

The rain had a smell to it, which for some reason made him think of the color grey. The raindrops kicked up little puffs of mud, and the earthy smell was strong, and not unpleasant.

David shivered, put his jacket back on, and zipped it up to the neck. He folded his arms. His teeth were chattering. His vision blurred and he rubbed his eyes, thinking how hot the skin of his palms felt on the clammy coolness of his forehead.

He took deep, steady breaths and began to feel a little bit better.

He liked it here, it was serene. He would like to be buried in a place like this.

David frowned. Something. Something was bothering him, something he ought to remember, but couldn't because he was so damn tired. He started shivering hard, and his muscles ached with the effort.

Someone was calling his name. He felt a hand on his shoulder.

“David?”

He tried to focus, rubbed his eyes. “Mel?”

“You okay?”

David licked his lips. “Yeah, sure.”

“You're soaked, my friend. We better get you in out of—”

“What'd they find?”

Mel grinned. Held up a teddy bear lovingly wrapped in cellophane. “Sifter Chuck wasn't jerking us off after all. Broke his little Elaki heart to see this little fella dug up so soon. Cute, ain't it?”

David heard the relief in Mel's voice. No bodies. Miriam might still be alive.

“They got that bear wrapped too tight,” David said. “Can't breath through plastic.”

“That makes a lot of sense. Come on, let's get you out of here.”

“Gotta rest a second.”

“Throw your arm over my shoulder, buddy, there you go. Car's pretty close, once we get out of Bernheim Forest here. No, no, this way. Should have left a trail of bread crumbs, David, so you could find your way back. You're lucky I come along.”

FORTY-TWO

David slept hard all the way to Mel's apartment, a deep, heavy slumber that was like being drugged. He could feel the armrest of the car digging into his ribs, but could not wake up enough to shift position.

It was an effort to stand and wait while Mel talked to his locks. The door opened finally, and David did a double take.

“Am I still dreaming, Mel, or is your apartment clean?”

Mel grinned. “Walk through.”

David looked at him over one shoulder, then went through. The neatness shimmered and was gone. An illusion. Here was the apartment David recognized—dirty laundry on the couch, vids stacked on every available surface, sticky kitchen floor. He knew that if he opened the refrigerator door, the kitchen would be flooded with bad smells.

“Home sweet home,” Mel said, telling the door to lock.

“What happened there?” David said.

“Neatness hologram. Miriam gave it to me. Cute, huh? Somebody comes to the door, it looks like you got a nice place.”

“Till you invite them in.”

“Yeah, well, you want to get picky …” Mel pointed a finger. “Go get a hot shower. I'll leave some dry clothes for you, give Rose a call and tell her you're sleeping here tonight.”

David headed into the bathroom. He was cold again. He turned the water on, undressed, and leaned against the wall of tiny dark blue tiles while hot water turned his skin pink and warmed him. When he was finished, he found that Mel had put a worn but clean pair of jeans on the toilet seat, along with an oversized white cotton shirt and a pair of white gym socks. The jeans were loose around the waist, and a little short in the leg. There was a small hole in the seat. But it felt good to be clean and in dry, comfortable clothes.

The hallway felt cool after the steamy heat of the bathroom. David rubbed his hair with what he hoped was a clean towel, felt the growth of beard on his face.

“You hungry?” Mel's voice floated in from the kitchen.

David yawned. His muscles felt loose, relaxed.

Mel stuck his head around the doorway. “Hey, I'm talking to you. Hungry?”

“Depends on what you got.”

“Want some chocolate?”

David went into the kitchen. His face was still a healthy pink from the hot shower. “Did you say chocolate?”

“Yeah, remember? We decided to drown our sorrows like women do.”

“
You
decided—”

“Go on, sit down inside. Just shove that laundry off the couch.”

“Is it clean?”

“The couch?”

“Never mind.”

“Oh, the laundry? Hell, I can't remember. Go on, I'll be right there.”

David put the laundry in a chair on top of a stack of newspapers. He ordered the television to channel surf and settled on the couch. Mel dropped a chocolate bar in his lap, then sat on the other end of the couch, facing the TV.

“Channel surfing is no fun without a remote,” David said.

Mel unwrapped his chocolate bar. “Come on, David, give this a chance.”

David felt queasy. He broke his candy into small squares and pretended to eat. He looked at Mel.

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“How's it working? How do you feel?”

“Full.”

They were quiet a while. Watched the weather on TV. It was hot and muggy in Kentucky, and the ragweed was bad.

“Maybe you have to eat more than one,” Mel said finally.

“You can have mine.”

“The hell. I got beer and Doritos in the kitchen.

Mel had offered the bed, but David opted for the couch. He had fallen right asleep. Less than an hour later he was suddenly wide awake, drenched in sweat, panicky and unsure of where he was. He walked around the dark apartment, ran a hand through his hair. Listened to Mel snoring in the next room.

Time was slipping by him, and he still didn't know where Miriam was, or if Cochran was dead or alive, and he was getting sicker by the hour.

He left Mel a note and summoned his car.

FORTY-THREE

Valentine sang in a club called the Dixie-Saigon—the kind of place you'd find nowhere else in the world but Cracker Village. There were very few cars out front, the locals didn't own cars. The place was packed to the legal limit and beyond, and this on a week night.

Years ago in the deep South they'd have called the Dixie-Saigon a juke joint. The tables were unmatched, the floor uneven linoleum, but almost every chair was taken. The walls had been painted, papered, and painted again, giving them a texture that almost seemed planned.

David smelled stale beer and garlic, not a bad combination. He was still wearing Mel's tattered blue jeans, like ill-fitting hand-me-downs, and he had a heavy growth of beard. His eyes had been bloodshot and dark with fatigue in the bathroom mirror at Mel's. He would blend in here.

It was hot inside the club. The windows that lined the top of the wall were all open, and the smell of ozone and hot, damp air poured in. A breeze started up, and David found an empty chair. He could only feel the small draft of air when he closed his eyes. It was faint enough that it might have been wishful thinking.

There was a stage at the end of the room—a small one, dark hardwood that had been polished so diligently it reflected the light. A skinny Asian man burst through the swinging doors that led into the kitchen, and took the steps up to the stage in one energetic leap. He wiped his hands on a dirty apron. Sweat dripped from his pockmarked forehead.

“It is my deep pleasure to introduce to you our very own, very talented, silver-tongued beauty … Miss
Valentine
.”

The applause was amazing, considering how drunk the patrons were. David was surprised they could find their hands, much less coordinate movements. People whistled, shouted happily. David watched the stage, wondering what kind of act Valentine had.

It was not what he expected.

She wore a simple black dress that reached her calves. It looked like silk and was slit up the right side. Her black spike heels made her look slim and sexy. Standing in front of an old-fashioned microphone in a round orb of spotlight, she began to sing.

Opera.

Little Cassidy had said her mother sang in Italian, but David hadn't made the connection. He listened, mouth open.

He had always assumed he hated opera, but he had never heard it sung like this. He was an instant convert.

The sound system was quite good—an astonishing feat in a place like this. Valentine's voice rose and fell with a clear, pristine purity. No one talked. No one even whispered. Everyone watched and listened, spellbound.

David wondered why she was singing in a place like the Dixie-Saigon. She could sing anywhere in the world with a voice like that. He looked at faces in the crowd, and knew that for whatever reason she chose to sing here, she was recognized as the miracle that she was.

David closed his eyes, let the room go away. He had another moment, pure happiness; he'd thought his illness would keep them from coming. He felt lucky to be here, to be listening, to have found a chair near the window where he could feel the breeze.

He opened his eyes so he could watch her. Her arms were raised, eyes closed. He could not tell where the black dress stopped and the shadows began. Her choice of clothing, lighting, were perfect. The voice was the focus, the voice was all.

When she stopped singing, the room stayed silent; then the applause began. Valentine turned and left the stage, as if she could not hear the accolades, or simply did not care.

David felt wrenched when she left, like a child whose pretty new toy has been taken away. He wanted her back, wanted her to sing, just for him. He just wanted her to sing.

He felt shy, suddenly, about approaching her. Could almost not believe he had sat with her in the rubble of Annie Trey's violated apartment, watching her smoke in the dark.

What was she doing in the dingy tenement? How did she create such a beautiful voice in a place like Cracker Village? And did he have the courage to ask her questions, now that he'd heard her sing?

The room closed in on him and he couldn't breathe. He stumbled to the door, generating stares. He made it out to the street, leaned up against the side of the building. The chipped brick felt rough and hot against his back, still warm with the accumulated heat of the day.

Listening to Valentine had loosened something inside him, something he'd just as soon not have touched.

He did not want to die. He did not want to be sick.

He looked up at the haze of yellow illumination spilling from the street light to the broken sidewalk. He hadn't done anything wrong. He had returned a child's teddy bear, and now he was sick. He could not sleep. If he did sleep, he woke up every hour, hot and cold and glistening with sweat. His throat hurt and his head ached, and it was all he could do to stay on his feet. He had no appetite. Food was the enemy people tried to force on him.

He wanted his life back the way it was before. He loved it all—his work, his ridiculous marriage, the little farmhouse that always needed work, the ragtag garden he neglected. His kids.

He had to be there to see them grow up. He had to.

He heard a soft footstep, the rattle of a pebble, a small sigh. He wondered if he was going to be murdered, or just robbed.

“Detective?”

He knew the voice instantly, of course. David turned around.

Valentine still wore the black dress, but the shoes dangled lazily from her fingers. She was barefoot, toenails painted blood-red. Her feet were surprisingly pretty—small, nicely shaped, high arches and tiny toes. She crooked her finger and David followed, going down a dirt pathway that was choked with weeds, trash, and broken glass.

He did not warn her to watch her step or put on her shoes—this was her territory; he was the stranger. And she seemed charmed, moving languidly, eyes half closed. She never made a misstep; her feet never touched the broken glass, the trash, the rough, sawtoothed grass.

She stopped at the end of a low, crumbling brick wall that ran parallel to the right side of the building. She scooted to the top of the wall and perched there, legs swinging. David sat beside her, taking care not to come too close. She was wearing perfume, David realized, something heavy, woody, exotic.

Valentine lifted the hair off the back of her neck and leaned into the muggy breeze.

“Did you come to hear me sing?”

“I can't think of a better reason.”

She tilted her head and considered him. They stared at each other for a long moment in the darkness. David heard a car go by on the street.

She turned away finally, pointing to a tiny dirty window that leaked harsh yellow light. “That's my dressing room, right off the kitchen. Barely room in there to turn around, and not as clean as I like.”

David cleared his throat. “I had a million questions to ask you, Valentine, but right now I can't think of a one.”

She laughed softly. Music started up inside the club. David heard the chink of glassware, the rise and fall of voices.

“Something you wanted to know about our midnight raid? About the
po
lice officers who weren't police officers, who couldn't see in the light, and were pathetic when the power went.”

“What do you mean, couldn't see?”

“Just one of them, big guy, kept telling the others to watch out for the toys, and then stepping on them himself. He was clumsy. Walked into the wall, bumped into one of the cabinets when the lights went out. I heard him swear.”

“Did he wear a hat?”

“
Yes
—how'd you know that? You know who it is, David Silver police detective sir?”

“I might.”

“A fellow brother police officer.”

“This was no legitimate operation, Valentine.”

“What's going on, Detective?”

“Why do I have the feeling you know more about it than I do?”

She scooted to the edge of the wall. “What would I know?”

“What do
you
think, Valentine? Do you think Luke Cochran is dead?”