Benighted (27 page)

I look at him. The scar on his face is pale and thick. The dark-haired woman beside him is holding her knees, tense, and there’s a scar on her hand. Lycos don’t have scars like that, not many of them. Groups of lycos don’t all have scars, it’s us who all have cuts and slashes, because we’re the ones who have to deal with lunes. The scar on Albin’s face is very much like mine.

A light flares behind my eyes, then another.

“Mr. Albin, were you involved in this incident?”

Albin shrugs. “Yes.”

“Lewis—” The woman beside him speaks, quick and low.

“It’s all right, Carla, there’s not a lot we can do about it if there’s a witness. Nothing very terrible is going to happen.”

“So you were involved in this, too?” I say to Carla.

She looks down.

“May I ask your name?”

“Carla Stein.” It’s muttered, nervous.

“I’m going to have to ask you all to come with me,” I say. I should feel powerful, or angry. I don’t. Carla’s anxiety, Sarah’s silence, they’re getting to me: I’m the one causing this unease, and somehow I’m sharing in it.

“Why?” Albin says. He doesn’t move from the sofa.

I put my hands in my pockets. “Your friend Dick Ellaway, my client, was found illegally out on a moon night. A bad lune, Mr. Albin. He took the hand off the man who tried to catch him. And the next morning, he made a call from the shelter, to this address. And we already know he’s been calling you, you told me so yourself.

“Now let me explain a scenario to you. Half a dozen people decide they don’t want to spend the moon night indoors. There’s a garden out back of this house, with a good wall, and that’s where they go. They think it’ll be safe, because the wall is solid and can’t be broken through, but what they haven’t realized is that it’ll be quite easy to jump over it. Once the moon has risen, you can make leaps you wouldn’t believe. And someone in the group sets out to do just that.

“I believe you tried to stop him, Mr. Albin. The witness at the shelter said he had scars on his back, and then there’s that mark on your face. All of that goes with one luning man trying to stop another from doing what he wanted to do. I don’t think you like him that much, or at least, not anymore. Certainly you didn’t know him as well as you thought you did. You wouldn’t see it, I suppose, but there’s nothing that stops a bad lune, nothing at all, trust me.

“And he got out, and then a catcher tried to stop him. Well, you know how that turned out.

“And then there’s the little story he told me about his car breaking down. It didn’t break down: it was broken. I’d thought he damaged it himself before the moon night began, but I was wrong. Wasn’t I? You see, I thought he was acting alone. There was no way he could have gotten back to his car in time to tamper with the engine the next morning. But if he called this house, let everyone know what had happened to him, it would be the easiest thing in the world for one of you to slip out and do a little tampering for him. Just to make sure nothing bad would happen to him after he mauled someone.

“Your wall is higher than it needs to be, which makes me think you’ve done this before, maybe even make a habit of it. I think the likeliest situation is that you and your friends do this often, and because all of you are used to keeping within the garden, it didn’t occur to you that someone would try to break out. I think that Dick Ellaway was a new introduction to the group, someone you met through business and found you had some ideas in common with. He’s successful, he’s a professional man, he doesn’t look like a killer, not in the daylight. It didn’t occur to you he might not be willing to stay inside your little garden. But it should have. You must have known it was possible. And you must have known that anyone who got out would be capable of doing things that would destroy people. The man your friend ran into had a wife and three children, Mr. Albin. Do you know how much you bleed when someone tears off your hand?”

Ally and I arrest the three of them, take them out to the van. It’s not designed for daytime arrests, and Carla looks close to tears when we lock her into the lune cage, flinching as the door clangs shut, but we have to make the best of what equipment we have.

Criminal negligence, violating curfew, and conspiracy to pervert the course of justice. We drive them back, lock them in the cells. Albin asks to make a phone call, and I shut the door on him without a word.

TWENTY-FOUR

“Y
ou can’t do this,” Ellaway says.

“Watch me.” Ally pushes him so he falls facedown on the desk. There are things on the tabletop, pens and a calculator, and he makes a sound of pain as he lands. Ally’s hand presses hard against the back of his neck as I fix the cuffs around his wrists.

“What are you doing?” It’s a young woman who speaks, one of the crowd around the door; short, Asian, and stocky, she’s wearing a green suit. She looks very smart. I flash my DORLA card at her, and she takes a step back.

“Call security,” Ellaway says into the desk.

“Mr. Ellaway, you’re under arrest. Security aren’t going to stop us,” I tell him.

“You can’t arrest me, you’ve already charged me, God damn it!”

“Yes,” I say, “but we’ve got some other charges to add to the list.”

Ally jerks him to his feet and pushes him toward the door. Ellaway’s colleagues look at each other, but when we hustle him through, the crowd parts. Later on they’ll tell each other how shocked they were, and that’ll be their contribution. That’s all the help Ellaway’s getting from them.

“Conspiracy to pervert the course of justice, mainly,” I add, just for the record. “We’ve had to reassess you.”

Ellaway makes a lunge at me, but Ally has hold of him, and Ally has been wrestling lunes since he was eighteen. It isn’t even a contest.

“Don’t bother,” I say. Pausing in the doorway, I turn to the woman in the stylish green suit. “You might want to explain to his boss where he’s been taken. He’s been charged with attempted murder already, as you may know.” I don’t raise my voice over the sound of Ellaway’s struggles. It’s easier to ruin a man than I thought. “Some further charges have come up, so we’re having to rearrest him.”

“Call my fucking lawyer,” Ellaway says.

“I wouldn’t bother,” I say without looking at him. “Albin’s already confessed.”

“His name is Adnan Franklin, he works at Franklin and Wilson in south Kings…”

This is his survival instinct, I suppose, the list of people to call in for his protection. Franklin isn’t going to like this, and I’ll have to go ten rounds with him, but in the end, what can he do to me? I have the weight of DORLA behind me. He can damage my reputation among his wealthy clients but I live off pro bono anyway; he can threaten to sue me but he’d have to take on the whole department, and unless he sends in the army he isn’t getting Ellaway away from us. There’s not much he can take away from me. Unlike Ellaway. Ellaway has a lot to lose. And there’s nothing in the world that’ll make me let him go this time.

Several people in the entrance foyer turn to stare as Ally and I drag Ellaway through, but we don’t pause to explain. He doesn’t stop struggling until we get him all the way down to the cells. He’s way past escaping now, and he must know that. He still yanks against Ally’s grip, making it difficult, showing us he’s not subdued. As we get down to the cells, their bleak fluorescent light and bare brick walls and barred cages, he spits at my feet.

I hit him, once. He staggers back, and Ally loosens his hold enough that Ellaway knocks his head against the wall before regaining his feet.

“Don’t do that again,” I say. It’s a cold and facile victory, I know, but I don’t care enough to stop myself.

“Where do you want him?” Ally says.

I shrug. “Put him with the others.”

“What others?” Ellaway’s voice is jolted as Ally lays hold of him again.

“You giving them the chance to sit together and make up a story?” Ally asks.

I shake my head. We can bug the cells, and there’s no need to say that in front of Ellaway. “Like I said,” I say for Ellaway’s benefit, “they’ve already confessed.”

“Confessed to what? What are you talking about?” We harry him down a flight of stairs. Ellaway tries to look down at them, and Ally grabs his hair, pulling his head up so there’s nothing guiding him down the steps but us.

“You’ll see,” I say.

The corridor we have the others on is narrow and windowless, with six cells in a row. Even with the lights on, it feels dark. Ellaway is marched down it, his head still held forward, and I see the prisoners stand up as we enter. There’s a bruise on Albin’s face, I see, and one hand is limp at his side; all of them hang back a little from the front of the cells.

“What’s going on? How come you’re arresting him again?” Carla’s voice rises high and scared.

“Hello, Dick,” Albin says over her, and she covers her mouth and turns away.

Ally releases Ellaway’s head. Ellaway looks over the three prisoners. “Oh, Christ,” he says.

“What did they arrest you for?” There’s no echo down here, the cramped walls deaden sound. Even so, Albin’s quiet voice carries.

“It’s all bullshit, they’ve already charged me…” Ally cuts Ellaway off in mid-sentence.

I unlock the gate to the nearest empty cell. “Conspiracy to pervert the course of justice,” I tell Albin. My voice is neutral. “Tampering with evidence is a bigger charge than violating curfew.”

“Can they do that?” Carla says.

“I wouldn’t waste your time wondering.” She flinches as I speak, and goes to the bars that separate Albin’s cell from hers.

He goes to meet her, reaches through and gives her a brief pat on the shoulder. “Can we have some blankets?” he asks me. “We’ve only got straw down here.”

I ignore him, open the door, and Ally pushes Ellaway through. He’s up to the front of the cell as I turn the key in the lock.

“I wouldn’t grip the bars if I were you,” Albin says, raising his hand. There’s a stark purple bar across the knuckles. “They have rules about it.”

“What the fuck?” says Ellaway.

“They’re charging us with violating curfew,” Albin tells him. His damaged hand brushes against the scar on his cheek. “The night you mauled an op. And with tampering with evidence to cover it up.”

“That’s enough,” I say. An op? Short for operative, I suppose, but it’s not a word I’ve heard before.

“I want to see my lawyer,” Ellaway says.

“I’m sure you do,” I say.

Turning my back, I open a panel on the wall that controls monitoring of the cells. While I’m punching in my identification number, my authorization level—I have the go-ahead from my superiors for any process I care to request—and my specification—that all activity in the cells is to be recorded—Ellaway says several more things about wanting his lawyer. Finally, Sarah, who’s been leaning against the wall shading her eyes, looks up at him. “Give it a rest,” she says.

“We have to get out of here.”

“You’re not helping.”

“You’re making my head hurt,” Carla says, not looking at anyone.

“Sarah’s right,” Albin puts in. “They’re not going to let us see any lawyers. I guess the answer to my request for a phone call is still no, Ms. Galley?”

I don’t reply. “Want to set up an interrogation?” Ally says. He’s taken the keys to the cells and is passing them from hand to hand.

“I’ll submit a report and we’ll go from there,” I tell him.

“Can we at least have a DORLA lawyer to advise us?” Albin says.

“Later.” I close the panel.

“We’ll be happy to confess.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Ellaway says.

I turn and look at them. If they confess, then Ellaway’s finished. He’s responsible for everything he did that night, because he was out illegally, and nothing Franklin can do will save him. The best he can hope for is a reduction from attempted murder to GBH. Ellaway’s looking at Albin, and Albin’s looking at me.

“Who picked Ellaway up from the shelter the morning after it happened?” I ask Albin.

He doesn’t hesitate. “I did.”

“Ally, is this the man you saw?”

Ally frowns. “No. I don’t think so. He was skinnier, darker hair.”

“You want to answer that question again?” I ask Albin.

“I told you. I did. My hair looks darker the first day after a moon night.” Albin keeps looking at me.

“And you’ve gained weight since it happened.” I say. “Okay. You think about answering that question, and I’ll think about getting you a lawyer.”

“I’m telling you the truth.”

“There are four of you in here,” I say. “I saw at least five, maybe more, that night in your garden. You think about what you want to tell us, and I’ll think about you.”

“Ms. Galley!” Albin says, but I’m already walking away.

I don’t have to buy my own coffee for the next few days. Word has gone around, and I’m known as the woman who brought in the people who mauled Johnny, tracked down some regular, organized prowlers. People stop me in the corridors to ask details and congratulate me.

No one I speak to has run into something quite like this before. People sometimes lock up together—lovers or families with small children share the same room; if someone visits a close friend on a moon night they might share the same lock-up for convenience, same as they might share a double bed—but outdoors, breaking curfew in a pack, that’s news. None of us like the idea. Free-ranging, people are starting to call it, a name picked up from listening in on their conversations in the cells: Albin said something to the effect that we couldn’t hold them forever, because a little free-ranging was not a major offense. It’s the closest he’s come to saying anything incriminating. When Ellaway starts to shout, they silence him. Mostly, the two women wonder how long we can keep them and what we’re going to do, and Albin tries to reassure them. Otherwise, they talk about books and music, Sarah’s latest production, some antiques that Albin has been trading. It’s an education to listen to them, but it doesn’t give me many clues.

After several days of art and culture, I give up listening to the bugs, and look into their records.

These are professional people. None of them have money on the scale that Ellaway does, but they’re all successful, well thought of, and well off. Albin has a degree in art history and another one in architecture; he’s connected with several museums in a freelance capacity; he’s written two books, one scholarly and one popular. I find a copy of the popular one at the local library, a lively how-to-value-your-own-heirlooms guidebook with colorful pictures. The library sticks a piece of headed paper into the front of each book to stamp the date of each withdrawal; in the front of Albin’s book, there are four, perhaps five of these papers stuck on top of each other. Plenty of people have been reading it. His scholarly book is called
No Other Gods,
and it’s on the influence of totemic art on colonial and post-colonial imagery, God help me. A quick scan of other books on the subject shows
No Other Gods
crops up in quite a few of his colleagues’ bibliographies. I try to read it, but I never went to college and haven’t the patience to keep up with his academic style. Neither DORLA nor the police has ever arrested him for anything.

“We’ve got to wait this out,” he told the others in the cells. “They won’t leave us down here forever.”

“That’s what you think,” Ellaway muttered. None of them could see the cameras.

“And for God’s sake, Dick, keep your head and don’t make things worse.”

“You think they can be worse?”

“Yes, I do. So don’t antagonize them.”

“You didn’t antagonize them,” Sarah said. “Look what they did to you.”

“I’ll be fine, won’t I, Carla?”

“Well, they didn’t break any bones,” Carla said. She got quieter and quieter each hour we kept her down there. “The swelling will go down if you don’t move it.”

“All we can do is wait,” he said. “In the end, they’ll get to us.”

Nobody sounded comforted by this, but they didn’t contradict him.

Sarah Sanderson, now, she
has
been arrested. The night Hugo told me about, when she was eighteen and the city overran with lunes, doesn’t have many official records. I go down into the basement and look at the arrest files. It’s cheerless work. Every shelter lists its inhabitants, plus write-ups, notes, details. For that night, the records are scribbled and sparse.

Satchiko Immamura, age 28. Notes: brought in tranked at 8:45.

Joseph Nolan, age 65. Notes: brought in 8:45.

Sarah Sanderson, age 18. Notes: 8:45.

Dharminder Kang, age 37. Notes: 8:45.

Alice Goldberg, age 30. Notes: 8:45.

Antoinne Washington, age 37. Notes: 8:45.

It goes on for pages. It’s hard to imagine so many bodies crammed into so few cells. There’s nothing in the records to show how eighteen-year-old Sarah handled being crowded into a cage with strangers and left with them all night. It doesn’t even show if she was tranquilized or not, and no one’s going to remember.

There isn’t much else I can find about Sarah, except that she works on innovative shows that either meet with spectacular success or absolute failure, that she’s a founder member of a theater group I haven’t heard of, and that her name gets written on the programs in medium-sized print.

“They could keep us here forever, you know,” she said on the morning of the second day.

“They won’t,” Albin said.

Sarah rubbed her hands in her lap and didn’t look at him. “Nobody knows where we are.”

“They’ll notice we’ve gone.”