Irregular Verbs (8 page)

A shock awoke him, a painful tingling that felt as though he were grabbing the prongs of a power plug. When he opened his eyes he saw a wight nose-to-nose with him: it touched him and he felt another jolt, forcing him to scramble away from it and rise to a crouch.

“Heel,” Mr. Jacoby said from above him, giving the creature’s chain a yank. It stretched towards Calx and then receded, coming to rest at the rabbit’s side. “Did you think you could get away from us, boy?”

Calx shook his head silently. He was not sure how long he had been sleeping, but he did not feel any better rested.

“Come up here. Let’s see if you at least found something.”

He climbed up the muddy bank, keeping his distance from the wight. His arm was very heavy as he lifted the knife up to show it to Mr. Jacoby.

“What, did you get that down in the bog? Doesn’t look like much.” He reached out his paw. “We’ll see what the wight thinks. Here, give it—”

Then Mr. Jacoby was lying on the ground, a bright red slash where his throat had been. The wight was screaming: as soon as the rabbit’s paw released the silver leash it took off, flowing across the bogs like water, like a shadow.

Calx looked down at the knife. He did not entirely remember killing Mr. Jacoby, but he didn’t not remember it: anyway there was his blood on the blade. He reached up with his left hand to feel his scars, which were burning on his cheek.

He thought for a bit about what had happened. He could not escape the fact that he still had to go back to the House: as much as he hated it, it was the only place he knew. Besides, he thought, he could not abandon the other boys. Now that he had something that frightened even the wights he could get them out of there: between the scraps that each of them had overheard there must be some way to take them safely away from the fighting, or even home.

Crouching, he wiped first one side of the knife and then the other against Mr. Jacoby’s dirty white fur, until there was no more blood and the blade shone. Then he straightened up and started back towards the House. It was still light, more or less, when he got there, so he climbed up into a barren tree and half-dozed until all the lights were out. He had snuck outside enough times, either to get away from a fight that was heating up or just to pee, that he knew which door opened silently: inside was dark as could be, but his feet knew the way to the dormitory. He found Rufus by the sound of his snoring and gently shook him awake.

“’S still dark,” Rufus said.

“Shh,” Calx said. “It’s me.”

There was a brief silence. “Calx?” Rufus asked. “Gone a long time. Jacoby just done beatin’ on you?”

“Mr. Jacoby’s dead.”

A longer silence. “Wha’d you mean, dead?”

“I killed him. With—” Calx took a breath. “It was easy.”

“What sort of bloody nonsense are you talking?” Rufus said. “D’you know how much trouble we’re going to be in? When Mrs. Marmalade finds out—”

“I’ll kill her, too, if I have to,” Calx said.

“You’re mad.” For a moment the only sound was Rufus’s breathing, fast and ragged. “Do you really think that’s all there is to the House, those two animals? The higher-ups will find out soon enough. You don’t know, I’ve seen them come through here. I know what they’re like.”

“You don’t understand,” Calx said. “We can be free. We can all be free.”

“You,” Rufus said wearily, “are mad.” Calx could hear him rising to his feet. “I’m going to go tell Mrs. Marmalade what’s happened, before we all get—”

There was no sound at all for a long time, until finally Calx reached his left hand out in front of him. He could feel Rufus’s arm: it was still warm, but it was not moving. He ran his fingers over Rufus’ form until they touched blood, hot and sticky, and he knew he could not free the boys, could not live amongst them anymore. He could not go home. He stood up and went back out into the hall, where a dim light beckoned him to the mess room. The last embers of the fire still glowed, giving off just enough light to see by. He sat at the foot of the hearth and held the knife in front of his face, tilting it up and down to see himself fully. At last he recognized his reflection: it was what he had seen, sometimes, in the shields he had polished.

Peter stepped out the door, closing it as slowly as possible. He held his breath as the lock clicked, but after a few moments had passed he decided no-one had heard it. It was a clear October night, the stars bright above and the air just starting to get cold: he felt a little overdressed in his quilted jacket and the hiking boots he had gotten for his birthday. He wondered, too, about the bag he had packed. The Elf with the Bells on His Shoes had not said anything about needing supplies, but then he supposed you could always use a flashlight and some peanut butter sandwiches.

The treehouse loomed above him, looking much taller than it did in the day. He threw his backpack over his shoulder and climbed up, his heart racing. He couldn’t believe he was about to meet his long-lost twin brother—but hadn’t he always known, in his heart, that it was true—that there was someone more like him than Tyler, with his smelly shoes and his messy room and his incomprehensible baseball statistics? And, of course, to learn that he and his twin were wizards—but that their powers only worked when they were together—it all made perfect sense—

He slowed his climb as a rank smell reached him. He swallowed and pulled his head up into the treehouse. In the moonlight he could see that the Elf with the Bells on His Shoes was there—but he had been cut nearly in half, his chest and belly opened like a zipper. He was hanging from one of the thick branches that supported the treehouse.

Before he could stop himself Peter threw up, half-digested remnants of his dinner falling on the treehouse floor. When he looked up he saw something that looked like a scarecrow stepping out of the shadows. Its tattered shirt hung on its shoulders as though they were a wire hanger; its face was white, and its hair was caked into spikes with mud and blood. The knife in the scarecrow’s hand gleamed in the moonlight, and Peter pressed his thighs together to keep from peeing himself.

“Why did you do that?” Peter asked. “He said I was—he was going to take me away from here.”

The scarecrow stood still for a long moment, looking at Peter as though it knew him. “I did you a favour,” it said, and then it was gone.

The client looked like all the rest, dressed for travel in cargo pants and a crumpled shirt, hauling his suitcase like a ball and chain. He was wearing the confused, overwhelmed look most of them have: dragging his steps, peering into each of the shop windows as though part of him knew that he wasn’t headed anywhere good.

“Hey, pal,” I said. He glanced around, then over in my direction with a who-me look on his face. “Yeah, you. Looking for something?”

He frowned. “Um, I—they say I’m—”

“Dead. Yeah. Get used to it. Know what’s coming next?”

He shook his head. “No, they—they just said, go on to Departures.”

I jerked my head at the chair in front of my desk, and after a moment’s hesitation he sat down. I could see the relief on his face as he let go of his suitcase. “Pretty heavy, huh,” I said.

He nodded. “Yeah. You know, I don’t remember packing it. Do you think they’ll let me take it with me?”

“Don’t worry, you packed it.” I held out my hand. “I’m Beau Sutton—call me Buddy. Please.”

“Adams. Roger Adams.”

“Coffee, Roger?”

He glanced over at the Starbucks, reached into his right pocket and drew out a pair of copper coins. “I don’t think I have enough money.”

“My treat.” I unscrewed my thermos, poured us each a cup, then drew my flask out of my pocket, waved it at him. He nodded, so I unscrewed it and poured a nip into each of our cups.

“Thanks.” Roger blew on his coffee, took a sip. “So, uh—what do you sell, here, exactly?”

“I don’t sell. I’m a detective.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Really? What kinds of crimes do you handle?”

“Murders, mostly.” I took a long sip of coffee, hot and strong. “Yours, for instance.”

Okay, I admit it: I time that to hit right when they have a mouthful of coffee. “What? No, no—I wasn’t murdered. I died from—I don’t know what from, but I wasn’t murdered. I died in the hospital.”

“All deaths are murders, Roger. The question is who pulled the trigger and how.”

“But how can that matter now? I mean, I’m dead, aren’t I?”

“Do you know what happens after you leave here, Roger?” He shook his head. “You go on to the airport, and they put that briefcase on a scale. If there’s too much in it—I mean, if it’s heavier than a feather—then you get right on another flight and start all over again. Maybe as a tree, maybe a pigeon, but probably just another dumb guy, making all the same dumb mistakes.”

“And if it’s light enough? What then?”

I shrugged. “Then you find out what.”

“So—” He shook his head. “Why are you still here, if you know all this? You an angel or something?”

I cocked an eyebrow, took off my fedora to reveal my halo-free head. “I emptied out my suitcase a long time ago, but I decided to stay here for a while, help guys like you.”

“I already said, I can’t pay much.”

“Don’t worry about it. What you have is enough.”

“So how do I make my suitcase lighter?”

“Like I said, I solve your murder. That’s what you’re hauling around in there: your fears, your desires—all the things in your life you can’t let go of. I find the one that had such a hold you let it kill you, and then you’ll be able to leave them behind.”

Roger took a long breath, released it. “I guess. Sure—I mean, it sounds better than starting all over again.” He reached down for his suitcase, hauled it up and held it out to me.

Taking the case, I popped it open. Inside were a set of jars—not jam jars but clay tubes, each topped by a lid carved into a little statue. “Once I start, I won’t be back till I’m done,” I said. “I may be a little while, but don’t worry—I haven’t failed a client yet.”

He nodded. “Thank you,” he said. “So what do you do first?”

I uncorked the first jar. “Round up the usual suspects.”

The Jackal’s place stank of beer and stale smoke. Once-opulent oak and leather booths sat under a layer of grime, their original colour barely recognizable; on the wall a sign reading
PLEASE NO PIPES OR CIGARS
had been angrily defaced. From outside tiny shafts of sunlight crept in tentatively through windows that had once been stained glass but were now just stained.

I went up to the bar, elbowing aside a guy who was wide enough to need two stools. The barman was pulling a pint. I watched him pour it, working the tap with forearms like Popeye’s. I slipped one of the coins Roger had given me out of my pocket and put it down on the bar, to catch his eye when he turned my way.

“What’s your poison?” he asked, putting the mug of dark amber beer in front of the man I had pushed aside. The barman was a heavy guy, too, all soft except for those pistons he used to pull the pints with. His head was mostly bald, and it just sloped outward from the dome top to his jowls and then his shoulders, not bothering with a neck. He wore an apron that bore the stains of a thousand different meals.

I picked the coin up again before he could grab it, turned it so it caught the light. “The Jackal around?” I asked.

The barman’s pig eyes narrowed. “Maybe,” he said.

“Could you find out?”

He reached out for the coin in my hand, took it like a frog snatching a fly. “Yeah, he’s here,” he said. He jerked his head at the kitchen door, moved aside so I could get to it. “Go on in.”

I worked my way around the bar, squeezed into the barman’s side past a man who was attacking a plate of steak and eggs like it was Juno Beach. The kitchen doors swung aside as I pushed through them, letting me into a crowded room where steam and smoke were fighting for supremacy. A pair of short-order guys worked the grill, each skinny as a rail. Neither one looked at me or at each other, but kept their eyes fixed on the job in front of them. They didn’t say anything either, except to swear now and then under their breath when a grease fire flared up.

“You got a reason for being here?” a raspy voice asked me. Peering past the smoke I saw the Jackal sitting at the waiter’s table. He had a high forehead and sunken cheeks, eyebrows that climbed right up his head. A plate sat in front of him, crammed with just about everything that might go on a grill or in a fryer, and handy by his elbow was a double-pint glass of beer. He had tucked a little white napkin into his collar so that it looked like an ascot.

I held up my wallet, flipped it open and then quickly closed it again. “Health inspector,” I said.

The Jackal gave a barking laugh. “You think you’re the first guy to try that?” he said. “I pay good money so I never have to see a health inspector, so whoever you are, you ain’t him.”

“You got me,” I said. I put my wallet away. “I’m here about a guy.”

“Unless his name’s Fish or Chips, you’re in the wrong place.”

I shook my head. “Roger Adams,” I said, watching his eyes. “That mean anything to you?”

“What about him?” the Jackal asked.

“He’s dead, for starters.”

“Huh.” The Jackal’s knife and fork were still in his hands, the blade of the knife slipping rhythmically in and out of the tines of the fork. “Why are you telling me?”

I shrugged. “Word is he used to spend a lot of time here,” I said. “As who wouldn’t, a quality place like this?”

“Hey,” he said, pointing his knife at me, “maybe this isn’t one of those joints where you get a half-dozen peas on a silver plate, but people who come here, they go away happy. Satisfied.” To make his point, he speared a slice of fried ham with his fork and stuffed it into his mouth, working his sharp jaw up and down. It went down like you had dropped it in a bottomless pit: for everything he ate the Jackal was nothing but skin, bone and gristle.

“Maybe you don’t ever see a health inspector, but how would it go down if those guys out front heard somebody had died from eating here?” I asked. “You understand, I don’t care if it was you who killed him or somebody else. But I have to find out.”

“You think you can scare me?” the Jackal said. Flecks of half-chewed ham sprayed onto his shirtfront. “Half the guys out there know they’re gonna die with a fork in their hand.” He swallowed. “I think I’ve had enough of this conversation.”

The mixed smell of grease and sweat was starting to get overpowering. I took a step closer, pulled his plate across the table before he could stop me. “I don’t want to make this a quarrel,” I said.

He dropped his fork on the table, reached spastically towards the plate. “Hey,” he said, “a man’s gotta eat.” He looked over at the short-order guys: each one had his back to us, focused on the grill in front of him.

“Roger Adams,” I said. “Seen him lately?”

The Jackal started to stand up and move towards me, but I took a sidestep away, keeping the table between me and him. He reached out at me again, trying to stretch his arm longer, then finally sat down. “He used to come in all the time,” he said, “but I haven’t seen him in ages.”

I looked him in the eyes, nodded. “So where’s he been?” I asked, holding the plate just out of his reach.

“Falcone’s,” he said, his eyes fixed on the plate. “You know, the strip club on third? I heard he’s there almost every night. Was, I mean.”

I held the plate a few seconds longer, just until I started to enjoy it. Then I handed it back to him, turned away before I could see him start to gorge himself. Suddenly I wanted to get out of that place and breathe some fresh air, or at least what passes for it around here. I pushed back out the kitchen doors and past the barman, keeping my mouth shut as I squeezed by all the customers perched over their groaning plates.

Finally I was outside again. I risked opening my mouth, took a cautious breath in and waited to see if anything came out. My throat caught for a second, and I closed my eyes. There was a noise behind me, but before I could do anything I felt a crack on my skull and after that the lights stayed out for a while.

When I woke up I was in Heaven. Well, maybe not your Heaven but mine: my head was in the lap of a soft, young brunette, her teardrop-shaped face hovering over me. Her hair was pulled back and she wore a pair of glasses with tortoiseshell rims, which she was holding onto with her right hand to keep them from falling.

“Are you all right?” she asked, her voice quiet.

“How long was I out?”

She shook her head, leaving a blurry trail that told me I wasn’t quite back in condition. “I don’t know how long you were unconscious before I found you,” she said. “It’s been about ten minutes since I brought you back here.”

Reluctant as I was to leave the nest I had found I drew myself up onto my elbows. She had laid me on a long couch, cracked brown leather patched with electrical tape. All around were shelves full of books, paper and hardcover mixed pell-mell. “Where’s here, exactly?”

“This is my shop, Foy’s Books. I’m Zoe Foy.”

I sat up, groaning as my head protested the move, and extended my hand. “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Foy,” I said. “Buddy Sutton. You spend a lot of time dragging drunks out of alleys?”

“But you’re not a drunk,” she said quickly. After a second she took my hand and squeezed it. Her hand was warm. It felt nice. “I mean, you do smell a little like one—but I know the look of the guys that spend all their time at the Jackal’s. I see enough of them, it’s right across the street.”

“So you’re just a good Samaritan.”

Her mouth went tight. “I just—I thought—”

“It’s okay,” I said, patting her on the arm. It felt nice too. “You just get suspicious, in my business, especially after a knock on the head. I shouldn’t snipe at you for doing a good deed.”

“I understand,” she said. She was smiling now, her face sunny again. “So what business is that, exactly?”

“Well—”

A jingle came from the other side of the shelves. “Oh, that’s the door,” she said, standing up. Standing had a good effect on her, especially from my perspective. She held up a finger. “You hang on. I’ll be right back.”

I watched her go around the bookshelf, counted ten and then stood up. As quietly as I could, I moved to the nearest shelf and peered through it. The room was a big one, and probably had first been a warehouse: only the shelves divided it into corridors. They were all used books and shelved without rhyme or reason, mouldy encyclopedias next to last year’s bestsellers. I was just about to sit down again when I heard a scream.

A few quick steps took me to the other side of the bookshelf and down the hall towards the door. Zoe was in front of it, frozen. Past her, standing in the doorway, was someone in a long dark overcoat. Before I could get a look at his face I caught sight of a gun barrel rising up to level with Zoe’s heart. There were still at least ten steps between me and her.

Instead of running, I threw my shoulder into the bookshelf nearest me and heaved with all my might. The shelf creaked for an endless second and then fell my way, throwing hundreds of books into the air. A shot broke the air and Zoe screamed again as I fought my way through the paperback rain. She was crouched on the floor now, her arms thrown over her face to protect her, and the man in the dark coat was gone.

“Do you know what that was about?” I asked, helping her up. A book on the shelf above her had been blown to bits, a copy of Gray’s Anatomy shot through the heart.

She shook her head. She was crying, breathing in gasps. “I can’t imagine what,” she said. “I’ve never seen that man before in my life.”

“It was a man? What did he look like?”

“I didn’t get a good look,” she said, turning away. “He had a hat on, the light was behind him—he was clean-shaven, about your height. That’s all I know.”

I reached up to stroke the stubble on my cheek. Clean-shaven, about my height—that narrowed it down to about a million guys, just in Bardo City. “All right,” I said. “I guess this was about me. Somebody probably saw you pulling me in here.”

“What should we do?”

“You stay here and close up,” I said. “I’m going to go register my displeasure.”

She grabbed my arm with both hands. “I can’t stay here,” she said. “Not now.”

I looked back into the store, then at her. “Do you have a car?” I asked. She nodded. “Okay, then. You’re going to stay in it.”