Choke got behind me. He lifted my chin, showed me Teacher White slumped in a chair close by, still leaking a little red.
Welby Dell appeared with a bowl of water, some cloth pieces, and a dirty hunk of sponge. He went to work on Teacher’s face.
White mumbled something.
Dell relayed. “Where’s Chodo?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. At home, I reckon. He don’t get out much.” White mumbled. Dell asked, “Where’s Harvester Temisk?”
“He don’t keep me posted.” I tried to turn my head. I wanted a fix on the wide bodies. Choke wouldn’t let me. “Aren’t you a little low on the food chain for this kind of crap?”
Welby Dell grimaced. Exactly what he thought. All this was going to make life tough later. Teacher was betting their asses on one pass of the dice.
So Teacher hadn’t polled the troops before hiring outsiders and dumping everybody in the kettle. Nor had he leveled with them yet. They’d have a grand scramble, saving their butts.
Teacher mumbled, “I believe you, Garrett. I was pretty sure you wouldn’t know. But you’re a whiz at finding things. So you’re going to find Harvester and Chodo for me.”
I tried to work my muscles so they’d be loose when I jumped up out of the chair.
Teacher grumbled, “Where the fuck is Skelington? I got Original and Spider down … That asshole was supposed to be … he bail on me?” White’s eyes narrowed. He’d had a thought. That was so unusual that he took a while to get used to it before he asked, “You know where Skelington is, Garrett?”
I shook my head. That hurt. “Ask Director Relway.” Maybe I wouldn’t do much flying around. I had cracked ribs to go with my dented head.
Something was nuts. Teacher White wasn’t stupid enough to come at me like this. He had to have an angle.
“Fucking Skelington! Fucking moron Skelington! He chickened out! He bailed. We gotta get the fuck outta here. Goddamn Skelington.”
White’s intelligibility began to fade.
“Brett. Bart. About time, you assholes. You find Kolda? You get the stuff from him? Give it to Garrett. Now. We got to get the fuck out of here.”
A ham of a hand grabbed my hair and yanked. Another got hold of my chin and forced my mouth open. Another one packed my mouth with shredded weed that had enjoyed a generation as skunk bedding before it got into the herbal-supplement racket. Yet another hand turned up with a lumpy old unfired mug full of water, most of which ended up on my outside.
The several hands forced my mouth shut, then covered my nose so I couldn’t breathe. The ancient trick for making a critter take its medicine.
“Swallow, Garrett,” Teacher told me.
I fought, but there was no winning. The lump went down like a clump of raw chaw, blazing all the way. Teacher told me, “You’ll nap for a while, Garrett. You just swallowed a drug that will see to that while Kolda’s weeds have time to work.” Teacher strained to hold it together long enough to give me all the bad news. “When you wake up you’ll notice that it’s getting hard to breathe. After a while, if you don’t think about it, you’ll stop. If you stop, you’ll die.”
I felt something spreading from my belly already. It wasn’t the happy warmth of a Weider Select lager. “Here’s the deal. You stay awake and pay attention, you’ll be all right. You fall asleep, you’ll die. You can’t remember to breathe if you’re asleep. Bring me Chodo or Harvester before you croak — I’ll give you the antidote. You know my word is solid.”
That was Teacher’s reputation. Though it did rest exclusively on the testimony of people who were still alive. Those he’d done real dirt to weren’t around to bear witness.
“Nighty-night, Garrett. Don’t waste no fucking time when you wake back up.” White snarled, “The rest of you get this mess cleaned up. We got to get away from here.”
The man was an idiot. He’d jumped on what looked like a good idea without thinking it through. His biggest failing was right on the tip of my tongue when the sleepy drug dragged me off into the dark.
The question was, how did I find him when I was ready to hand Chodo over? Assuming I found Chodo. Overall, Teacher White qualified as a smart crook. The proof? He was still alive. He’d reached middle management. He’d stayed alive by being careful never to show any imagination.
His actions now constituted rock-hard evidence that he didn’t have what it took to be a schemer. He was going to get killed.
There was a damned good chance he’d take me with him.
34
Damn, my head hurt.
That wasn’t a hangover. This was real pain caused by real blows to the head. Accompanied by pains everywhere else.
I was in the same chair. I wasn’t tied down anymore. It was raining. Still. Moist air gusted in through a door that banged in the wind. It was the middle of the night. The rain was no heavier, but the wind was colder and more fierce. Occasional barks of thunder rattled the walls.
I got up. The change in elevation made my head swirl. My temples throbbed. My ribs screamed in protest. I might have made a sound or two myself.
There was no light. I wasted no time looking for a lamp. I headed for the doorway, landmarked by the lightning. I had to get out. I had to get moving. I couldn’t get caught here.
I was at street level but didn’t recognize where. I tried to get my thoughts wrapped around memories of Teacher White’s territory. That didn’t help.
It was cold and wet out. I wasn’t dressed for it.
Not only had Teacher’s guys disarmed me, but they had taken my jacket. They’d taken my roc’s egg and my belt. I was going to be cold and wet and miserable before I got home. Assuming I figured out which way to go.
I clung to the doorframe, feeling too sick to move. Chunks of hardened rain took the occasional nick out of my face. I looked back at what I needed to leave behind, fast.
There were dead bodies in there. Original Dick and Spider Webb. I didn’t know why. Or how. I wasn’t going to check. Original was still curled up where he’d been all along, clinging to his midnight specials.
I staggered into the weather and hiked. I reached an intersection. It told me nothing. I clung to my assumption that I was inside Teacher’s patch. I turned left because that would take me uphill. A higher vantage might reveal a familiar landmark next time the lightning flashed.
I shivered a lot.
I figured out where I was after two more blocks. Headed the wrong direction. Four blocks down that way … stumble. Stumble. And there I was, in a lane I knew, that led me to a street everyone knows. Two blocks east I hit a thoroughfare that would take me home. But my head wasn’t clearing up. I had a serious concussion. And huge trouble breathing.
35
Somebody too close to me had breath that should’ve drawn flies. Then I realized that stinky mouth had kept me breathing with the kiss of life.
Then I was home. Installed in a chair in the Dead Man’s room. With no clue how I’d gotten there.
In a chair. Again. Barely rational. Among many chairs, some occupied by people maybe worse off than me.
The Dead Man had them under control. I felt his grip on me, which I resented immensely till I worked out that I was still alive because old Smiley was working my lungs for me.
The Dead Man’s company included Skelington, looking more cadaverous than ever, John Stretch in his sister’s chair, Saucerhead, Winger, and the Remora. Jon Salvation glowed because he was mind to mind with the famous Dead Man. Oh, and there were three guys who worked for Block or Relway, tossed in a corner.
Relax, Garrett. I have to examine your memories directly.
I was focused on breathing so didn’t argue. Ah. Here came hot soup and a toddy. Here came Singe and a baby cat that wanted nothing to do with the Dead Man’s room. She set it in my lap. The arch went out of its back. Its fur lay down. It started purring. And I became both calm and optimistic.
Winger and Jon Salvation got up and left, obviously on a mission. Saucerhead left soon afterward. Then
Dean appeared. He said the rain had eased up enough for pixies to fly. If any flying had to be done. He went away and returned shortly with a toddy for my other hand.
I began to feel more upbeat. My tummy was full, the toddies were warming me, and Singe was tending my dents and dings. “Careful with the ribs.” The concussion seemed to have faded.
Old Bones had turned off all my pain. Singe is no light-fingered nightingale. She poked, prodded, dug, gouged. “Nothing broken. This time. I need your shirt off to see how bad you are bruised.”
Several of Morley’s men were on hand, looking nervous and inclined to be elsewhere. One snickered. Puddle’s hulking shape made a sharp gesture. The others kept it to themselves after that.
I focused a thought, wondering what they were doing here.
It will be done as soon as possible. I must install memories in the one named Puddle that will permit him to carry information to Mr. Dotes without his recalling having had contact with me.
“What happened to me?”
My mind filled with outside recollections.
One of Morley’s boys had found me on his way to work. He’d been late. A woman was responsible. Married. To somebody who wasn’t him. He wouldn’t have noticed me if I hadn’t been pointed out by some street kid.
He told Morley that his friend Garrett was in the gutter down the street, bleeding in the rain. So I’d tried to reach The Palms after realizing that I couldn’t make it home.
A rescue team went out and scraped me up. There.
Puddle and the boys departed, zombielike. Dean made sure they all left the premises. I recalled the terrible bad breath. And decided never to mention the kiss of life. Puddle has trouble with his breath.
I find myself in a quandary.
“Yeah? That anywhere near Ymber? Dean. How about another toddy?” I’d apologize to Max Weider someday. Rare though they be, in some moments beer isn’t the best choice.
Dean looked to the Dead Man momentarily before stating, “You get one more. Then there’ll be no more drink.”
“The quandary?”
I must see Colonel Block or Deal Relway. I will need them to help me get into the minds of the servants of A-Laf.
“Then you turned Puddle loose too soon. Him and his crew could spread the word about how they brought me home and it don’t look like I’ll make it and you won’t wake up to help. Or send that stack o Watch in the corner.”
The front wall reverberated to a major pixie launch.
I will correct that oversight. Dean. Take a few coins to the front door to express our gratitude to Mr. Dotes’ men.
Let Miss Pular put you to bed now, Garrett. You need not worry. As you surmised, Teacher White blundered badly.
“Makes you wonder if anybody could be that dumb, don’t it?”
Never underestimate the reserves of stupid lying within this city. Nevertheless, an amble through Mr. White’s mind might prove interesting.
I wanted to ask what Skelington had revealed, but Singe didn’t give me time.
I know where to find you. Dean, see to the door, please
36
I slept like a baby, thanks to my partner. One of his lesser minds managed my breathing. The samsom weed caused a sleep almost as deep as a coma. I had visitors during the night and was unaware of it. They included the herbalist who named what I’d been given but who knew of no antidote except good luck, time, and lots of water. He was amazed that I was still alive, so the luck did seem to be in.
Skelington knew Teacher White got the sleepy weed from a character named Kolda. Skelington believed there was an antidote and he thought Kolda had it.
Also in were a witch and a healer of the laying-on-of-hands variety. Neither did me any immediate good. Both agreed that I should drink water by the gallon. And Old Bones got to visit with a witch even though I’d been unable to deliver. He never explained why.
Others came in response to rumors of my ill health but waited till sunrise. Except for Tinnie Tate. She found a way to put the contrary aside when life got down to its sharp edges.
I woke up long enough to say, “Sometimes dreams do come true.”
Tinnie Tate is one incredible redhead. All the superlatives apply. She’s the light of my life — when she’s not its despair. In some ways she’s the gold standard of women, in some the source of all confusion and frustration. The trouble with Tinnie is, she doesn’t know what she wants any better than I do. But she won’t admit it.
She was there. And that was enough for now. She looked thoroughly distressed — until she realized that
I was awake. Then her demeanor turned severe. “When you do that, the freckles just stand out.”
“You’re a bastard even on your deathbed.”
“I’m not gonna die, woman. ’Cept maybe from lack of Tate.”
“And crude to your last breath.”
“Cold. It’s so cold. If I just had some way to keep warm …” She was a step ahead.
Only one weak candle provided light. It was enough. For the hundredth time I was stunned and awed that this woman was part of my life.
How can I rail against the gods when once in a while they back off and let wonders like this happen? Nothing happened. The Dead Man was right there in my head, disdaining discretion.
37
It don’t matter who spends the night, snuggled up or otherwise. Pular Singe will drop in before the birds start chirping. And blame it on Dean. Or the Dead Man. Which was the case this time.
“You are needed downstairs.”
I doubted it. His Nibs could have summoned me without troubling Singe. I grumbled, growled, muttered, disparaged some folks’ ancestry. But by the time I arrived in what Old Bones had turned into an operations center, I knew all he wanted was my managing my own breathing so he could free up the secondary mind keeping me huffing and puffing.
There was a vast, ugly conspiracy afoot, designed to confine me to the house. So I wouldn’t get involved in anything strenuous, like, say, discouraging somebody who wanted to twist little bits off of me.
I sat. I watched folks come and go. I breathed. Smiley didn’t fill me in. This was how he worked. He gathered information. He looked for unexpected connections. Usually, though, I’m the main data capture device.
Dean brought food and tea. I ate. And sat some more while people came and went. I wondered who was paying them. Being a natural-born, ever-loving blue-eyed investigator, I intuited the answer. And felt the wealth sucking right out of me. My associates have no concept of money management.
I wondered who all my guests were. Some were complete strangers. Not Relway Runners, Combine players, Green Pants thugs, nor even part of the Morley Dotes menagerie.
“What are we doing?”
The Dead Man didn’t answer Ymoeu. You believe Teacher White’s men took your roc’s egg?
“I had it before I turned unconscious. I didn’t have it when I woke up.”
Exactly.
“Excuse me?”
I sent Mr. Tharpe to the place where you were held, immediately after I determined where it was.
His examination of the site and the corpses suggests third-party involvement
“Huh?”
When drugged you were supposed to remain able to do Teacher White’s dirty work. The you who staggered away from there may not have been intended to wake up at all. You have contusions and abrasions unaccounted for in your memories. There are indications that someone attempted to strangle you.
“How do you figure all that?”
Circumstantial evidence. Your condition. The fact that Spider Webb was strangled with your belt. It was still around his neck when Mr. Tharpe arrived. The other man was strangled, too. There were bruises on his throat. Similar bruises are on your throat. More suggestive is the fact that the bodies and other evidence were gone when Miss Winger went up there this morning.
“Teacher is in deep gravy and don’t even know it? Who?”
That would be the question.
; “A question, certainly.”
We may be able to ask Mr. White himself soon. His associate Mr. Brix has told us where to find him.
“Who’s Mr. Brix?”
The man you know as Skelington. His name is Emmaus P. Brix. With the middle initial standing for nothing. Ah. Mr. Tharpe has achieved another success.
Two minutes later Saucerhead’s associates from Whitefield Hall, Orion Comstock and June Nicolist, stumbled in, struggling with a wooden box obviously heavy for its size. Dean appeared immediately, armed with a specialized pry tool. Another product of my manufactory.
Singe paid Nicolist and Comstock, painstakingly recording the transaction. Neither seemed troubled by the Dead Man. They thought he was still hibernating. Despite the crowd, all of whom seemed part of the Dead Man’s club.
These gentlemen have not been here before. They may not come here again.
“Oh.”
Orion Comstock took the pry bar from Dean. Nails shrieked as they came loose.
Kittens screamed all over the house. I heard them run, in confusion, upstairs, then back down into the kitchen.
Ah. As I suspected.
“What?”
To whom do you suppose they will think you are speaking?
I covered by heading for the hallway. Dean said, “I’ll go. You need to be here.” He sounded upset.
Singe, too, seemed troubled. Her exposed fur had risen. That doesn’t happen often.
There was even an undercurrent of revulsion in my connection with the Dead Man. Then I started to hear new voices. Inside my head.
I edged nearer Comstock and Nicolist.
The wooden box was lined with sheets of lead. Inside sat a matched pair of shiny metal sitting dogs, each nine inches tall.
Jackals, Old Bones opined. Almost certainly carrion eaters.
“You guys get these from the Bledsoe?”
Comstock eyed me suspiciously. “That was the contract, wasn’t it, slick? You saying —”