MINUS 013 AND COUNTING

Dan Killian was talking, had been perhaps for some time, but Richards heard him only distantly, distorted by an odd echo effect in his mind. It was like being trapped in a very deep well and hearing someone call down. His mind had gone midnight dark, and the darkness served as the background for a kind of scrapbook slide show. An old Kodak of Sheila wiggling in the halls of Trades High with a loose‑leaf binder under her arm. Micro skirts had just come back into fashion then. A freeze‑frame of the two of them sitting at the end of the Bay Pier (Admission: Free), backs to the camera, looking out at the water. Hands linked. Sepia‑toned photo of a young man in an ill‑fitting suit and a young woman in her mother’s best dress—specially taken up—standing before a J. P. with a large wart on his nose. They had giggled at that wart on their wedding night. Stark black and white action photo of a sweat­ing, bare‑chested man wearing a lead apron and working heavy engine gear‑levers in a huge, vaultlike underground chamber lit with arc lamps. Soft‑toned color photo (soft to blur the stark, peeling surroundings) of a woman with a big belly standing at a window and looking out, ragged curtain held aside, watching for her man to come up the street. The light is a soft cat’s paw on her cheek. Last picture: another old‑timey Kodak of a thin fellow holding a tiny scrap of a baby high over his head in a curious mixture of triumph and love, his face split by a huge winning grin. The pictures began to flash by faster and faster, whirling, not bringing any sense of grief and love and loss, not yet, no, bringing only a cool Novocain numbness.

Killian assuring that the Network had nothing to do with their deaths, all a hor­rible accident. Richards supposed he believed him—not only because the story sounded too much like a lie not to be the truth, but because Killian knew that if Richards agreed to the job offer, his first stop would be Co‑Op City, where a single hour on the streets would get him the straight of the matter.

Prowlers. Three of them. (Or tricks? Richards wondered, suddenly agonized. She had sounded slightly furtive on the telephone, as if holding something back—) They had been hopped up, probably. Perhaps they had made some threatening move toward Cathy and Sheila had tried to protect her daughter. They had both died of puncture wounds.

That had snapped him out of it. “Don’t feed me that shit!” He screamed sud­denly. Amelia flinched backward and suddenly hid her face. “What happened? Tell me what happened!”

“There’s nothing more I can say. Your wife was stabbed over sixty times.”

“Cathy,” Richards said emptily, without thought, and Killian winced.

“Ben, would you like some time to think about all this?”

“Yes. Yes, I would.”

“I’m desperately, desperately sorry, pal. I swear on my mother that we had nothing to do with it. Our way would have been to set them up away from you, with visiting rights if you agreed. A man doesn’t willingly work for the people who butchered his family. We know that.”

“I need time to think.”

“As Chief Hunter,” Killian said softly, “you could get those bastards and put them down a deep hole. And a lot of others just like them.”

“I want to think. Goodbye.”

“I—”

Richards reached out and thumbed the Free‑Vee into blackness. He sat stonelike in his seat. His hands dangled loosely between his knees. The plane droned on into darkness.

So, he thought. It’s all come unraveled. All of it.

Date: 2015-04-20; view: 578