Alien Nation #6 - Passing Fancy (7 page)

Matt stood there, feeling guilty, furious, wounded, and—most agonizingly—put in his place. If he’d had it in him to cry, he would have. But he didn’t. So instead he held the tension like a pressure cooker and obsessed about the incident for the rest of the week.

And stayed away from mirrors whenever possible . . .

The young human-looking woman in the hospital bed had in her face none of the anger he remembered, none of the rage. But in repose, her expression still held the same deeply profound sadness. She was absolutely right about associative memories, he thought. He was feeling ashamed of himself all over again.

Eyes on Fancy, he said to the doctor, “She have any Stabilite pills on her?”

Steinbach nodded.

“Purse, in fact. We found it when we went searching for information, insurance, who to contact, that kind of thing. That’s why we were able to medicate her so quickly without waiting for extensive test results.”

“Can I see the bottle?”

Steinbach led him and Cathy to a desk where a nurse produced a large plastic bag with Fancy’s personal effects. Matt reached into the bag and withdrew the bottle to examine the label, which was suspiciously generic, without the imprint of a specific pharmacy. The prescribing doctor’s name was typed on the label, though:

C. LeBeque

Matt didn’t know why, but the name seemed creepy, like something out of a Hammer horror film. Like something . . . appropriate.

“Can I take this?” he asked the intern.

Steinbach shrugged. “You’re the cop, you know the law. It won’t do
her
any good to keep it, that’s for sure. And we’ve got enough for analysis, if that means anything.”

Matt pocketed the small vial. “Thanks.”

“Doctor,” a nurse called urgently from down the hall, and Steinbach flipped a wave before sprinting to his next calamity.

Matt caught Cathy’s gaze and held it.

She didn’t know exactly what lay behind his eyes, but she sensed it was very dark, very private.

“You said the withdrawal is bad?” he asked.

“It’s awful, according to everything I’ve heard,” Cathy replied. “According to the doctors, what I’ve heard doesn’t begin to describe it. And with the impurities in her system, there’s the risk of other complications.”

Matt put his hands on her forearms. His touch felt . . . good. Warm.

Trusting.

He looked as if he wanted to trust her, trust her with something very important. Very important and immensely difficult to articulate. The words would not come out of him easily. She’d been intimate with him, and he was still sometimes so hard to know.

“I realize it’ll be an inconvenience,” he said, finally, “but I want . . . I’d appreciate it . . . if you’d stay with her, guide her through. Whatever time you have to take off work, I’ll make good on your salary. I just . . .”

He bit his lower lip.

She tried to make it easier for him.

“What, Matt?” Softly. “Tell me.”

“. . . I don’t want her with strangers now, Cathy.”

Strangers to him, she realized he meant. Because certainly she was a stranger to that girl. But she understood and didn’t correct him.

Besides, if she stayed to do this thing Matt was asking of her, she would not be a stranger to Fran Delaney for long. Not in any sense of the word. She wondered if Matt had any notion . . . No. For if he did, he’d rescind his request. The question was whether or not to tell him.

He took one of his hands, closed his fingers lightly into a fist and pressed it gently to the side of her head. It was the first Tenctonese gesture she had taught him, one of great affection and respect. Not so intimate as humming prior to the act of love, but more profound than an embrace or even, in these circumstances, a kiss. She reached for the hand, cupped it in her much smaller one.

“Why does this mean so much to you, Matt?”

And of course, he was evasive. “I can’t . . . it’s complicated. I owe her, okay? I just . . . I owe her. And if I’m gonna nail the bastards who sold her that stuff, I need what little sleep I can still get tonight. So . . . will you do this for me?”

It was not what she had hoped to hear. But it was no more than she had expected. And he had managed to say . . . enough.

“You know I will,” Cathy replied.

“Light bulb,” he whispered absently—she had no idea what he meant—and then he opened his palm against her cheek, his mouth was upon hers as if both to draw and give strength, and then he was bolting off, down the corridor, out the doors, and into the cold, cruel world.

To do battle against the forces of evil.

Or something.

G
EORGE FRANCISCO HAD
often seen his hot-tempered partner impassioned. But rarely so monolithically determined as he was this morning at the precinct house. Barely had George said hello when Matthew began telling the fantastic tale of how Fran Delaney had been rushed to the hospital and why. George had been too surprised by the tale to respond or think clear-mindedly, nor had Matthew given him much time. For he finished his narrative by saying, “So . . . are you with me on this?” Matt’s ardor was so overwhelming that George could only nod a bit dumbly and follow his partner to Captain Bryon Grazer’s office, where Matthew quite literally barged in, requesting—no,
demanding
—the assignment, claiming he had a good enough lead to wrap it up clean and quick.

At first Grazer seemed a tad put out that they hadn’t noticed his stylish, new shoes.

“I’m trying a softer, hipper look,” Grazer said, to which Matthew replied, cursorily, “Nice, Bry, now about my request—”

At which point Grazer began to hem and haw. He somewhat superciliously reminded the two detectives how heavy their caseload was already, and how designer drugs catering to a limited clientele was not all that important in the grand scheme of things.

And then—quite amazingly, considering Grazer’s stubbornness—Matthew was able to (as he might have put it) “cut through the garbage” with just four words.

“Remember your sister’s kid?”

Grazer froze for a moment and looked at Matthew as if to gauge the measure of the man—or hit him.

But he merely picked his cigar off its ashtray and pointed with it.

“Clean and quick,” he said. “Every minute over forty-eight hours is worth ten in weekend volunteer service. And I mean park duty—trash pickup and horsie patrol.”

“Understood, Cap’n,” Matt acknowledged.

“Francisco, keep ’im honest,” Grazer adjured—threateningly, it had seemed to George.

“Yes, Captain,” George replied.

Matt didn’t need or wait to hear anything else. Almost that quickly he hustled them both into their unmarked patrol car, and they were cruising toward the office of high society plastic surgeon, Dr. Christian LeBeque.

George had not yet confided to Matthew his ambivalence about the case, about being
drafted
into its service—ambivalence that had only grown with the passage of minutes. Obviously this actress was somebody his partner cared about deeply. But George did not like the idea of what she’d done to herself. A part of him didn’t even like the idea of helping her out. He kept that part in abeyance, though, adopting a wait-and-see posture. Maybe he didn’t know enough about the particulars yet. Maybe his emotions were premature. He looked over at Matthew behind the wheel and chose another topic to discuss.

“What did you mean, Matthew, when you reminded the captain of his sister’s child?”

“Couple of years ago his nephew Joel was hangin’ with a bad bunch. He had his own problems anyway, but the company he kept didn’t help.”

“Because . . . ?”

“Usual. They were into drugs, they got
him
on drugs, and one fine day at the ripe old age of fourteen, he took a shot of impure heroin and nearly kacked. Grazer practically ripped the city apart to find the gang, the pusher and the supplier. Against the odds and, at the start, against orders.”

“Grazer, renegade? Impolitic? It’s hard to fathom.”

“I still have a hard time with it and I was there to
see
it. But he was one angry puppy and wouldn’t let go. His determination led to one of the biggest drug busts in the history of the department. That’s why they bumped him up to captain at such an early age.”

“I had no idea. He’s usually such a publicity hound. I’m surprised he doesn’t flaunt it more.”

“I’ve never quite figured that out either, George. But I’m not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.”

“Assuming you were given such an animal, why would you do such a thing? And what has that to do with Captain Grazer?”

Matthew laughed. “It’s an
expression,
George.”

George nodded, feigning understanding. This happened to him rather a lot. “Oh,” he said. Then, after a bit of thought,
“Oh!
Yes, I see. Gift horses. Very intriguing.” A beat. “You would not happen to know the derivation of that expression, would you, Matthew?”

Matthew seemed momentarily uncomfortable and then, rather too enthusiastically announced:
“Ah! Here we are!”

The car glided into a parking space in a lot that flanked a medical building whose facade bore more resemblance to a Four Star hotel than a place of healing. But then, one would expect no less on Bedford Drive in Beverly Hills.

George and Matthew rode the elevator to the floor numbered 14 that was (secretly) 13 and found their way through the lushly carpeted hall to the offices of Christian LeBeque.

They were greeted by the strains of generic Muzak as they entered into a soft, blue waiting room with hanging plants, plush chairs, peaceful watercolors of boats floating idly on clear blue lakes, and the ambience of a parlor, broken only by the sliding window built into the far wall, which looked into the nurse’s cubicle.

George exchanged a few words with her as Matt passively adopted an “I’m with him” stance. They’d opted not to identify themselves as cops, not right away, the better to check out the doctor’s practice unobtrusively. The strategy had some merit, as the nurse directed them to
another
waiting room, quite separate from the one they were in now.

This one was more clinical.

The walls consisted of plain wood paneling, the chairs were wood-framed and functional. A window looked out onto the parking lot, and the sunlight streaming in did nothing to beautify the decor; it simply made appearances harsher.

The pictures on the wall, though, were what gave the room its
particular
identity.

No soothing watercolors these.

These were schematic diagrams and sketches.

Clinical befores and afters.

The “before” pictures were Tenctonese faces.

The “after” pictures were the same faces. Humanized.

Two other Newcomers, both women, occupied seats. They sat apart from each other, seeming intent upon not making contact.

The room was scrubbed clean, yet it felt squalid to George. And as he studied the pictures, his mind flashed to another place, another time.

Chorboke is coming.

And he told himself, Stop it, stop it, different issue, different context, this is not at all the same thing, you can’t honestly equate this with—

Chorboke is coming

—and he was picturing the lab at Dual Pharmaceuticals, the lab run by Newcomer Dr. Hadrian Tivoli, in all respects a force for good, until you discovered, as had George and Matthew, that the altruism was a cover, that on the slave ship, Hadrian Tivoli had been

Chorboke

the scientist who had performed biological “experiments” using the slaves as his subjects, the better, in his sick and twisted mind, to advance the species, to create a purely mental being. What he’d created instead was any manner of atrocity, causing the deaths of thousands and

Chorboke

was dead, of course.

Dead and gone in the fire that destroyed his lab. George had been there to see it happen. He was dead.

Chorboke was dead.

But in these pictures—

Chorboke is coming.

—his spirit lived on

Chorboke is here.

George snapped then, his gorge rising, and it was all he could do not to shriek his outrage. He turned on his heel and left the room before his disgust and unsolicited judgment became apparent to the waiting women. He strode out of the doctor’s office, Matt at his heels.

The nurse saw them leaving, called out
“Sirs?”
and Matt said, “We’ll be right back,” over his shoulder before following George out the door.

George found a wall in the hallway to lean against, took in deep breaths in an effort to calm himself. He bent over slightly, his palms on his thighs. So the first things he noticed were Matt’s feet. George’s gaze traveled up the body to Matt’s face from there. The face seemed puzzled.

“What’s wrong, George?”

“Really,”
George snapped.
“How can you ask such an inane—”
He caught himself, bit off the sentence. Struggled for some control. Found it. Some. “I am sorry, Matthew.”

“Look, I know why you bit off my head just now: We went from a living room into a slag chamber. I’m not asking why you’re pissed off. I’m asking what gives? I thought we were gonna play it out in there.”