Beating Heart Cadavers (22 page)

Ch. 29

“What's a ten-letter word for 'secure from destruction or infringement'?”

The guard looked up from his newspaper as he addressed the quiet room, thinking that perhaps his colleague had left for a break without him noticing when no answer came. The older man was still there, however, in his usual spot by the monitors. He was simply doing his best to ignore him. Strand cleared his throat and tried again.

“The fourth letter is an 'i.'”

The other man made a grunting sound.

“Just trying to pass the time,” Strand muttered to himself, rolling his eyes slightly as he turned back to face the window. The border station where they worked was at the northwestern-most point in East Oneris, dead in the middle of the Valley Uhm, and it was so inaccessible and largely disregarded that they were lucky to see anyone in a month's time. Strand had been stationed there less than a year ago after passing his examination, and so far he had done little more than catch up on a decade's worth of reading; and though he had read extensively about the valley where he was stationed, including that it had received its name for being
under the Heidor Mountains
, he was beginning to think that its name was simply a testament to how incredibly dull the place was.

“Let's see … secure from destruction could mean 'safe,'” he reasoned quietly upon returning to his crossword, “but that's not long enough.”

“How many letters do you need?”

Strand jumped and straightened from his chair at the voice. He was so unaccustomed to receiving visitors at the station that he hadn't even noticed the young woman outside of the checkpoint window. For all he knew, she could have been standing there for hours. He silently said a word of thanks that the gates were down, or else she could have easily walked past him and through to the Wastelands without him noticing.

“Sorry?” he said, opening the window fully in order to speak with her. “What did you –?”

“How many letters?” she repeated. “For the word.”

Strand glanced behind him at his colleague to ensure that he wasn't receiving an irritated look before leaning forward towards her. It had been ages since he had spoken to anyone face to face, and he did rather want to fill in the line so that he could figure out the rest of the puzzle.

“Ten. The clue is 'secure from destruction or infringement,'” he told her.

She was silent as she thought it over.

“Impervious.”

“No … the fourth letter's an 'i.'”

Her tongue darted over her lips as she considered the new information, and her eyes squinted in thought. She looked as though she had made the journey largely on foot, and the soles of her boots had torn away from the leather to reveal her socks while a large coat hung off of her. There was a large bundle in her arms that she grasped tightly to her chest as though fearing it might be taken away from her, and Strand didn't waste the energy pondering what it could be.

She was undoubtedly a vagrant of sorts: those were the only ones that crossed the border. They sneaked their way into Oneris in the hopes of getting a job and then squirreled their savings back for their families in trips several times a year. In the first few months on the job, Strand had been rigid in shaking them down, exposing their non-Onerian status, and sending them back to East Oneris for proper deportation, much to the amusement of his colleagues. Now, he simply found that it was easier to send them on their way. He didn't care so much about people leaving Oneris, anyhow – just so long as they
were
people.

“Inviolable.”

“Inviolable,” he repeated happily, jotting down the answer in the space. “Perfect – thank you. Now, what can I do for you?”

He put the crossword aside and leaned forward on the counter to show as much of his uniform as possible. While his job wasn't in anyway enviable, the guards stationed at more notable checkpoints were given just as much regard as any other security officer. Strand was simply waiting out the time until he was transferred somewhere more exciting.

“I'm just here to cross into Hasenkamp,” the woman replied.

“And what are your reasons for doing so, ma'am?”

“Pleasure.”

“Alright,” Strand said, checking off the first bullet on the required questionnaire. He really thought that the initial inquiry should have been altered to read
business or non-business
, though, because he very much doubted that anyone received any pleasure in entering the Wastelands. “And how long will you be staying?”

“Just the night.”

“Really?” Strand gave a nod and noted the time period on the page. She must have just come up to drop off the bundle of goods with a family. “Short trip?”

“Makes it more pleasurable.”

“I would agree,” he said affably. “And are you an Onerian citizen?”

“Yes.”

She indicated to the pin on her collar. It was only brass, so it was plausible that it belonged to her.

“And do you have any proof that you're not a Mare-person?” he continued. “Documentation from a doctor suffices, so long as the records have been given in the past two years.”

“I have children,” the woman replied.

“How many?”

He said it quickly to see if she would hesitate; her response was prompt.

“Two – a boy and a girl.”

“Oh, how wonderful – what are their names?”

“Matthew and Marijould.”

“And do you have their birth certificates on you?”

“No – they keep those themselves.”

“Ah, I see. Well, do you have any proof that they're your biological children?” he asked. He wasn't especially in the mood to send her back to the capital for deportation today: the paperwork would be endless. At the same time, though, the threat of the Mare-folk was all-too high in Oneris at the moment to simply allow her through.

“I have the scar from the cesarean section.”

Strand looked up from his paperwork hesitantly. He wasn't entirely certain if that counted.

“Would you like to see it?” she asked.

“Ah – no, I believe you,” he said quickly, though a part of him rather wished that his colleague would take a coffee break. He marked that she was not a Mare-person on the form and then reached the final question. “And may I see your papers, please?”

It was the first time upon approaching the window that she smiled, and yet when she did so Strand felt as though he was being surrounded by a large pack of wolves in an open field. There was something very sharp in her stare, and she neither blinked nor wavered as she pulled out an envelope and slid it over the counter to him. He hesitated before undoing the flap. Sure enough, there were papers inside. He wasn't sure if he should be pleased or not: he preferred it when they gave him cash.

“I see.” He looked through the documentation, shining his pen light on them to ensure that the seals were authentic. “And … these were issued in East Oneris?”

“Yes.”

He nodded again as he read the name. There was nothing wrong with the paperwork that he could see, and yet he couldn't help but think that there was something about the woman that should have alerted him to detain her. He looked at the bundle in her arms again.

“May I see what you're carrying through to Hasenkamp, ma'am?” he asked, his voice polite.

She hesitated, her mouth drawing into a thin line, but then she shifted the bundle in her arms and turned so that he could see what was wrapped up in it. Strand made a noise of comprehension, finally realizing why she was holding it so tightly.

“Of course – I see now,” he said. He stamped her papers and slid them back to her. “Well, then, Martha Hopper, you're free to go through.”

Turning to his colleague, Strand gave the order for him to open the gate and indicated to the woman that she was welcome to go on her way. As he picked up his crossword again and read the next clue, however, he changed his mind and kept her at the window for a moment longer.

“You don't happen to know an eleven-letter word for 'to do something in a makeshift way,' do you?” he asked. He was still unable to place what seemed off about her, but he felt, at least, that he could be quite sure that it was the type of word she would know. “Second letter's an 'x,' tenth's a 'z.'”

She smiled.

“Extemporize.”

Ch. 30

The house was still and silent, and all the curtains had been drawn to invite the darkness to stay despite the summer sun gleaming outside. Dust had collected over the majority of the surfaces that covered the ebony's sheen in a mat of thick gray. The majordomo paused by the table in the hallway and ran his finger through it. He would have never allowed the residence to fall to such low standards when he had worked there.

But the cleanliness of the house was hardly a concern now, he considered. Selicky stopped and sniffed, catching the scent of something putrid in the air. It smelled unmistakably like death and – noticing again how quiet the house was – he wondered if he had come days too late. Perhaps Caine had curled up and died in one of the many rooms, his decomposing body luring insects out of hibernation to pick away at his flesh. Selicky paused as he considered it, wondering if he truly wanted to be the one to find the body, but then shook himself and started up the staircase. He hadn't really been close to Caine, after all, so seeing him blank-eyed and rigid probably wouldn't be too great a blow.

He found him sitting on the floor in the unpacked nursery. His head was bent low, his legs brought up to his chest and his arms circled around them, and his back was pressing against the crib that was still wrapped up in plastic from the moving company months before. His hair had grown longer and more unkempt, the dark-blond curls dirty from a lack of washing, but he had finally changed out of his black uniform. That, at least, was appropriate, Selicky thought. He wasn't ambassador anymore.

“I'm not much of anything,” Caine had said the previous week when Selicky had called him upon hearing the news. He hadn't known how to reply. It wasn't as though the majordomo could think up an answer so quickly – especially not one that was a lie. He had run through the list of possible ones anyhow in the week that had passed so that if Caine happened to say something similar he would know how to respond, but the only one suitable was, “Don't worry, Matthew: you still have the means to be a fine accountant.” Selicky shook his head. It would undoubtedly be better to refrain from answering at all.

“Matthew?”

Selicky stepped farther into the room, approaching the younger man with caution. He still wasn't entirely certain that Caine hadn't died: he wasn't moving, after all. But as Selicky approached him, he heard the distinct sound of rattled breathing and gave a sigh of relief.

“Are you quite alright, Matthew?”

He leaned down to peer into Caine's face as he gave the conversation another try. He seemed to be taking his loss of job title rather too hard, especially considering that he probably hadn't wanted to be an ambassador in the first place. Politics was no place for a man like Caine. Then again, not many places were good for a man like Caine – and perhaps that was the problem.

“I've – ah – come to help you pack, sir,” Selicky said. “You – well – they're not going to let you keep the house, as I'm sure you already know.”

“I don't need to pack.”

“Oh: have you hired movers?”

When no response came, Selicky found himself giving the wall a knowing glance. He felt he would have far more success speaking to it.

“Matthew, have you eaten lately?” Selicky asked. His wife's voice was chiming in his head, telling him to be more sympathetic. He ought to have brought her along. She would have had no trouble fussing over Caine the way that she had when he was just a boy. “How about I get you something? A sandwich? A cup of coffee?”

“I have to change the filter.”

“I – you – what?” Selicky leaned a bit closer to him, putting his good ear forward to make out the indistinct words. “The filter on the coffee pot? Yes, yes: I know. I'll change it.”

“The pot's broken.”

“Well … we can put something else beneath it to catch the coffee. A thermos or a – a bowl. Whatever you have.”

“I should've asked Lad to fix it,” Caine said, continuing to mumble under his breath. “I should've asked her before ...”

“We can get you a new coffee pot, Matthew,” Selicky said firmly. “A new coffee pot for your new house. It's really not a bother.”

Caine didn't seem to agree. He had turned his head away to stare at the other side of the room, and his blue eyes looked brighter due to the deep red that was outlining the lids. Selicky frowned as he observed him. The upset didn't match the situation.

“Losing a job isn't the worst thing in the world, Matthew,” he said patiently. “It might be for the best, really. This sort of life is never easy – not on anyone involved. And now that your wife has passed, don't you think it would be easier on Simon if you lived a quieter life as an accountant?”

Caine's face twitched, and his eyes blinked with such a heaviness that it was a wonder he was able to open them again.

“Simon's dead.”

Selicky lost his balance, teetering over from where he was crouched on the floor, and his face pulled into a frown.

“Simon –? No,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “No – he – I thought that he was receiving treatment for his cognitive issues. He – he's died?”

“He was killed.”

A slow silence descended on the room that dropped from Caine's withering tone, and Selicky pulled at his collar in an effort to keep composed.

“He was …? Are you – you sure, Matthew?”

Caine moved his eyes to rest on the majordomo's face.

“I have the body.”

“You – what? In – in the house, you mean –?”

When Caine gave a rigid nod, Selicky clapped his hand to his mouth both to keep from speaking and to stop himself from being sick. He wasn't certain what to make of the information, nor was he sure that he wanted to know more. As Caine continued to sit in uncontained idleness, Selicky tried not to let his imagination get the better of him, but to no avail. The boy was dead, and not from illness or accident. And if Caine had the body …

“What happened to him, Matthew?”

Caine was chewing the insides of his mouth, taking his time responding, and Selicky felt his fears confirming. He tried to think of a reasonable explanation for it all: Marijould had died, after all, and Caine hadn't been taking it well. Perhaps he had collected his son from the Institute of West Oneris and taken him home, but the solitude and stress had been too great for him to deal with. He might have intended it to be a murder-suicide, even – he certainly looked as though he had lost the will to live – but had lost his nerve before he was able to do to himself what he had done to his son …

Selicky began to inch towards the door. It no longer mattered that the man in front of him was the son of former Ambassador Caine: there was nothing that Selicky could do for him now. And if Caine was as unstable as he currently looked, with his too long head of curls and the dark, thin skin that was stretching under either of his eyes, then Selicky certainly saw no reason to waste another moment in his company – and certainly not to admit what he had done by failing to give him the message from his father.

He was six feet away when Caine finally answered him.

“The Spöken killed him.”

Selicky halted in his place.

“The Spöken?” he repeated. “But that can't be true, Matthew. The Spöken don't kill Onerians – and certainly not children. Are you – are you sure?”

“Ratsel hand delivered his body.”

Selicky swallowed, uncertain if he felt more or less sick than he had when he had assumed the boy had died by Caine's hand.

“I … Well, I don't know what to say, Matthew. Have you … reported this?”

Caine gave him a deadened glare.

“Who would I tell?” he asked, his voice too low to determine if it contained more anger or devastation. “The Security Department?”

“Well, yes, that's what one would normally do –”

“And ask them to do what?” Caine cut in. “Arrest the High Officer? Put the Spöken on trial? How can you prosecute a group of people that no one's ever seen?”

Selicky hesitated, wavering in his spot.

“Well … no, you're right,” he agreed. “I'm not sure what else there is to do, really.”

Caine remained quiet for a long moment, staring off across the unused nursery. The furniture was still wrapped in plastic, and the toys were still bundled in boxes, but a lone mobile hung from the ceiling. In the stillness, it had managed to catch a draft and was turning slowly around in graceful circles, waiting for a small hand to reach up and grab it that never would.

“What is there to do,” Caine said quietly, “when you realize you haven't lived well enough?”

Selicky sighed.

“Matthew,” he said, forcing his tone to be both direct and soft, “let's not talk like that. I know it seems this way now, but in time things will get better. Whatever's happened has happened, and sometimes the only way to deal with it is by moving on.”

Caine didn't answer. He was still staring blankly into the emptiness.

“If the Spöken have really … done what you say they've done,” Selicky continued, not daring to repeat the statement aloud, “then you can't just give up. Not just for your sake, but for Mari's and Simon's as well. You have to do something.”

“There's nothing to do,” Caine said. “That's the problem. There's nothing – and no one – left for me.”

“That's how it is for everyone, Matthew,” Selicky chided. He was amazed that someone could be so unchanged in all the time that he had known them, but looking at Caine then, it was clear that he was the same boy whom Selicky had catered to when he was just five years old. He still thought that the world owed him something, and that it was the job of those around him to ensure that he got what he wanted out of it. He didn't realize that no one could ever truly rely on another person, just as he couldn't rely on his wife not to burn his dinner and she couldn't rely on him to remember to take the garbage out every third day of the week. It was impossible, and it wasn't some long-harbored secret like Caine seemed to think it was, he had just failed to figure it out as quickly as the rest of the population had. Most people only had themselves to count on and to turn to, and if by some chance someone else came along who offered even a fraction of compassion or concern for their well-being, then it was a bonus, not compensation for the undesired way life so often went. “You have yourself: your own mind, and your own actions, and it's your choice how you use them.”

He couldn't be certain that Caine was listening, though a thin wrinkle had appeared in his forehead that was at least promising that he had heard the advice that the majordomo had offered. Selicky sighed and crossed his arms as he looked down at where the younger man still sat on the floor.

“There's something that I should tell you, Matthew. Something that you should know.” He paused to wait for Caine's response, but when he was met by only silence he shook his head and continued on. “When your father informed me about the object that the Spöken were looking for, I left out some … information … that might have benefited you.”

He stopped and cleared his throat, suddenly unable to go on. On the one hand, admitting that he was supposed to have informed Caine about the information that the late ambassador had left in his care might be enough to shake Caine from his stupor; on the other hand, though, if he was shaken too badly, then Selicky didn't think he wanted to be in the room with him.

Making up his mind, he skipped the first bit of information and went to the last.

“He told me that there was a notebook that had belonged to Andor Sawyer somewhere in the house, which is what I told the Spöken,” the majordomo said quickly. “What I left out – and what I'm telling you now – is that he also mentioned that there would be a key that goes with it. I assumed the two would be found together, but since they weren't, and in light of what's happened … I thought you ought to know.”

He turned and swept from the house, shutting the door tightly behind him to cut off the smell of death that had worked its way into his clothing and little remaining hair, and as he stood outside on the front porch catching his breath, he inhaled the undisturbed air in relief. He had done what he had set out to do, and the weight of his misstep no longer pressed heavily on his chest. He could live out the rest of his retirement peacefully now.