Choice of Evil (37 page)

“You had a long rest,” I told him.

“A. . . rest? No. Not a rest. I went. . . quiescent. Once I had mastered my art, there was no. . . challenge.”

“You were always above us, huh?”

“I
am
above you, Mr. Burke. In all ways.”

“Yeah,” I said, thinking of his velociraptor icon. And the killing claw. “So far above you couldn’t get your ear to the ground, much less down into the whisper-stream. But it wasn’t until you did that you learned the truth.”

“Your. . . idiolect is unfamiliar to me.”

“You were the greatest kidnapper ever,” I said quietly. “Perfect.”

“I was,” he acknowledged, accepting his due.

“You mastered that art,” I told him, shifting my gears, trying to jam his. “And you switched to another. I never did get that last piece.”

“Piece?”

“Of your journal. That was your last kidnapping, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then you switched to homicide?”

“Assassination,” he corrected me. “Yes.”

“Your journal was ambiguous,” I said. “What was the new art? Killing mobsters? Killing incest fathers? Killing child molesters? What?”

“Ah. Because the first target fit all those criteria?”

“Yeah.”

“The target was pedophiles,” he said. “From the very beginning.”

“But you. . . practiced on. . . what?”

“Anyone,” he said. Dry ice.

“Sure. And when you were ready, that’s when you switched from your private journal to the letters to the newspapers. And it almost worked.”

“Almost? Please, Mr. Burke, don’t be ludicrous. I am universally acknowledged as the—”

“Not in the whisper-stream,” I chopped him off. “You got a higher body count. . . maybe. . . than Wesley, but so what? Every single one of his hits was bought and paid for. Someone
else
picked the target. Down here, there’s talk of a guy called the Trustee. Supposed to be managing a fortune some old gay guy left. . . for killing fag-bashers. And word is, this Trustee got to Wesley. And all this work, it’s his, not yours.”

“Where is this mythical ‘down here’ of yours?”—the machine not altering the sneer in his voice.

“You like ‘grapevine’ better? It doesn’t matter. Back alleys, prison tiers, waterfront bars. Crimeville, understand? Not for citizens. That’s where Wesley lives. You say his name there, people tremble. He starts his walk, somebody’s gonna die. Everybody knows.”

“Wesley is dead,” he said, repeating my line now.

“To who?” I challenged him. “He went out the way he wanted. But maybe he went someplace else. Some say he never really left. That he had some tunnel under the school, or that it was a remote-control robot’s voice the cops heard or. . . whatever. You know how people talk.
You’ve
got a way out of here. Who’s to say Wesley didn’t?”

“Yes. But the circumstances are—”

“And others, they say he came back.”

“From the dead?” The voice dripped sarcasm.

“Yeah. You never heard about ‘Reaching Back’ either, huh? You’re so far above us, you can’t see down through the clouds. Wesley’s alive. He can’t die. And I know that’s what you want.”

“What
I
want?”

“Why else all this? I’m no threat to you. You don’t bite on that Internet bait, you’re well away. Vanished. Like you did before.

“But you figured the only true test of art is immortality. Like a statue or a painting or a book that people still look at hundreds of years after it’s done, right?
Your
art. . . it dies with you. I don’t know how old you are, but you
are
going to die. And all your little ‘journals’ will end up as some cheap paperback book. There’s only one way for you to get where you want to go. And that’s why I’m here, isn’t it? You need me to set up some more hits. As Wesley’s ‘agent,’ right? That makes him alive. And that makes you him.”

There was such silence I could hear heartbeats. A slow, steady thump. I was so calm I was almost comatose. Once you’re over the line, the tension stops. Maybe it was Nadine’s heart I heard. I never looked her way.

“Yes,” he finally said.

I waited. It wasn’t time yet. He wasn’t. . . exposed enough for my one strike.

“How would it work?” he finally asked me.

“There’s people I could talk to. See in person. They know me and Wesley were. . . They know I can reach him. I was—”

“You were the original suspect when my most recent. . . artistry started,” he cut in. “Why was that?”

It wasn’t time to fire yet, but I cocked the hammer. “One of the people that was killed in the drive-by. She was my woman.”

“Ah. And the police thought you were seeking revenge.”

“Yes.”

“That
is
your reputation. Is it true?”

“Yes.”

“And when did you decipher the coding?”

“Later on,” I said. “You needed a way to justify killing a whole lot of people quickly. So the body counts would put you up there with Wesley. But you didn’t want the police making connections—you wanted to spell it out for us. And you wanted some way to say Wesley was alive too. I don’t know how you found out that Gutterball wanted—”

“He was not. . . discreet about it. I happened to access an individual he had attempted to. . . retain for that purpose.”

“And then all it took was a phone call? And some meeting in the shadows?”

“Yes. He. . . quite readily accepted that he was speaking to. . .”

“Wesley.”

“Yes.”

“So you resurrected Wesley and kicked off the killings at the same time. It was. . . brilliant. No way the cops ever make
that
connection. Only problem is, it trapped you too.”

“What does
that
mean? I am hardly the one trapped here.”

“Listen to what you just said.” I spoke quietly, willing him closer. “You couldn’t have imitated Wesley’s voice. You never heard it. Nobody’s ever
really
heard it. So how come Gutterball went for the whole thing unless he
already
believed Wesley was alive? It’s like I told you, pal. Wesley
can’t
die. Not down here, he can’t.”

“Ah,” he said smoothly. “So, in fact, I do not require your ‘services’ at all, do I, Mr. Burke? Let me ask you another question. . . purely for my own edification: Do you hold me responsible for the death of your. . . girlfriend? You do understand that I only executed the target. The rest was. . .”

“I understand,” I lied. “No way you could have known who else would be there.”

“Your statement does not square with other information I have unearthed about you, Mr. Burke.”

“If you were really convinced of that, why have me here?”

“Ah. Well, in simple terms—and please believe me, I do not intend to be insulting—your personal animosity, to the extent it exists at all, is of no concern to me. You are. . . powerless, shall we say. My. . . research sources are, as you so adroitly pointed out earlier, dissimilar to yours. And I concede that your. . . reputation is, to some extent, inaccurate. When I began my final. . . quest, long before I ever made contact, it quickly became apparent that you were linked to Wesley. However, it also became apparent that there was a commingling at some juncture, so that various homicides were misattributed between you.”

“What does it matter?” I asked him.

“Matter? Nothing. I was simply explaining that I have no direct method of ascertaining whether your rather legendary commitment to vengeance is valid. Regardless, I am both invulnerable as to you and needful of your. . . services, for which I am prepared to pay. Or, at least, until you so adroitly pointed out your own uselessness, I
was
prepared to pay. I do assume your reputation as a man-for-hire is factual. . .?”

“Yeah. It is. But I’m no hit man. Wesley—”

“
Wesley
was a rank amateur,” he said, his tone sounding more human now, even through the mechanical barrier. “How he achieved such. . . immortal status is beyond my comprehension. I assume it was the rather theatrical way he elected to exit which retroactively amplified his rather pedestrian accomplishments as an assassin.”

“Amateur?” I taunted him. “Amateurs do things for fun. Like you do. Amateurs call it fucking ‘art.’ Like you do. Wesley, he got paid. And he never missed. You gave Wesley a name, you got a body,” I said, echoing the Prof. “The only body they never got was his.”

“Have you ever read any of Conan Doyle’s works, Mr. Burke? Sherlock Holmes, surely you are familiar with that fictional detective? Holmes was a
self-described
amateur. And, simultaneously, the king of his profession. Performing feats for compensation is not a higher art.”

“Maybe where you live,” I told him.

“Where I live. . . doesn’t matter.
That
I live is all that is of importance. Vital importance. I am Wesley now. His immortality is mine. I no longer require your services. Any works of art erected after Wesley’s demise which are attributed to him are, in fact, mine. When this ‘whisper-stream’ of yours speaks, as it will forever, every time it says his name, it will be
me
of which it speaks. Do you understand?”

“Sure. You’re gonna blow this building.
After
you get out. So everyone’ll say: That’s Wesley—he knows how to blow things up and still walk away. You’re an identity-thief.”

“My work was superior to his in every aspect!” he said, sharply. “His identity
is
mine, now. I have not ‘stolen’ it, I have ascended to it. And then
transcended
it. And you have, unwittingly, already identified my work. . . my recent work. . . as his. That is not theft, it is proper attribution. Anything less would be plagiarism.”

“How can you be sure I did that?” I asked him.

“Oh, I have no doubts,” he said. “Mr. Felestrone is proof enough of that.”

“How can you be sure?” I repeated.

“Pure art will out. Time is its only test. Axiomatically, I cannot personally verify such things. It is an act of faith.”

“And you did it all for art?”

“For
my
art. I do not fit any of those pitiful law-enforcement ‘profiles.’ I do not live to kill. In fact, I killed to live. . . although I do not believe you are capable of comprehending such a concept other than in the most elemental terms. No ‘motivation’ drives my work. The motivation is the work itself.”

“Bullshit,” I told him calmly.

“Surely you are not fool enough to believe you can anger me into accessibility, Mr. Burke? Am I supposed to rise to your transparent bait and physically attack you in some way? Your attempt is ludicrous. Do you know what an osmotic membrane is?”

“Yeah. A one-way barrier. You can cross over to the other side, but you can’t step back.”

“Ah. You surprise me. I would not have thought—”

“I did a lot of reading in prison,” I told him.

“Which apparently included a good deal of pop psychology,” he said dryly. “Nevertheless, this barrier—the one which separates us now—is, in fact, osmotic. You could enter the area I now occupy,
if
I so elected. See. . . this!” he said.

A yellow light suddenly blinked on to my right. It looked like it was floating in air.

“What you see is a projected beam. It will open the barrier between us.”

“A door in the Lexan?”

“If you will. I prefer my own analogy—it is more. . . applicable to the instant situation, especially given the wires embedded in the glass. Do you wish to come closer, then, Mr. Burke?”

“No,” I told him. “I’m fine right here.” I lit a cigarette, leaned back in my chair, blew smoke at the invisible ceiling.

“Then you wish to retract your absurd statements concerning my alleged ‘motivations’ for my art?”

“Sure,” I told him. “I’ll do that. I figure there’s a better way.”

“What are you—?”

“I know you,” I told him. I didn’t know if he could feel that truth—maybe it would just wash against the glass, never touch him. But it was all I had. I couldn’t see his eyes. A freak’s eyes always get soft and wet—sex-wet—when he talks about his fun. Wesley’s eyes were as dry as his bloodless heart—killing was work to him. “And I know you don’t want me going out and being your ‘agent,’ ” I sneered softly at him. “Once was enough. Now you want this all to vanish. Everything. You figured it out a long time ago. Immortality requires death. And that part you said I’d never understand. . . killing to live? I know who you killed to live.”

“Do you actually believe I—?”

“Why don’t
you
tell him?” I said, turning to Nadine. “It’s time now. You wanted this so bad. Now you’re here. Tell him.”

“I. . .” she started to speak, then stopped.

Velociraptor. A combination of crocodile and bird. Both survived. He claimed that for his own. Time to find out if he’d split or stayed mixed. It was all I had. I sucked the smoke deep into my lungs again, knowing it had to be perfect or I was done. “Go ahead. Tell him. Tell him the truth. . . Zoë.”

She gasped so hard her whole body shuddered in the chair. She got to her feet, shakily. Stood with her hands behind her back, one knee slightly bent. A little girl.

“You are my father,” she said into the darkness. “You gave me life. I waited for you. Inside. But I knew you would come for me someday.”

“You’re—” His voice cracked, clear even through the microphone.

“You never killed her at all,” I told him, flat, no more debating. “Not
all
of her. That last journal entry was as cute as it gets. You figured out Angelique was a multiple. And you knew why she was. But that wasn’t what did it. It was when she recognized
you
that everything. . . changed. Changed forever. You killed the alter. Killed Angelique. And left this other one behind. I don’t know how you did that, but. . .”

I let my voice trail off. Then I spoke right at Nadine’s back: “Where did you wake up?”

“I. . . don’t know,” she said, her voice still a child’s. “It was in. . . California, somewhere. The police found me. I was. . . they said I was. . . amnesic. They put me in a hospital. I never. . . They looked, but they never found. . . I was. . . adopted. Not really adopted. . . a foster home. They named me. Nadine. I was very. . . intelligent. But I couldn’t remember. I was. . . somewhere else. Inside. Waiting. I’m an architect. I knew I loved. . . design. And I hated men. I was never with a man. Ever. I. . . waited. And when my father started to. . . avenge. . . I felt the pull. I always. . . knew, I think. But not. . . I’m still not. . . I’m Zoë. Now. I am.”