Nest of Worlds (10 page)

For the next two days Wilcox did not come to work. Prying the book from his hands turned out to be harder than they thought. Laila’s condition worsened; the infection spread, and she developed a high fever. Fatima spent day after day at her bedside.

A gentleman in a gray jacket and velveteen trousers paid a visit to the Throzzes. He was Captain Frank Medved, Tobiany’s superior. Gavein imagined that this policeman would be from the same mold as the other, a giant with a bucket head and fleshy ears. Nothing of the sort: Medved was shorter than Gavein and had a pale, sensitive face.

He sat cross-legged on the rug because the Throzzes as yet had no desk, and he needed to use his laptop.

“I wanted to ask you a couple of questions in the matter of Tonescu.”

“I thought everything about that had been answered.”

“Yes and no. We determined that Haifan indeed committed the murders.”

“So?” asked Ra Mahleiné. That she had not offered coffee meant that Medved was not welcome. But only Gavein read this signal.

“I’d like to speak with you also, ma’am, but later,” said the policeman.

“My wife and I are both at a loss,” said Gavein. “If it’s known who committed the murders, then what is the problem?”

“The problem is motive, and the circumstances. Some things remain unclear. I’m counting on your cooperation.”

“I know little.”

“Please tell me, in detail, everything that happened—from the moment you rented a room at the Eislers.”

“Ah! So that’s what this is about.” Gavein broke into a laugh.

There was no chance now that Ra Mahleiné would offer Medved coffee.

“Edda told you her stupid theory of Death stalking her house. Her idea of me as Death’s pointing finger. And you believed her?”

“It’s my job, you know, to check out stupid theories. Tell me everything. I’ll take notes.” He nodded at the keyboard. “This is not an interrogation, merely an interview, which means, say whatever occurs to you and with as many facts as you can supply.”

“If it’s merely an interview and not official, then I have nothing to add. I said everything during the investigation. If you want to find out something new, then please go to a little trouble and obtain a warrant.”

Medved sighed and left. Gavein didn’t care to enter into a long account of his life in Davabel, and Medved, without a court order, couldn’t make him.

For two days, the press of events seemed to let up. Laila’s fever fell, and her parents checked her out of the hospital.

“So much for Edda,” Gavein said, dusting his hands. “Her fears didn’t materialize, though the infection came from dirty water and Laila’s Significant Name is
Fluedda
and, in addition, I was present the whole time. And? And nothing, the girl will live.”

Gavein took the book from Wilcox. Without opening it, he put it on a shelf at home. Actually, not on a shelf but on the rug with the other books, because they hadn’t purchased a bookshelf yet. Brenda telephoned to thank him for saving her marriage. Helga moved out—taking Edda’s theory seriously. The house was quieter now, the Throzzes being the sole tenants, not counting the Hougassians, who lived in the kitchen for only eighty packets a month. In exchange, the Hougassians helped with the housework.

Laila’s infection got better, but a skin graft was out of the question, since she was now experiencing in full the discomfort of the first stage of pregnancy. Zef walked about proudly, until he got pasted by Beanpole. He took it out on Earthworm, who was weaker. Zef cleaned his jacket, and it no longer stank. He continued putting studs in it and took to embroidering skulls on his pants. He said he was preparing his wedding outfit.

Ra Mahleiné went to local hospital number 5357, to the ob-gyn ward run by Dr. Elava Nott. Gavein had seen the doctor on television and chose the hospital based on that. Dr. Nott was about fifty, had an energetic gleam in her eyes, a bony profile, and an incongruously fleshy chin. She inspired confidence, though the wattle that quivered under her jaw made her look like a chicken.

In the hospital, no notice was taken that Ra Mahleiné was white. Gavein’s money saw to that. She was to stay a week there, for observation. Gavein visited her every day, on his way home from work.

Both apartments were unsealed, on orders from Medved. The insurance money covered the cost of repainting the rooms and putting down new carpet. The Wilcoxes moved into the Tonescu apartment. Edda, afraid that the history of these apartments would frighten off potential tenants, set a low price, and Brenda jumped at the chance.

The Hanning apartment was taken by Edgar and Myrna Patrick, an old couple preparing to move to Ayrrah. Their daughter, Lorraine, worked at the airport, ate in town, and came home late.

The news on television was bad: at the main terminal of the Davabel airport, a large passenger plane leaving for Lavath plowed into the building for arrivals. Carrying several dozen tons of fuel, the colossus exploded, and the building was engulfed in flame. Coverage of the tragedy went on for the entire day. The firefighters worked until the middle of the night. More and more bodies were found. Edgar and Myrna sat glued to the screen. At intervals the name of an identified victim was given. Edgar Patricks had tried calling the airport but couldn’t get through.

Gavein drank tea. Wilcox had his usual place on the sofa, legs up, in his socks, one sock blue, the other cherry red. The tea he made for himself was strong. For Myrna Patricks, the worried mother, he had prepared a sedative herbal tea. He often got up for the hot water that Gavein was boiling in a dented pot.

After midnight the company minibus brought Lorraine home. She had fallen from her chair at the moment of the explosion and hurt her arm. Having taken part in the rescue operation, she was dirty and exhausted.

When the exclamations of relief were over, the young woman sat down. Wilcox rose, introduced himself, and put a metal mug with the sedative tea in her hands. It was Gavein’s mug, and the water had just been boiled. Lorraine, starting to drink it like water, burned her mouth. She didn’t care for the taste either.

“Drink it all down,” Wilcox advised her. “Your mama had three mugs of it, watching television. I hate to think what she would have done without it.”

In anticipation of gory details, Zef hunkered down on the floor, and Laila pulled up a kitchen stool. Under the bandage on her face was a red patch of skin, blotchy, scarred. The Hougassians peered curiously from the kitchen.

“In the confusion my glasses fell off, and someone stepped on them.”

“You have your old glasses, the wire ones. I’ll bring them,” said her father, getting up.

Lorraine Patricks put the glasses on her nose and looked around her. “I finally get to see you all. Usually I’m here only at night, late.”

Edda made the introductions. She left the Hougassians for last, preserving the decorum of classification.

Lorraine squinted. She had bright red hair and large green eyes. “Dave. Of course. I remember you. I was there when your flight came in.”

He remembered her too: the living advertisement for Davabel. But before he could say anything, everyone was asking questions.

Lorraine began:

“It started on the runway. A jumbo ten-engine cruiser, transoceanic, suddenly behaved funny. I doubt it was sabotage. Not that I know anything. One of the engines caught fire, then another, then two more . . . It kept on taxiing. I saw it on the monitor from the control tower. The crew threw out a slide, and the passengers came down it, one by one, and ran off as far as they could. Many survived the explosion.”

Her version differed from the television account in several respects.

“The cruiser went faster then, turned, and hit the building. No one expected that. People hadn’t been evacuated from there. The explosion happened right on impact. Everything caught fire. I must have hit my head—look, there’s blood!” She ran a hand through her hair and showed it. “No one noticed it.”

Edda brought a first-aid kit, and Lorraine’s parents examined the cut. Gavein sipped his tea. It couldn’t be that serious, if she didn’t remember being cut. Wilcox also kept his seat, watching the TV—or perhaps he simply didn’t feel there was any reason to uncross his knobby legs.

After Lorraine had received the attention befitting the heroine of the evening and a quantity of bandages had been applied to her head, she resumed her story:

“The front wall of the terminal is mostly glass, and the plane came through it. Fire filled the hall. A flight had come in from Ayrrah just then, and there was a line for passports and customs: the line had to be right there! There’s plenty of firefighting equipment at the airport, and fire engines arrived from the city within ten minutes. But even working together, they couldn’t do much. Few in the building survived. I helped carry out the wounded. Hundreds must have perished.”

“They’ve released the names of only nine so far,” said Wilcox. “No one knows about the crew of the plane. Many passengers are missing. They found one man in shock; he was sitting in brushwood on the outskirts of the airport.”

Because Lorraine had emerged from the event in one piece, it ceased to hold people’s attention. Tomorrow was a workday; they had to get some sleep.

Ra Mahleiné would be returning from the hospital soon, and the results of almost all her tests were in. Gavein came home late, because Wilcox had left many things undone. Having retrieved the book from Gavein, he had stayed up all night reading and was half asleep at work.

Medved called. He needed to talk to Gavein. This time Gavein didn’t refuse. Medved suggested that they talk now.

The detective showed up in half an hour, carrying his inseparable briefcase. He opened the laptop and attached its modem to the phone. “The police will pay,” he said. “I need the help of our central computer.”

“Let me guess. I was the one who blew up the Davabel airport.”

A nervous tic played on Medved’s face.

“Lieutenant Tobiany is dead,” he said.

“I don’t understand.”

“Yesterday afternoon, he stopped a man in a dark alley and was stabbed. He was after a drug dealer.”

“That has nothing to do with me. I was at work, at the bookstore.”

Medved waved a hand, as if at a fly.

“I know. I checked. Tobiany crawled from the scene of the crime and bled for half an hour before someone found him. But even if he had been taken immediately to the hospital, his chances would not have been good. The autopsy showed that the blade of the knife had been coated with some poison.”

“But—”

“Let me finish,” said Medved. “Tobiany made a report before he died. He described his murderer. It was a tall, young white with a hangdog face. That’s not the end of the story, unfortunately. Yesterday, in the late evening, people broke into the Tobiany home and killed his wife, Marina, and his sons, Cyrus and Hans. There appear to have been two or three perpetrators of this senseless butchery. Marina was stabbed twenty-eight times, Cyrus and Hans both sixteen times. You’ll hear about it on the evening news.”

“This is all dreadful, but how does it concern me? You don’t think I killed Tobiany’s entire family? Yesterday, all evening, I was watching the airport disaster on television.”

“You were watching it?”

“Yes. In the company of several people.”

“From the beginning?”

“The entire coverage on channel sixteen. We were all glued to the set, because the daughter of one of our tenants works at the airport, Lorraine Patricks.”

“She was killed? I don’t recall a victim by that name.”

“Unfortunately, Captain,” Gavein said with sarcasm, “she only sprained her wrist and is otherwise in excellent shape.”

Medved gave him a sidelong look. He had not stopped tapping the keys of his laptop.

“Let’s put our cards on the table,” said Gavein. “Edda told you about my death-dealing ability, and you are linking that to the tragedy of the Tobianys? Even to Edda her theory no longer makes sense.”

“Cards on the table, that’s a good idea. Over the last six weeks, more people have died in this area than in the rest of Davabel. Actually, in the rest of Davabel not one person has died . . . These data come from the Division of Hierarchy and Classification. The people there supplied them at my request, and they are as amazed as I am. An independent analysis of the situation is under way. You still don’t want to help me?”

Gavein was silent.

Medved looked at his screen. “Does the name Bryce Beddow mean anything to you?”

Gavein shook his head.

“A baker. He fell under a truck.”

“Wait, I seem to recall. He rode a bicycle?”

Medved nodded yes.

“That happened right after I arrived from Lavath. Edda mentioned the accident.”

“Did you meet the man before that?”

“I see many people on the street I don’t know.”

“Please try to remember. Did you see him?”

“I heard of his death, at the table.”

“Interesting. That was the first death. The most poorly documented. It doesn’t fit the pattern.”

“You mean there’s a pattern?”

“The other deaths are connected. You personally knew or had met the victims beforehand.”

“I hope it wasn’t my breath that killed them. I use a fluoride toothpaste and brush after every meal.”

“It isn’t your breath,” said Medved, not smiling. “Each person died in accordance with his or her Significant Name. For every case of murder, the perpetrator is known.”

“Then what sense does this investigation make?”

“It’s not an investigation. There are no grounds to conduct an investigation. The perpetrators are all known. The causes of death are all clear. And you have an alibi.”

“I’m glad to finally hear it from you.”

“This is a study undertaken in part at the request of the Division of Hierarchy and Classification. I have no charges to press against you.”

Gavein decided to make the man tea. Ra Mahleiné, he thought, would have done the same. Medved had shown that he was not an enemy.

“There is something bigger going on here,” Medved said when Gavein returned with two half-liter metal mugs full of very strong and very bitter tea.

The tea will leave a deposit, Gavein thought. She’ll be angry with me when she has to scour the mugs.

“You flew to Davabel on the twelfth of December.”

“That’s right.”

“Have a look here.” Medved turned the laptop so both could see. Gavein took a swallow of his tea. On the screen was the face of a man wearing the cap of the airline. “That’s Captain Calvin Sallows, the pilot on your flight of December 12. He’s dead. The copilot, Roy Borchardt, died in the recent fire. Ossya Leblanc, navigator, burned to death with the others. He too was on your flight.”

Different faces flashed on the screen. There was a sweet girl with a snub nose, wearing the jacket of the airline. Gavein remembered her.

“Lorna DaCosta, flight attendant. She also died. Maude Calabash, another flight attendant. Also. Shelly Herbert, also. Do you understand? These people were to fly together for the first time since December 12, and they’re all dead. You see no coincidence?”

Gavein lowered his head.

“Still not convinced?” Medved took a sip of the tea, made the way the Throzzes liked it, and winced. “Among the passengers on that December 12 flight, one Bharr Thorsen died. During the explosion he was at the main terminal, taking care of some business.”

“I remember him. He sat next to me. We spoke.” Gavein felt like a butterfly stuck on a pin for display.

“There’s more.” Medved was without mercy. “The same ground crew was there, as on December 12.” Gavein’s only revenge was the tea: you drank to remove the bitterness, but the next swallow was even worse. The Throzzes drank no other tea.

“Do you remember this person?” On the screen now was the face of an elderly man.

“He certified my social classification. He gave me a three on my passport.”

“Tom Vantrook, fifty-seven. Died on the spot. And this one?” Medved pointed at a hatchet face with a jutting chin.

“I don’t know him.”

“Doug Waitz, customs official, also died on the spot. After you were done with Vantrook, you proceeded to him. Large, muscular, a red . . .”

“It’s possible. Wearing rubber gloves?”

“Customs officials all wear rubber gloves. And this one? Gummo Zuidema. He also worked there on December 12.”

“I don’t remember. He might have been the one who directed me to the second window. I’m confusing the faces. Do you have him at another angle?”

More pictures flashed in sequence on the screen.

“Yes,” said Gavein, growing grim.

“Shall we continue?” asked Medved. He saw that Gavein was tired.

“Let’s get it over with.”

Next, the photograph of a bald old man.

“Him I know. From the Division of Classification. He took me to Edda’s place. He complained that soon he would have to move to Ayrrah.”

“Rees Cozier. He didn’t have to move, he died. And this one?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Minibus chauffeur, Al Johnson. He was likely your driver. He’s in the hospital, fighting for his life. Do you recall anyone else on the airport staff December 12?”

“Yes, of course. Lorraine Patricks. I told you before. She lives in the apartment in the front, on the ground floor.”

Medved said nothing.

“If only those die whom I came into contact with, then the others who are wounded will live.”

“We don’t know. There’s a badly burnt woman there whose Significant Name is
Flomirra
.” Medved, giving up on the tea, put down the mug.

“Can you tell me what all this means?” asked Gavein.

“If you don’t know, then no one does. It’s pure coincidence then.”

“And how in the blazes am I supposed to know?” Gavein said, raising his voice.

Medved nodded, agreeing. It was even possible that he believed Gavein.