Sins of the Father (6 page)

The man's neck broke with a crack. The body went limp, a puddle forming on the floor beneath it as the bladder let go.

It was over. Easing the dead man gently to the floor, Leonard found he felt no great sense of triumph. He had killed plenty of people before: maybe fifteen or twenty of them, if you counted Gila-Munjas as people. Life was hard in the Cursed Earth, and the needs of survival or plain angry vengeance meant sometimes Leonard had been forced to kill without thought of conscience. But he had felt no fear or hatred towards this man. It seemed to make things different somehow. Leonard wasn't quite sure why, but it felt like for the first time in his life he had committed a murder. He had killed a stranger in cold blood, strangling the life out of him just because that was what Daniel had told him to do. Daniel had said this was a bad man. He had said James Nails deserved to die. Looking down into the dead man's blank and lifeless eyes, Leonard hoped he was right.

"It's not enough," Daniel said. He seemed calmer, now the man was dead. His voice was hollow. As he stared at the body of the dead man in front of them, he seemed dissatisfied. It was though he was still angry at the dead man. "People should know he was a bad man and that was why we killed him. There has to be some way we could tell them."

Daniel fell quiet for a time. Standing beside him, waiting for his friend to speak, Leonard was struck by how small the boy was: even if he had stood on the tips of his toes, his head would have barely come up to the side of Leonard's hip. At the same time, it felt like Daniel was bigger than him somehow: as though something dark burned inside his frail childish body and lent him power.

"We should leave a message," Daniel said at last. He turned to look at Leonard, his little boy eyes filled with an almost frightening intensity. "Leonard, you carry a knife, don't you?"

"Sure," Leonard answered. Fumbling in the pocket of his greatcoat, he pulled out his clasp knife. He had had it for years. Back in the Cursed Earth he had used it to cut up his food, trim ropes, skin and gut animals; he had even killed with it once or twice. Most often these days though he used it to cut open boxes at the warehouse where he worked.

"Good," Daniel said. "I want you to write something for me. A message. Don't worry, I know you can't read. I'll tell you what to write and how to make the letters. And I'll tell you where to write it.

"I just need you to do the cutting."

THREE

ACTS OF JUDGEMENT

The baby was crying. Its high-pitched wails spread across the dusty interior of the derelict factory, echoes rebounding from the rusting junk-pile landscape of broken munce-grinders and disused conveyor belts. Sitting on a metal staircase to the side of the old factory floor, Lucas Verne tried to soothe the squealing infant. He rocked it gently in his arms, back and forth. He cooed at it. He made funny faces. His efforts, though, were unsuccessful. Lacking any real experience of babies, he had hardly any idea how to handle one, much less finally persuade it to stop its screaming.

The baby had been crying, on and off, ever since he had grabbed it from the block crèche. The sound was relentless. It seemed to drill into Lucas's head, creating a build-up of pressure at the back of his neck and behind his eyes that made him want to moan in pain. Abandoning his fruitless attempts to console the child, Lucas reminded himself of the reason he had kidnapped it to begin with. The knife lay on the step beside him. The blade was keen and sharp. He only had to pick up the weapon and, with one quick movement, it would all be over.

One quick movement, and he could stop the baby's tears forever.

Yet still, somehow, he found he was unable to do it. Unsure of his courage, Lucas had sat in the same place for hours while the child incessantly screeched and wailed at him. It had all seemed so clear back at Lindberg, but once he was alone with his victim in a secluded place the enormity of the act he contemplated had abruptly dawned on him. Chastened, he had told himself there was no other option. There was too much at stake to allow a failure of nerve to dissuade him. He had waited, staring down at the child, hoping the passage of time and the baby's continual noise might somehow combine to give him the strength he needed. Instead, he had felt his courage wax and wane inside him. At times, it felt like he was almost ready, only for his decisiveness to melt away as he reached for the knife. Competing instincts of mercy and ruthlessness warred within him: he did not hate this child, but the bitter consequences if he left his task undone appalled him.

He was going to kill the Messiah. Even now, the thought made him uneasy. He felt light-headed and sick to the very pit of his stomach. Already, he had heaved up everything he had eaten, a puddle of vomit left festering beside one of the ruined packaging machines on the factory floor. Now, he felt tremors run through him as dry heaves wracked his body. It was almost too much for his mind to process. He was about to set himself against the Lord Grud's grand design. He was going to defy his Creator. He would commit an act of rebellion even greater than sinful Eve's in the Garden of Eden.

In an attempt to stiffen his waning resolve once more, he thought back over his reasons. When he had first realised the child's true nature, he had told himself he had no choice. The Apocalypse was coming. The world would end. Billions would die, and only Lucas Verne could stand against it. Only he could avert the Final Judgement. He tried to reassure himself that perhaps even this might be some secret part of Grud's master plan. Grud was ineffable: his ways unknowable to the mind of Man. It could be that it was his destiny, divinely ordained, to kill the Christ-child. Why else would Grud have allowed the child to be born into the same housing block where Lucas lived? But even that thought only raised more questions.

Why? Why would Grud do this to him? Lucas was reminded of the story of Abraham: of how the Lord Grud had ordered him to sacrifice his son Isaac, only to send an angel to stay the old man's hand at the very last moment. Was that it? Was this a test of his faith? Or was he like Job, condemned to suffer needlessly simply because it was Grud's will. The questions assailed him and he could find no answers. He wanted to pray, but all his prayers had left him. He felt forsaken and cast out, until a new thought occurred to him.

If this was a test, perhaps it worked both ways. If he wished to know Grud's will, then he needed only to strike out against the child and the answers would become clear to him. Grud was all-powerful. If it was His will that the child be saved, when Lucas tried to harm it then Grud's hand would show itself. Like Abraham, Lucas would be prevented from completing the act. An angel would come, or Lucas would be struck blind, or the knife in his hand would turn to a serpent. Whatever the case, Grud's will in the matter would become clear.

He played the thought in his head. He tested its logic. Finally, he came to a decision.

He would kill the child. Then, all his questions would be answered.

From the outside the factory was rundown and decrepit, its dozens of boarded-up windows peering blindly at the night-time traffic of the skedway alongside it. As the two Judges pulled their bikes onto an exit ramp leading to the parking forecourt, Anderson was struck by how quickly the place had been claimed by urban decay. According to the information Bryson had given her during the ride over from Lindberg, Mayor McMunce's McMarvellous Burgers had closed its doors a little under five years ago. It had not weathered well. Where the walls had not already been scarred by juve scrawl and petty vandalism, the paint had peeled away revealing the crumbling grey surface of the plascrete underneath it. Weeds poked out from cracks in the forecourt. Illegally dumped garbage littered every open space. Even the cartoon figure of the company mascot she had seen in Lucas Verne's memories had suffered violation. The statue of Mayor McMunce on the factory roof was missing a limb: the hand which had once greeted passers-by with a cheery wave was broken off at the elbow.

In an attempt to prevent the perp from becoming alerted to their presence, the Judges had both cut their sirens three blocks earlier. Now, hoping the background noise of nearby traffic would serve to cover their approach, they switched off the engines of their Lawmasters and let their bikes glide silently into the forecourt.

"How do you want to play this?" Bryson whispered as he eased his bike to a halt beside her.

"Have you ever communicated telepathically before?" Anderson whispered back.

It feels like this
, she told him, projecting the thoughts into his mind.
It's the best way for us to stay in touch without the perp hearing us. I'm letting you know now so you don't freak out when I use it inside. I've tuned in to your psychic wavelength. If you want to send a message back to me, you just have to think out the words in your head and I'll hear them
.

Check
, Bryson's message came back.

His face looked uneasy. It was a common reaction among non-psychics to their first experience of telepathy. Undoubtedly, Bryson did not welcome the idea of a Psi-Judge being able to eavesdrop inside his head. Momentarily, Anderson could tell him she had only established a surface channel of communication between them: the street Judge had no reason to fear the exposure of his unguarded inner thoughts. In her experience though, she realised that if she brought the subject up at all it would simply make things worse. Bryson would only assume she was reading his mind already, and immediately deny he had anything to hide. It was a no-win situation. Justice Department might like to paint them all as happy members of the same team, but sometimes the divide between Psi-Judges and their fellow Judges was so wide as to be almost unbridgeable.

Closing her eyes, she reached out to the currents of the psi-flux in search of the psychic signature of Lucas Verne. Assuming the perp was inside the factory, once Anderson entered the place she would need to be cautious in her use of her powers. It was difficult to stay aware of her physical surroundings when she accessed the psi-flux: she risked exposing herself to ambush, allowing the perp to sneak up on her while her senses were clouded. Here though, in the relative safety of the factory forecourt, she had Bryson to watch her back and she could use her powers freely.

The perp's inside
, she told him, opening her eyes again.
And I can sense the baby. I can't get a definite fix on their location. We'll have to do a pattern search and work our way from the first floor upwards. We should split up to cover the ground more quickly. You go in the back way, I'll take the front, and we'll meet in the middle
.

Check
, Bryson nodded. He was already holding his Lawgiver in his hand, cocked and ready.

Following the street Judge's example, Anderson pulled her own Lawgiver from her boot holster and eased off the safety behind the pistol's trigger. The standard issue Justice Department firearm in Mega-City One, the Lawgiver Mark Two was designed to give individual Judges the firepower to deal with virtually any situation. The gun had six ammunition options: Armour Piercing, Heatseeker, Hi-Explosive, Incendiary, Ricochet and Standard Execution rounds - controlled by an internal selector designed to respond to either vocal commands or a manual selection switch on the side of the magazine. It was also equipped with a non-lethal alternative in the form of a stun-shot energy pulse powered by the Lawgiver's own internal power supply. The stun-shot had a limited range, and its effects on its targets could be notoriously short-lived, but where possible Anderson preferred to bring her perps in alive. Especially when, as in the case of Lucas Verne, their psychological condition meant they couldn't be held responsible for their actions. Putting her finger to the selector switch, she set her Lawgiver to stun-shot.

We go in quiet
, she reminded Bryson as they left their bikes behind and began to advance towards the factory. As an extra precaution, she switched off the radio unit on her belt to prevent the noise of any sudden calls from Control from giving them away.
The perp's unstable enough already - we don't want to spook him into doing something stupid. And, remember, the life of Garret Cooley is our main concern here. If possible, we take Lucas Verne alive. But if it comes down to having to kill him to save the baby, we go for the killshot. No question
.

Agreed
, Bryson nodded again.
You ready?

They had reached the outskirts of the old factory building. It was time for the two of them to go their separate ways. Anderson drew a deep breath, found her centre, and started to move towards the building's front entrance.

Ready
, she told him.
Let's go
.

She only hoped they could come through this one without anybody having to die.

Inside, the factory was even more of a shambles than it appeared from its exterior. The chain and padlock holding the front doors closed had been broken open, indicating that was the way Lucas Verne had gained entrance. Sneaking soundlessly through the broad inner expanses of what had once been a busy factory floor, Anderson found she was alone in a dark and ominous environment in which every shadow seemed thick with implicit menace. She had a flashlight clipped to her belt, but wary of alerting the perp to her presence she was forced to forego its comfort. In its place, she relied on the dim radiance of street lights and moonlight that came in through the gaps between the boards covering the windows to guide her. It was slow and cautious work. The floor was strewn with rusting debris: a single misstep might cause her to reveal her position, or worse, slip and twist an ankle. The foreboding shapes of the factory machinery around her offered the perp a hundred different places in which to hide. The silence was oppressive. Uncomfortably, it occurred to her that if the perp had wanted to choose the perfect spot in which to ambush a Judge, he could not have picked a better location.

Suddenly, the silence was broken. She heard the distant noise of a baby crying.