Superposition (13 page)

“And what did you find?”

Carter shrugged. “Nothing. No bodies, no blood. I went back out and asked him where he stashed the bodies, and he says his wife was right inside the door, and how could I have missed her? So we figure he's nuts, and we book him and take him in.”

I listened impassively, trying not to show my annoyance. If only I had run out the back door when the varcolac came for me instead of the front, I would have gotten away. I wouldn't be sitting here, day after day, listening to all these people accuse me of something I never did.

“Did he say anything in the car on the way to the station?” Haviland asked.

Carter nodded. “Yes, he did.”

“And did you advise him that he did not have to speak without the presence of a lawyer, and that anything he said could be used against him in court?”

“I did.”

“And he chose to speak anyway?”

“Yes.”

“And what did he say?”

“He said, ‘This is all Brian's fault.'”

“Did he elaborate as to whether he was talking about Brian Vanderhall or some other Brian?”

“No sir, he did not.”

CHAPTER 15

UP-SPIN

Colin's life had been turned upside down by Uncle Sean's violent death, just as mine had, though in a very different way. Instead of heading off to college, Colin had gotten meaner, more aggressive, more likely to kick an opponent when he was down. The bruiser who killed Uncle Sean in the ring eventually turned up dead in an alley. Colin told me he wasn't involved, but to this day I don't know if I believe him. Three days after I started college, though, he was busted for illegal possession of a firearm and spent a year in the pen.

The day he got out of prison, a bullet to the knee ended his boxing career forever. The details of how it happened were murky. He called me at MIT and told me he'd found Jesus and was turning his life around and leaving boxing behind. I asked him how that was possible, knowing that the underground boxing rings didn't easily let their boxers go, and he told me about his knee. That was twenty years ago, and I still don't know if he pulled the trigger himself.

Colin never left South Philadelphia. I took Passyunk Avenue to get to his place, past the rows of gentlemen's clubs and adult bookstores that in the bright of the day were empty and dark. I'd read an article recently that claimed that, according to the author's calculations, the sexual exploitation industry had surpassed the oil and gas industry as the largest grossing business in the world. In this part of town, it certainly looked like it, though of course most such business was conducted across the net and included men of every level of education and culture. Here on the street, there were just no pretensions.

The growing population of South Philadelphia was trapped: Center City to the North, the airport to the South, and the river and the wetlands preserve to the East and West. There was no room to grow, no place to go, and nothing to promote new development or new jobs. The neighborhoods, which had been poor when I lived there, had been sliding downhill ever since.

Colin was the founder of a Christian outreach complex called Salt and Light, located only a few blocks from where I grew up. He'd acquired one of the old stone churches that dotted the Philadelphia landscape, as well as the two row houses directly behind it, and had knocked holes in the connecting walls to join all three buildings into a warren of confusing turns and passageways.

Most of the space was used by a tiny Christian school aimed at teaching the gospel message to underprivileged youth, with about forty kids total in kindergarten through twelfth grade. Besides the school, there was a pregnancy center, a soup kitchen, and an evangelical chapel with daily services. The school charged students a nominal tuition—if they could afford it—which wasn't nearly enough to cover operating expenses or pay any salaries, and none of the other ministries brought in any money at all. My uncle, and the others who worked there with him, were entirely supported by the donations of the generous. I saw Colin as little as possible, but I sent a substantial donation every year. A kind of guilt offering, I suppose.

He welcomed Marek, Alessandra, and me into his tiny office, shook Marek's hand, and gave me a crushing bear hug. He was still strong, though his muscles were less defined and his skin had dulled to a leathery gray, his tattoos stretched and faded. Instead of hugging Alessandra, he crouched down to look up into her face. She stared at the floor, unresponsive. Colin stood, his smile vanishing. “What happened?”

I told him the whole story. He canceled classes and shooed away volunteers who came to his door with questions or problems. He didn't comment until I had told him everything, as much of it as I understood.

“The police must have found Brian's body in the bunker,” I said. “They think I murdered him.”

“So you're being chased by both the police and this demon,” Colin said.

“Don't mock me,” I said. “It's real.”

“I'm not mocking,” Colin said. “I believe you. You can't stay here, though.”

“You're kicking us out?”

“Not exactly. I'm your one living relative. The cops will come here eventually, and they'll turn the place upside down looking for you. Don't worry, though; I have a safe house. We'll hide you there.”

“A safe house? What are you, a drug runner?” I knew I was being rude, but I hated having to come here for help, and I hated Colin to see my failure. It wasn't Colin's fault, but I wanted to take it out it on him anyway.

Colin gave a tight smile. “This is a sanctuary. You're hardly the first person to come here with crimes on his record, deserved or not. We walk a fine line, but we need the trust of the street, or we'll never help anyone in this neighborhood.”

The safe house turned out to be a grand name for the basement of another church. “I mostly use it for women who need to get away from their boyfriends or husbands,” Colin said. “Or occasionally a guy borrows money from the wrong people and needs a little more time to pay it back.”

It was past midnight by the time we got there. There were two twin beds in the room, a beat-up dresser, and industrial gray carpet with various stains. Alessandra lay down on one of them, curled up, and faced the wall. Colin pulled a blanket over her that was either blue or green, but old enough that it was hard to tell. Marek, Colin, and I climbed back up the stairs to the sanctuary, which was old as well, with threadbare upholstery on scratched pews, and a stained glass window that might have been beautiful before the outside was boarded over to prevent breakage.

“Alessandra hasn't said a word,” I said, dropping into one of the pews. “She won't talk to me; she won't answer questions. She was there when”—I swallowed—“when it happened. I think she might blame me. For not being there to stop it.”

“Don't push her,” Colin said. “Grief takes time. Sometimes a lot of time. Blaming you, if that's even what she's doing, is a natural part of the process. As is blaming herself.”

“Thanks for the tip, Father,” I said. I couldn't help it. Colin's conversion had always seemed like a charade to me. I remembered every cruel thing he ever did, every person he bullied, how he treated his girlfriends, and every nasty word he ever said to me, so it was hard for me to take him seriously as a saint. He just seemed like a hypocrite to me, even though I knew full well that he wasn't, which made me feel even worse and increased the sense that he was looking down his holy nose at my choices.

“You can stay here as long as you need,” he said, ignoring my remark. “Until you can get things cleared up.”

I was still feeling belligerent. “Did you believe any of the story I told you?”

“Every word. Was it true?”

“Of course it was. But really? You're telling me you believe all that stuff about an alien creature?”

“Yes, I believe you.”

“Doesn't the existence of another intelligent race undermine your faith?”

Colin sat sideways on the pew in front of me and propped his feet up. “Not a bit.”

“I thought man was supposed to be unique. Created in the image of God.”

Colin shrugged. “A lot of people might have trouble with the idea, I suppose, but there is some precedent.”

“Precedent? For alien creatures?”

“Not aliens, exactly, but the angels in Scripture are a race of intelligent beings unique from man. They're not physical beings, but they can take different forms, and speak, and make their own choices. Some of them chose to follow God, and others—the ones we know as demons—rejected him, but they're both the same race. The same species, if you will. Unlike humans, though, they don't get a second chance. There's no redemption for them, no sacrifice to atone for their sins. No Christ comes to their race to take their due punishment.”

I stole a glance at Marek, who had wandered across the room and was peering at the images on the stained glass. “So you think these quantum creatures are demons?” I asked.

“Not necessarily. I don't know what they are. I'm just saying, there's a precedent for a created race of intelligent beings that God deals with in a different way than he deals with us.”

“This is ridiculous.” I gripped the pew in front of me, wishing I could tear it apart or throw it across the room. My voice rose. “You're ridiculous. Sitting around talking about elves and gremlins as if any of this made any sense. This is all some crazy trick. If there is a God, he's probably laughing his head off right now.”

Colin put his hand on mine. I shook it off and shoved him. “And don't give me some sanctimonious babble about God's ways being higher than ours. If this is the real world, and not somebody's messed up idea of a practical joke, then it was created by a sadist.”

Marek came up behind me while I was talking and put a strong hand on my shoulder. It was just the excuse I needed. I whirled and threw a punch at his face. He was ready for it and twisted, letting the blow glance of his shoulder, and then wrapped his arms around me. I grappled with him, shouting, and we both fell on the floor. We rolled around, wrestling and punching each other at close quarters, while Colin sat by and did nothing to intervene, until I lay panting on my back and the tears came. My body shook with sobs, and I lay there on the floor, letting them come.

When they finally subsided, Marek gave me a hand and hauled me to my feet.

I dropped back into the pew, still breathing hard, and looked at Marek and Colin. Neither man said anything.

“What do I do now?” I asked finally. “My wife and children are dead. I can't go home. I can't go back to work. If I turned myself in, I'd never be able to explain my actions to the police.”

“Not all of your children are dead,” Colin said.

Any response I might have made was cut short by a scream from the basement.

I jumped up so fast I bashed my hip against the pew in front of me, but I still beat Colin down the stairs. Alessandra was sitting up in bed, clutching the old blanket, her face white.

“What happened? What did you see?”

“A face,” she said. “In the mirror.”

I swiveled and saw a battered shaving mirror hanging from a nail in the wall. “Whose face?”

“It was him. That man.”

“No eyes?” I asked.

She nodded. I put my arm around her, but she remained stiff, her muscles tensed for flight.

“It's okay,” I said, although I knew it wasn't.

“Miss Alessandra,” Colin said formally. “Can I get you a Coke?”

“No.”

Marek quietly turned the mirror around to face the wall.

“Can you tell us what you saw at your house?” Colin asked.

Alessandra pulled her knees up under her chin.

“I know you saw your mother and sister and brother die,” he persisted. “It's hard to talk about. But we want to protect you, and we want to protect ourselves, and the best way for us to do that is to know exactly what happened.”

She didn't answer.

“Let it go,” I said.

Colin shrugged. “There are two kinds of people. Those who get up and fight, and those who just lie down and accept whatever happens to them.”

I stood at that, ready to throw another punch, but Colin held up a hand, palm raised, and shook his head.

Alessandra glared at him. “I can hear you, you know.”

“So what?” Colin said. “You won't do anything about it. You're the lying down kind; I can see that.”

“My mother just died. You're supposed to be nice to me.”

“Why?”

She made a noise of disgust. “I thought you were a priest.”

“I'm not. I don't hear confessions, and I don't preach sermons. I'm more of a missionary to my own tribe.”

“I don't need your help.”

Colin sat at the foot of the bed. “If my mother was murdered, I'd be angry. I'd make sure the person who did it didn't escape. I'd find him and . . .” He trailed off and looked at her expectantly.