Dead Harvest

15

The hand yanked my head back. I struggled in vain against it. Knife parted flesh, and blood, warm and slick, dribbled down my neck.

"Stop fighting," said the voice. "I'll kill you if I have to."

I fought against the panic and stopped struggling. Instead I reached out with my mind toward my assailant's — probing, searching. If it was human, I could grab a hold, try to get it to release this body, and be back inside my policeman-suit before its owner got three steps. The only snag to that plan was this possession stuff is a little unpredictable — I had no way of knowing whether Stabby here was gonna clench up and dispatch my little cop-friend before I got a chance to play the hero. Between the real Wai-Sun, and the replacement I'd dispatched, I was pretty sure I'd already seen enough death for one day.

Turns out, fate had other plans. As I grazed his mind with mine, my assailant flinched as if stung. The knife clattered to the rooftop, and he released his grip on my hair. I wheeled on him, my face a tug-of-war of confused and surprised.

"Anders?"

"Sam? Jesus, you scared the shit out of me! I could tell this body didn't belong to whoever was driving, but I had no idea it was you!"

"I left the old one in the apartment," I said. "The place was his, anyway." I pocketed my cat-shard and dabbed at my neck with the palm of my hand. It came back streaked with blood.

"Sorry about that," Anders said, his furtive gaze regretful. "I thought you were one of them. A dark-eyed one, tired of simply watching." The kid I'd been following had yet to relinquish his grip on the handrail — he was just staring at me and Anders with a mixture of bewilderment and fear. Anders shot him a reassuring smile; it looked out of place on his gaunt, worry-lined face. "It's all right, Pinch. This is Sam — he's one of the good guys."

That characterization was a dubious one at best, but I wasn't in the mood to correct him. "Anders, what the hell is going on here? Is Kate all right? Who the hell is this?"

"Kate's fine — I'll take you to her. We tried to wait for you at the park like you said, but things got dicey quick. A bunch of guys were going door to door flashing Kate's picture around, asking if anybody'd seen her. They wore the skin of cops, but I knew better — their eyes shone black as night. I grabbed Kate and we got the hell out of there. Pinch here offered to stay in case you showed, but when you didn't…" he swallowed hard. "We thought you might be dead."

"Truth be told, you weren't too far off." I looked the new kid up and down, then, not bothering to hide my suspicion. Pinch let go of the ladder, and took a couple tentative steps toward me. "Pleased to meet ya," he said. He extended a hand. I ignored it. It hung there between us for a moment, and then he let it drop.

"Anders, what the hell were you thinking bringing someone else into this? Does he know where you're keeping Kate?"

"Relax, Sam. The kid's the best pickpocket in town — wasn't anybody gonna get the drop on him."

I said, "I just did."

"Yeah, only that almost didn't work out too well for you, did it?" Again Anders smiled. "Look, all I gave Pinch was the number to a payphone down the street. Told him if he saw anything, he should give me a call. A few minutes ago, he did. Seems he didn't like the look of your little setup, thought maybe he ought to bring along some backup."

"Still, if anyone had gotten that number out of him, it would have only been a matter of time before they tracked you down."

"I can hear you two, you know," said the kid.

Anders replied, "The way I saw it, without you around, we were as good as dead already. The number was a risk I was willing to take."

"I'm standing right here." Pinch spoke again, his voice tinged with impatience.

"Why in the hell was he following me in the first place?" I said.

"I told him if anybody else came looking for Kate, hang back and keep an eye on 'em. I hear you put on quite a show, questioning those homeless guys."

"You coulda gotten him killed."

The kid bristled. "I can take care of myself."

I replied, "No offense, kid, but you have no idea what you're dealing with. You're in way over your head."

Pinch just smiled and held a good-sized shard of ceramic up to the light and turned it over in his hand, inspecting it. My hand flew to my pocket. It was a whole lot emptier than I remembered. "Did you just almost attack me with a cat?" he asked.

"Don't touch that," I said, snatching back the catshard. "It's dangerous."

"Good thing you never tangled with my grandma, then — she had a couple dozen of these things. Coulda gotten messy."

I said nothing, settling instead for seeing if maybe I'd spontaneously developed the ability to shoot death rays from my eyes. Anders took the hint, and pulled the kid aside. "Listen, Pinch, why don't you take off? I'll catch up with you later, OK?"

"Whatever," the kid said. He trotted back toward the fire escape he'd come up on. Before Pinch disappeared from sight, Anders stopped him with a shout.

"Hey, Pinch?"

"Yeah?"

"You did good today."

The kid flashed him a smile, and disappeared behind the stairwell shed.

"You know you never should have brought him in," I said. "The kid's a liability."

"The kid's a friend, Sam."

"Yeah," I said, "same thing."

Dumas, it turns out, was as good as his word — two weeks after our meeting at Mulgheney's, we got a call from the research group at Bellevue. They said that they had an opening in their program, and that Elizabeth looked to be a perfect match. She couldn't believe her luck. I hadn't told her that Dumas had promised to get her in, so worried was I that he wouldn't deliver. In fact, I hadn't told her much about the meeting at all — I didn't have to. She was so over the moon I'd found a job, she didn't care much what it was. Which was fine by me, since I couldn't have told her what it was yet if I'd tried. I hadn't heard a word from Dumas since our meeting, and were it not for the call from Bellevue, it may as well have never happened. In retrospect, I'm sure that was all part of his plan. Once he had Elizabeth to use as leverage, he knew he had his hooks in me but good — there was nothing I wouldn't do to get her well.

I got my first call less than twenty-four hours after they'd admitted Elizabeth to Bellevue. The assignment was simple enough: just pick up a package and drop it in a locker at Penn Station. I was given a car, an address, a time and date. The car was a '42 Studebaker. The address was on the waterfront. The time was 4am. I guess that shoulda clued me in that something was hinky, but those were different times. Least, that's what I like to tell myself. Sometimes, it seems to me the times haven't changed that much at all.

When I arrived at the pier, all was quiet. Though sunrise was still an hour away, the morning air was already stifling, and my clothes clung heavy to my skin. A cargo ship sat, moored and lightless, at the far end of the pier, a ramp jutting upward to her deck. I hobbled toward her, my progress tracked by a trio of crewmen who lounged smoking amidst the shipping crates that were scattered along the wharf.

By the flag flying from her mast, the ship was registered in Jamaica, but the crew mostly didn't look the part. Their appearance and the occasional snippet of Spanish that drifted to me through the still morning air led me to guess that Mexico had been this ship's last port of call. No one addressed me as I approached, nor did they object as, hesitantly, I mounted the ramp and limped upward toward the deck.

On the ship, I was greeted by a dark-skinned boy of no more than sixteen, who led me wordlessly to the captain's quarters, knocking twice on the open door before ushering me inside. The captain was a wiry man with eyes and skin of deepest brown, and an accent to match the flag atop the mast. He sat behind a massive wooden desk, scarred and pitted — and stacked high with books and charts. He didn't rise when I entered, and as I approached to shake his hand, he waved me off, instead nodding toward a worn leather suitcase standing just inside the door.

"I believe that is what you came for," he said. "Now take it and get the hell off my ship."

His tone was angry, to be sure, but the quaver in his voice belied the strength of his words. This man was afraid, I realized. Of me. Of Dumas.

Unsure how else to respond, I did as the captain said, retreating from his cabin without another word. The suitcase was heavy, and cumbersome as well. Twice as I descended the narrow ramp to the wharf, I stumbled, and nearly fell. But if the crewmen watching from behind the glowing embers of their cigarettes found my lack of grace amusing, they sure as hell didn't let on — there was nary a snicker or chiding comment to be had. It seemed the captain was not the only one who was frightened by my new employer. I was beginning to wonder if I ought to be as well.

It was just past 5am when I arrived at Penn Station, suitcase in hand. A far cry from the modern monstrosity now crammed like an afterthought beneath the hulking behemoth of Madison Square Garden, the old station was a soaring structure of glass and granite, its imposing colonnades oddly out of place alongside the deserted sidewalks of early morning. I left the car at the curb and wrestled the suitcase inside.

According to the board, the first train of the day — an overnight from St Louis — wasn't scheduled to arrive for another twenty minutes. Aside from an old man in coveralls, pushing a mop around like he didn't give a damn if the floor got clean, the concourse was deserted. A bank of lockers sat along the far wall, and I dragged my payload toward them, wincing as I heard my awkward, shuffling gait repeated back to me as it echoed through the vast empty space.

When I reached the lockers, it was clear I had a problem: with its stiff outer frame, the suitcase was just too damn big. No way was it gonna fit. But I wasn't about to blow my first assignment, so I decided to improvise. I'd just empty the contents of the suitcase into the locker, and drop the empty suitcase off when I returned the car and the key.

When I unzipped the suitcase, a sudden vinegar tang tickled my nostrils, and something else as well, earthy and unpleasant. It put me in mind of Mission Street out in San Francisco, where the hopheads used to beg for change to support their habits. The case was stuffed with paper bags, each dotted with oil spots and wrapped around something the size and shape of a brick. I took one out and looked inside. A compressed block of yellow-brown powder stared back at me, confirming what my nose had known all along.

Heroin. Musta been fifty grand's worth, maybe more. Whatever it was worth, it was more money than I'd see in a lifetime, that's for sure.

And there was something else for sure, too: no way was I gonna stand here in full view of anybody who cared to look and unload this thing into a locker. Which meant if I didn't figure out what I was gonna do with this shit and quick, I was pretty well screwed.

Footfalls echoed like gunshots through the concourse. I dropped the bag back into the open suitcase and wiped my hands off on my pants. Three bleary-eyed kids trotted past, dragged by their mother toward the platform, no doubt there to greet their father upon his return from St Louis. My eyes tracked them for a moment, but they never gave me a second glance. I zipped the suitcase and lugged it back through the station to my waiting car. I circled the terminal until I hit Eighth, and then I headed northeast toward Mulgheney's.

Dumas and I were gonna have ourselves a little chat.

The walls of the narrow corridor seemed to tilt and sway by the light of Anders' match-like reflections in a funhouse mirror. I followed behind him in the darkness, dragging one hand along the wall beside me to orient myself. The air around us reeked of moisture and rot, and the concrete beneath our feet was cracked and chipped — and littered with pots and pans and empty cans of God knows what, their labels faded to sallow obscurity.

Match burned flesh, and Anders cursed, dropping it to the floor. The match's flame guttered and died, plunging us into total darkness. My heart thudded in my chest as I remembered the eyes of the false WaiSun, their blackness so absolute it reduced all thought of light to the fleeting recollection of a half-remembered dream. I clenched my eyes against the panic and willed my heartbeat to slow.

We were three blocks and seven stories from the rooftop, in the basement storeroom of an abandoned restaurant. It looked like they'd ditched the place midrenovation; the stenciled storefront window read Molly's, but the lettering was only half filled-in, and the entire storefront had been papered over with yellowed pages from the New York Post, the headlines eight months old. The front door was chained shut, but Anders led me around back to a secluded alley, wheeling aside a small dumpster as far as its chain would allow, to reveal a sidewalk-level service entrance, one scarred and rust-flecked corner peeled skyward just enough to get a grip. Anders grasped the corner with both hands and jerked it upward. Rusty metal squealed in protest, and then gave. Once we clambered inside, he bent the door back into place, reducing the bright afternoon sun to a mere trickle, watery and insubstantial. By the time we rounded our first corner, even that faint light disappeared, and we were reduced to traveling by match-light.

I had to give it to him — he'd stashed her someplace nice and hard to find. Wai-Sun's top coulda done a dance on the fucking roof and I still might've never found them.

Anders struck another match and we continued down the hall. I realized the detritus that lined the hallway was anything but random. By the light of the match, Anders zigged and zagged between makeshift walls of cans, and stacks of pots balanced precariously atop each other as if by a precocious child.

"Your work?" I asked.

"I figured if they found us, I didn't want 'em coming quietly," he said.

As we climbed the stairs, the darkness lessened. To our right was what used to be the kitchen. Once doubtless stuffed with ovens and dishwashers and stainless steel countertops, all that now remained were a series of black rubber mats and a wide double sink collecting dust on the far wall. To our left, a short hall led toward the dining room. Light trickled amber through the papered windows beyond, bathing Anders and I both in a peculiar golden light.

The light reflected yellow from a set of eyes glaring at us from a darkened corner of the kitchen. They locked on mine a moment, and then disappeared without a sound. Just a rat, I told myself. Nothing to worry about. Still, I suppressed a shiver as again I was reminded of my meeting with the demon — and of the horrid creatures he'd carried inside.

Just beside the stairs was a door. A small placard that read "Office" hung crooked at its center. Anders approached it and knocked: first twice in rapid succession, and then thrice more.

"Kate, it's me," he said.

From behind the door came the clunks and scrapes of furniture being moved. The lock disengaged with a click, and then the door swung inward. Kate stood in the door frame, looking haggard but beautiful as ever, a smile dying on her lips as she saw me.

"Kate, you've no idea how relieved I am to see you," I said, but she just backed away.

"Anders, who is this?" she asked.

"Kate, it's me — Sam!"

"Anders, he told you that? He told you that and you believed him?"

Anders was struck dumb by her response. Looked like I was on my own.

"OK, I took you from the hospital. I saved your life when you took those pills. I made you an omelet!"

"If you have Sam somewhere, you might've made him tell you all those things!"

I racked my brain for anything that might convince her. "When you were young, you used to be afraid of the man who lived downstairs. For years, you refused to take the elevator alone, and at night you'd sleep beneath your bed, your pillows under your blankets as a decoy in case he came for you."

She stared at me for a long moment, but I don't think Kate really saw me — she had a faraway look in her eye, like she was suddenly somewhere else entirely. "He had a glass eye," she said finally.

"What?" Anders said to her.

"He had a glass eye, and it didn't fit so well. Once, when we were talking in the elevator, it fell out. He popped it back in like nothing had happened, but from then on I was terrified of him. But how could you possibly know that?"

I flashed her a wan smile. "Comes with the job, kid." Truth was, my head was crammed full of countless such moments, every one of them but Kate's serving as a painful reminder of a soul I had dispatched. They filled my dreams in my sleep, and when sleep would not come, it was those stolen memories — those cast-off echoes of a life misspent — that robbed me of my rest. They were my punishment. My burden to bear. And they were never very far from reach.

But Kate didn't need to know any of that just now. She beamed back at me and threw her arms around my neck, squeezing until I thought I might pass out.

"Where are my manners?" she said once she released me from her grasp. "Come in, come in!"

Anders and I followed her into the office. She swung shut the door, and Anders helped her drag the scarred metal desk back in front of it. They tilted it on its side such that the desktop was wedged beneath the doorknob, bracing the door closed. The room itself was small and cramped, and flickered with the light of a dozen candles, which dripped wax on every filthy surface. Besides the desk, there was a ratty desk chair, its black vinyl cushions cracked and peeling, a hulking gray filing cabinet, and a dusty old floor lamp, its cord chewed through just inches from the base. I fingered a stack of unlabeled cans piled high atop the filing cabinet, and Kate smiled. "Pickings are kind of slim around here," she said. "We never know what we're gonna get until we open them. They're mostly just beans, but Anders swears he can tell which ones are peaches by the sound."

My eyes settled on a pile of old clothes in the corner, arranged in a sort of makeshift bed. "Church up the street is having a clothing drive," Anders said. "I snagged those off the steps last night. Figured we're as needy as anyone. We're sleeping in shifts," he added lamely, as if I might have assumed otherwise.

I tried to raise an eyebrow at that last, only to find that Flynn here couldn't manage it. "I'm just glad you two are safe," I said.

"And what about you?" Kate asked. "When last we saw you, you were convulsing on the floor, and now you show up here days later in a new body, only this one already looks like you put it through the wringer. Spill it, Sam — I want to hear everything!"

And so I told them. I told them how I shot my way out of the apartment, and how I'd requested all units to the front of the building, allowing them an opening to escape. I told them how the rookie got the jump on me, and put a bullet in my vest. I told them about the hours of interrogation, and my subsequent release. I told them of my meeting with Merihem, my run-in with the demon in Chinatown, and my unlikely deliverance at the hands of a small ceramic cat. They listened rapt throughout, asking only the occasional question of clarification, and I was suddenly struck by how young they both were — far too young, I thought, to have to deal with such unpleasantness. Then again, if life is suffering, these two were old beyond their years.

Funny, how that thought failed to comfort me.

What I didn't tell them were the circumstances of my release, or indeed of my meeting with the seraph at all. Even now, I'm not sure why. Maybe I didn't want to frighten Kate with the knowledge that the angels were aligned against her. Maybe I wanted to spare her the seraph's accusations of her treachery and deceit, and the fear and doubt they would instill. Maybe I didn't want to plant the notion in her head that I'd eventually betray her, as the seraph said I would.

Or maybe, just maybe, there was some small part of me that wondered if what the angel had said was true.