Card Sharks

The Ashes of Memory
3

Hannah threw the transcripts down on Malcolm's desk. "I want Harris fired, Malcolm. I want his ass out the door."

Her fury had been building all day, though Hannah wondered if her ire was because Harris hadn't done his job or because his failure had dumped the task on her. But if Dr. Finn's tale had not been enough, listening to the depositions of the fire victims under his care had fueled the inward anger.

Jokers or not, no one deserved what they'd gone through.

Harris missed being on the receiving end of Hannah's wrath: he was out when she returned to the office not long after noon, and the fury had gone to glowing embers under the work awaiting her. The initial lab report had been on her desk, confirming that traces of jet fuel had been found in the remnants of the basement plants; the materials in the delayed fuse were still being checked. Dr. Sheets's autopsy reports came in the late afternoon: nothing unusual there other than the bizarre variety of forms among the dead: CO levels in the blood and tissue samples indicated that most had died from smoke inhalation long before the flames reached them.

Hannah had requested a database check on convicted and suspected pyros in the city; the list was depressingly long. Aces like Jumping Jack Flash she discarded — there'd been nothing to suggest a wild card power had been involved in the fire. Those who were still incarcerated or already in jail, those who never torched occupied buildings, and those who had never indicated any wild card antipathy she moved to the bottom of the list. There were still a dozen names left in the priority category. She'd decided to take Arnold Simpson, another of the agents, and interrogate the first one — a Kevin Ramblur, a street gang kid with the nickname of Flashfire who, it was suspected, had been responsible for snatching lone jokers from the street and setting them afire — when the floor clerk brought in Harris's transcripts.

"Pete said to give you these, and that he'd talk with you in the morning," the clerk said. "He had a doctor's appointment."

Harris had given her a long litany of "not available for deposition" and sketchy logs. They were garbage; utterly useless even if she hadn't already known that all of them were outright lies. That had fanned the dull anger back into rage, and Hannah stalked down to Malcolm's office rehearsing her first words.

"I'm not kidding, Malcolm. This is either incompetence, deliberate sabotaging of my case, or both."

Malcolm Coan, District Director of the Arson Bureau, New York State Department of Justice, had the eyes of a Great White, dark and frighteningly expressionless. The rest of his demeanor did nothing to dispel the illusion of a predator, nor did the fact he insisted that all his subordinates address him by his first name lend him any friendliness. Everything about the man was sharp and edged — the lines of his face, the carefully manicured nails, the fresh starch on his white shirt, the careful crease of his pants. He picked up the reports Hannah had thrown down on the empty expanse of his desk, shuffled them carefully so that the edges aligned, and then leafed through them without a word as Hannah paced in front of him, too agitated to sit down. Finally he placed the reports precisely in front of him and looked at her with those dead, unreadable eyes. He waited.

"They're trash," Hannah said finally. "Harris went to the Jokertown Clinic and did nothing. 'Not available.' Well, that's a bald-faced lie. I talked to them. Dr. Finn was entirely cooperative."

"Are you in the habit of checking up on the work of your agents?" Coan asked. His voice was no different than the rest of him: cutting and thin. Malcolm can make "Good Morning" sound like an obituary — Hannah had heard that joke the first day on the job.

"No sir," she answered. "I much prefer to believe that they'll give me their best effort. The fact that I caught this was coincidental, but I did. Now I can't trust any of Harris's work, and I don't like his attitude, either. He obviously doesn't care."

"And you want me to terminate Mr. Harris."

"Malcolm, the regulations — "

"I know the regulations perfectly well, Ms. Davis." Coan smiled, but there was no amusement in the expression. "I also know Mr. Harris's work. In fact, I would have considered him for your position had I not been" — he paused — "persuaded otherwise. He has done excellent investigation for me in the past."

"With all due respect, not this time."

"Nonetheless …" Coan swiveled in his chair. The Times lay at right angles to the corner of his credenza. Coan plucked the front section from the stack and placed it on the desk so that Hannah could see it. "Today's edition," Coan said. "You will note that your fire has dropped entirely off the front page. You'll find no mention of it anywhere until page seven."

The anger inside Hannah suddenly went cold. "What are you telling me, Malcolm? That no one cares about jokers? I already figured that one out."

"It means, Ms. Davis, that I have very little incentive to keep an already-overburdened staff working overtime on your case. It means that since you dislike Mr. Harris's efforts so much, I can oblige you by taking him off this assignment. I can use him elsewhere."

"Take him off … " Words dissolved in her shock. "I'm already understaffed for something like this, Malcolm."

"I can't afford to lose good agents, Ms. Davis. I also can't afford to waste this much manpower" — he actually smiled at her with the word — "on this case. You don't want Mr. Harris, that's not a problem."

"Malcolm — "

"And I want your preliminary report on my desk tomorrow morning at eight o'clock," he continued. "For the press, should they be interested."

"You're going to ignore what I've told you about Harris?"

"Give me a signed IOC and I'll make sure it goes in his personal file along with my notes on this meeting and a formal reprimand. Will that be satisfactory, Ms. Davis?"

Hannah swallowed the remark she wanted to make. "Do I have a choice, Malcolm?"

"Frankly, Ms. Davis, no. You don't. This decision, at least, is mine."

Hannah nodded curtly. "Then I'll get started on that IOC," she said.

"Eight o'clock for your report," Malcolm told Hannah's retreating back. "No later."

One of the lab techs was waiting for her in the corridor. She took a look at Hannah's expression, whistled softly, and handed Hannah a sheet of paper with exaggerated caution. "It couldn't have been too bad," she said. "Your head's still attached."

Hannah grimaced. "This going to make me feel better, Jo Ann?"

"I doubt it. We tracked down the fuse components that were identifiable — a pretty standard hobby store chip used with nine-volt batteries: that was your timer. The piece of small canister that you found had a few flecks of green paint on it. Suggest anything to you?"

"Oxygen," Hannah said, and Jo Ann nodded. "Anybody who works around oxygen knows that you can't let pure oxygen come into contact with petroleum products without combustion and probably a small explosion. So he made a timer to puncture the canister about the time the JP-4 was rising in the sink." A premonition ran cold fingers down Hannah's spine. "So who'd know about that reaction?"

"Anybody who works with oxy. Welders?" Jo Ann suggested. "Someone in a hospital?"

Hannah nodded. She hated the thought that had just occurred to her. "Right. Thanks, Jo. This is great stuff. Excuse me, but I need to run a background check …"

Arnold Simpson was one of the agents Hannah liked. He acted no differently around her than anyone else. He didn't seem to have a problem with the idea of a woman in a position of authority. As he said once to her, after a staff meeting particularly thick with innuendos and unsubtle digs in Hannah's direction: "Hey, I'm their showcase black agent; you're the showcase woman. I know exactly what's going on. At least we ain't damn jokers."

"This Ramblur guy doesn't exactly live on Park Avenue, does he?" Simpson flipped through the printouts Hannah had given him as Hannah unlocked the staff Escort in the bureau's parking garage. "Nice priors, too. Don't you just love our criminal justice system?" Simpson threw the file on the dash and swung his long legs around the passenger seat. "NYPD thinks he's the one been dousing the lone jokers and torching 'em, huh?"

"Yeah," Hannah said, sliding behind the wheel. "I talked with somebody named Ellis out at the J-Town precinct. Said they're pretty sure it was him. They just don't have enough to drag him in."

"You think maybe's he's tired of doing things one corpse at a time?"

"We'll see." Hannah turned the key and put the car in gear. She started to pull out of the space.

And then stood on the brakes, the tires screeching in protest. "Shit!"

Quasiman stood in front of the Escort, an inch from the bumper. Hannah didn't have any idea where the joker had been hiding, but there he was.

Simpson started to surge out of the car, but Hannah stopped him with a hand on his arm. "It's okay," she said. "I know this guy. Just … just give me a second, all right?" Hannah took a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart, and got out.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Quasiman actually smiled at her. It didn't help her temper. "You're Hannah." He seemed inordinately proud of the fact that he'd remembered her name.

"Yes, I'm Hannah. And you're in our way. Get the hell out of here before I call security."

"I saw something," Quasiman persisted. "I came right away so I wouldn't forget it all."

"More dreams? More crystal ball stuff about you seeing the future?"

A nod. "It's already half gone, like a fog. That's why I had to come. It's all leaving me so fast…."

"Then you've wasted your time. Get it through your head — I'm not interested. You want me to solve the case, then let me get on with what I'm doing. Get out of our way."

Quasiman went berserk at that. He banged his fist against the hood, the sound echoing through the garage like a car crash. His fist came away leaving a dimpled crater in the metal. The joker shouted, nearly frothing in his effort to get the words out. "There was a doctor, Hannah! Fan … fan … fan-ool? And his nurse …"

"Go away!"

"They were in a jungle. Lots of green. Hot, very hot. And death that wasn't death." Quasiman was coming around the side of the car. Hannah jumped back in and slammed the door shut, hitting the locks. She was fairly sure that the joker could rip the door off if he wanted to, but he just continued his ranting from the other side of the glass. "You went to see someone called Rudo," Quasiman shouted, his voice muffled, his face smearing saliva across the glass. Hannah gunned the engine and he stumbled back. "You go to Rudo!" he screamed as she slammed the gearshift into drive and careened away. "Green canisters, Hannah! There were green canisters!"

His voice trailed away as Hannah turned the corner onto the garage's exit ramp. The sound of Quasiman's voice seemed to echo far too long in her mind.

Green canisters…. Fan-ool…. "Damn it, how did he know I checked?" Hannah muttered.

"What?" Simpson asked. He was looking back over his shoulder.

"Nothing,"

"So what the fuck was that?"

"A weirdo," Hannah said grimly. "Forget it. Let's go talk with Ramblur and the others on the list. When we get back, I think I might do something stupid."

Dr. Pan Rudo was as Hannah had pictured him from Dr. Finn's tale: thin, graying, elegant, and friendly in a mannered way. He looked to be somewhere in his mid-sixties, fine lines snagging his dark eyes and netting his mouth. He folded his hands on his desk and shrugged. Behind him, several stories down, the office window gave a view of the UN Plaza, crowded with people heading home after the work day. The walls of the office were lined with plaques and photos: Dr. Rudo with Albert Einstein, with the ageless Winston Churchill, with Marilyn Monroe, with every president from Carter to Bush. "I find myself at a loss, Ms. Davis. I can't imagine why you would be interested in poor, misguided Dr. Faneuil."

"I'm not exactly sure why either, Dr. Rudo," Hannah admitted. "Let's just say that I'm being a little over-thorough and maybe a bit paranoid."

Rudo smiled at her. "Ordinarily, I'd say that's an unusual and attractive asset in your occupation. So how may I help you?"

Hannah gave Rudo a condensed version of what had led her to Dr. Finn. Rudo listened attentively, his hand steepled under his chin, nodding occasionally. When she had finished, he spread his hands wide in a gesture of sympathy. "I see why you might wonder," he told her. "I remember Kenya all too well. Dr. Faneuil was a terrible and tragic waste of incredible talent, and we all owe a debt of gratitude to Dr. Finn for exposing him."

"I ran a background check," Hannah said. "Dr. Faneuil began to work for the Red Cross and various other charitable health organizations in the early sixties. He went to Kenya in 1974, and fled in 1985 in the aftermath of the AIDS revelation. The records indicate he was known to be in Vietnam by 1986, and then … well, nothing. He disappears from all the records I could find."

"And you wonder if possibly he didn't return here with his vendetta against jokers still in mind?"

Hannah shrugged.

Rudo smiled. "Then I can set your mind at ease, Ms. Davis. I happen to know that Etienne Faneuil died in what is now called Free Vietnam in 1988 when it was still the Socialist Republic. He is buried there, in a village called Xuan Loc about 35 miles east of Saigon, if I recall correctly."

"You're certain? The records I have don't indicate that."

Rudo laughed, gently. His graceful hands touched the Mont Blanc fountain pen laying alongside the leather desk pad, then returned to his lap as he sat back in his chair. "You're very persistent Ms. Davis. But WHO has excellent sources all over the world, and I have both a very good memory and a certain vested interest in Dr. Faneuil, since I was peripherally involved in funding him in Kenya. Yes, I'm certain. I received the news of his death with mixed emotions, I must admit — in many ways, Etienne did much good in his time, as well as much evil."

"What about his nurse, Margaret Durand? She helped him with the genocide."

Rudo frowned. "I didn't know her well. I believe she followed Dr. Faneuil to Vietnam but I don't know what became of her. Just a moment …" He leaned forward again and touched a button on his phone system. "Dianne," he said. "Before you go, make a note to call Aaron Cofield first thing tomorrow morning. Have him start checking for any information he might have on the present whereabouts of a Margaret Durand — she was Etienne Faneuil's nurse. Tell him that I'll give him a call with additional information later."

"Yes, Doctor," a voice answered, tinny through the small speaker. "Have a good evening."

"Thank you." Rudo touched the intercom button again and looked at Hannah. "There. I will send you the results. We probably have better international contacts, even into Free Vietnam despite all its recent uproar." Rudo sighed. "Remember, Ms. Davis, that Dr. Faneuil would be in his mid-seventies if he were still alive. I would imagine Margaret would be sixty or older. Does that fit your fire setter's profile?"

"Not really," Hannah admitted. "Dr. Rudo, thanks for your time. I'd appreciate your looking into Faneuil and Margaret Durand."

"You still think this might be something more than simple arson and murder?"

"I don't know, Dr. Rudo. I try not to have any opinion about it at all and just let the facts speak for themselves. Honestly, I don't think any of this will pan out, but I feel that I have to examine every possibility."

Rudo smiled again and stood, extending his hand. "That is best, certainly. If I can be of any more help to you …"

His handshake was firm and warm. "Thank you, Doctor. You've been more than helpful already. I have another appointment this evening, as a matter of fact, someone else who might know something about Durand."

"So you've been looking her up, also."

"Yes. Actually, her background is more interesting than Dr. Faneuil's."

"Fascinating. Then I'll simply wish you luck." He started to walk Hannah toward the door, then stopped. He cocked his head to one side slightly, as if appraising a painting or sculpture. "Forgive me for saying this, but as a psychologist, I notice things. Your accent tells me that you're not native to the city, and I suspect that you're not entirely happy here. If I can be of any help in that area …"

"Am I that transparent?" Hannah asked, genuinely shocked. She tried to laugh; it sounded utterly false.

Rudo chuckled with her. "No, Ms. Davis. I just … well, pick up on these things. My offer's genuine. Sometimes a neutral ear …" He smiled again.

"I'll keep it in mind," Hannah told him. The way work is going, the way my relationship with David has gone sour … "Maybe …" she said, not realizing until a second later that she'd spoke aloud.

"Please do. Trust yourself, Ms. Davis. You strike me as both dedicated and intelligent. I'm sure you will find your arsonist, and very soon."

"It was this picture, Mr. Dearborn. A rather famous picture, from what I'm told. When I saw her file, when I saw where she'd worked and what had happened there, I checked the Wolfe book out of the library. I also found out that you lived in New York now."

"True Brothers." Dearborn gave her a lopsided grin. "Wolfe might be a fine writer, but he ain't a pilot, and no amount of poetic language can replace that. I never could read his book, but I remember the picture."

The retired Navy captain had an apartment in the Village overlooking one of the little parks. He took the book from Hannah, studied the photo reproduced there through his bifocals. Dearborn looked almost skeletal. "Ahh, we were handsome then," he said, handing it back to her. His hand trembled with a palsy. He's on medication, the tenant downstairs had told her. Really sick. Sometimes it makes him a little, well, rambling. She'd tapped her head.

"We had hair," Dearborn said, chuckling. "Lots of it. We thought nothing could kill us. Nothing, ever. We were immortal."

He chuckled again, then leaned back on the couch. A television, the sound off but the picture still on, flickered in the corner of the room. All around, there were pictures of Dearborn, standing alongside a series of aircraft. A half-dollar was sitting on the coffee table. Dearborn picked it up and began flipping it. Heads. Flip. Heads. Flip. Heads. He noticed Hannah watching him and put the coin down again.

"Yes, that's Margaret Durand," Dearborn said. "Peggy, we called her. She was our flight nurse for the project. Thayer took the picture at Pancho's, in fact. He used my camera; I had an old Argus C-3. Lot of those shots on the walls taken with it. In fact, I think it's still around here somewhere. Life bought the reprint rights from us … afterward. Wolfe did, too." He licked dry, cracked lips. "Maybe except for Peg, I'm the only one left of the bunch, as I guess you've found out. The only one … Sometimes I think about that, and it scares me. I don't have much time left myself: colon cancer. Not too many people know or care what happened back then…."

Hannah broke in as Dearborn's gaze drifted away. "I'm very sorry, Mr. Dearborn. Would you know where Margaret might be now?"

"Lord, no," Dearborn answered. "After … we didn't really keep in touch. I think we were all ashamed. Too much mud got slung around and a lot of it stuck. Do you know about it? Really know about it?"

"No, sir. Not very much. Would you take a look at this other picture?" Hannah interrupted. "It's taken much later, around 1982."

Dearborn looked closely at the photograph, holding it up to the lamp alongside the couch. "Why, that's Peggy, too. Older and heavier, but I'd recognize that face and that smile anywhere. So she did get back into nursing…. Where was this taken? Looks like Africa somewhere."

"Kenya," Hannah told him. "You're certain that's Margaret?"

Dearborn glanced at the photo again, then handed it back. "Positive." Dearborn frowned. "You said you were some kind of investigator. Is she in trouble again? Is she dead?"

"In trouble again?"

Dearborn sighed. A flash of pain seemed to run behind his eyes. His lips tightened and he groaned. "Mr. Dearborn?" Hannah asked. "Is there something I can get for you?"

"Pills," he said. "On the table in the kitchen. No," he said as Hannah started to get up. "Let me get them. It's one of the things I won't let myself do — I'm not going to give in to the pain and let someone take care of me. I take care of myself. Always have, always will." He moved off into the kitchen. Hannah could hear him running water, drinking. "I'll be back in a minute," he said, and his footsteps moved away into another hidden room.

Hannah heard a door open and the sound of boxes being moved. A few minutes later, Dearborn came out again with a cardboard carton. He set it down on the coffee table and looked at her. "No one really knows what happened," he told her. "No one. Not even Wolfe. I was never one to write things down, but Thayer was. His lawyer sent me this stuff after Thayer's car wreck — it was in the will that this went to any surviving member of the project. Poor guy: six months out of prison and he loses control on a curve. I never really looked at the notebooks; that wasn't a period in my life I particularly wanted to remember. But Thayer wrote it all down, the way he saw it, anyway. There's stuff about Peggy in there…."

Dearborn pulled the box open. A yellowed newspaper clipping wafted out. Dearborn plucked it from the air and gave it to Hannah….