When Graveyards Yawn Page 17

  I turned my attention to the files and found that if I rotated the trays too quickly, my head would start to swim. I soon located the file on the phantom baby calls. The Gazette, going along with the Authority edict, had adopted a new dating system. Some lobby group for historical respect and perspective finally got the A.D. officially changed to N.A. for New Age. It was positive, vague and friendly--exactly what a race of responsibility dodgers and public relations men would feel comfortable with.

  I noticed that phantom baby calls had started roughly six months after the Change. Strange days they were, too. An entire generation had just been stillborn. Regardless, everybody claimed they had a live one. Nothing could be proven. There were hoaxes, where one of the forever children--a toddler at the time of the Change--would pretend to be a newborn. But that type of thing died out over time, as the forever children's minds grew to middle age and despair--before they disappeared in Authority education camps, illegal prostitution and porn rings or into the wilds. I dug through the files. There was quite a pile of stories. They seemed to taper off around 35 N.A.. Authority studies were under way at the time. Artificial everything was attempted. Between 40 and 45 N.A., Authority pronounced the human race dead, though they encouraged people to keep trying. 50 N.A. and the Gazette continued to get an average of twenty calls a year--a dwindling side effect of the growing hopelessness that gripped the world.

  I picked up the thick bundle of clippings and staggered over to the desk beside the computer. I dumped them on it with a bang. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a flash of white flit off the table and behind the computer. I wanted to disregard it, but tried to remember the detective rules. Don't throw away evidence unless it can be held against you.

  I yanked the computer away from the wall--damned paperweight anyway--then blindly scrabbled around behind it with one arm. Bent over in that position my temples throbbed--I overcame an urge to fall into a coma. My hand came up fuzzy with dust clenching a page torn from a notebook. On it was written:

  Special to Harker. Grey Owen, called May 9, 48. Wanted info on baby. Said on case. No Authority connection. Kidnapping.

  I walked quickly over to Mary's desk--showed her the paper. "Know any of these names?"

  "Hmm," she mumbled as she scanned it, looked up at me quizzically. "I'll ask around." She left her desk, walked toward some offices with doors. I spent a minute peeking at an eye that had appeared at a crack in the office dividers. "Boo!" I said. It disappeared. Mary returned.

  "James Harker. He used to work here about two years back. Quit though, joined a band I think."

  "You don't know a Grey, or an Owen."

  "No." She hesitated, her eyes looking deeply into mine. "You?"

  "No. Do you know where Harker works?"

  "No, but payroll must have a record of where they sent his severance." She looked worried. "Besides, old reporters tend to keep in touch."

  "Thanks," I said and returned to the files. I found an article from 45 NA about the Worshippers of the Twelve Stars. They were fundamentalists who felt the Second Coming was coming. As Brother Godin leader of the Greasetown congregation said, "It was written in Revelations. We shall all come 'before his throne and from Jesus Christ, the faithful witness, the firstborn from the dead and the ruler of the kings of the earth.'" Brother Godin carried on for some time. He sounded like he needed a vacation. He must have said, "We must arm ourselves," thirty times. I looked at his picture and felt fairly certain I wouldn't want my daughter dating him. His shtick was nothing new.

  There were about fifty churches with similar outlooks. But the Twelve Stars was the biggest of that breed. I had heard of them before but instinctively stayed clear. I had too much to think about to stay alive. I'd deal with death when it came for me. There was a sinister twist to their Twelve Stars' message though, when they spoke of an Eternal Reich. They had somehow managed to mix Nazism with Christian fundamentalism, and it blended together surprisingly well. My eyes were drawn back to Brother Godin's picture. A charm hung around his neck on a chain. A steel swastika was gently cupped in the oval part of an Egyptian Ankh.

  Acting on impulse, I returned to the file drawers and searched for homicide stories. Sure enough, I found four complete drawers dedicated to murder. They were chronologically ordered, but the sheer volume of it kept me searching thirty minutes before I located the file on Alan Cotton. I found copies of Ms. Redding's notes and other specifics.

  I found a photostat of a driver's license that was blackened at the edges and badly damaged. I also found a faded photograph of Mr. Cotton from the 1970s--slick comb over and pop bottle lenses. Mary must have been working on the case and dug it up from somewhere before the gag order came down.

  As I looked at an Authority photo of the crime scene, and the red hamburger that was Mr. Cotton, I realized someone must have provided Cotton's picture. No one would be able to identify the body. I looked at the driver's license again. 333 Sea Heights, Vicetown. I thought back. Mrs. Cotton claimed she had not spoken to anyone but Authority. So someone in Authority must have delivered the outdated photo to the newspaper. That meant someone was in favor of unearthing the truth. Ms. Redding's friend again? The copy of the license could be easily obtained from the licensing bureau.

  I pocketed my notes, and the memo to Harker, put the baby file to bed and returned to Ms. Redding's desk. I looked down at her over the cubicle wall. "You're beautiful when your nostrils flare like that," I said. It was true. Such sensual twitching held an irresistible carnal attraction for me.

  "You romantic." She could tell I was about to leave. "Can I come by later?"

  "I'll be out," I said harshly. "I'll call you though."

  She looked crestfallen.

  "Sorry, but I'm a very busy little clown. Thanks for the use of the records." I looked around at Mary's co-worker's gaping mouths. I couldn't resist. "It's an old story, clown meets girl, girl meets clown."

  I left, not really feeling bad about Ms. Redding. She was almost a hundred years old, after all. I caught the little owl fellow waiting for the elevator. I clomped up and leaned over him. He shrank from me.

  "Excuse me, I wonder if you could answer a question?" I said this with only the slightest trace of rancor.

  "Yes." He gulped down a big lump of air.

  "What does Morris do in the Morgue?"

  "Oh." The fellow's bulging eyes blinked wide. "He's the librarian. He keeps our records straight."

  "How long's he worked at the paper?"

  He gave me the owl's eyes. "Since the Change."

  "Thanks," I said, turned away, and then braced myself for the Muzak assault I was about to undergo.

  Chapter 37

  It was Thursday evening and getting dark. I had eaten a sandwich, and then left Elmo at the office to play secretary. I took the Chrysler, though my destination wasn't far. That's how people get big asses. It's not that I have, or Tommy has one, but that's how it happens. Suddenly we can't go anywhere without our cars. I walked into a dark room. There was a dim gleam of brass horns on a stage across from me. The music they played was sultry and rhythmic, it reminded me of sex. Tommy's psyche responded typically. I felt flushed and momentarily appreciated the makeup. I sauntered up to the bar--I'm good at sauntering--past dim tables and dark guests. I could feel their glances as I passed. Leaning heavily on the counter I ordered a scotch from a woman with rusty hair who wore a quadruple string of pearls that would give an ox back problems.

  When she set my glass on the bar, she gave me a 'why don't you grow up look,' which was rare in Greasetown. Most people just look dazed or frightened. Then she grinned like a hungry grizzly bear and returned to her cigarette where it smoked beside the ale spigots.

  The drink was a little too warm for me. I downed half of it before my stomach jumped like I had sword-swallowed a cattle prod. I set the glass down, and peered through the gloom at the band. I had been told by accounting at the Gazette that Jimmy Harker musician, alias James Harker journalist, had given up the sear
ch for truth for a life of late nights, women, and applause. Looking around the place, I realized Jimmy would need infrared vision to see any women here.

  He was playing with a band called the Swing Dogs. I had called a few bars and asked the managers about them. On my fourth call, I was directed to a place named Crisco's. So far, Crisco's was little more than a big collection of dark. They must have saved millions on cleaning staff. My boots glided like hockey skates over the damp floorboards. There was something on them that slid like oil, but stuck like glue when you stopped moving.

  Harker had a moustache and a ponytail--the woman in accounting had said--played trumpet, and very well, by the sound of it. I realized that in the darkness, I'd have as much chance of seeing a moustache as I would of seeing heaven. For once, I didn't have a cigarette. I opted instead to repetitively clear my throat--it was scorched. I listened to the music and tried to imagine what had brought me here. The band stopped in the middle of a song. I heard them confer in muffled tones, then someone laughed. They picked up where they left off. They were warming up. Their first set probably wasn't until nine or nine-thirty. I glanced at a bar clock set in a huge replica of a popular beer--there was frost on the bottle and everything. It was eight-thirty. The band stopped again, a drummer let his frustration out through a snare drum. I shared his angst. Why was I at Crisco's watching the Swing Dogs looking for Jimmy Harker to ask him about babies and strange names like Owen, and Grey? A cold finger of fear had its way with me.

  What was driving me now? I was supposed to find out who had killed Cotton. I guess all the baby talk, the Regenerics, and the phantom baby stories were beginning to work on me. For a moment, I began to wonder who was in control. Tommy had been acting strangely. It had started during the Billings' case. For two years we worked well together. I took over and I didn't hear a peep out of him, now...he seemed to be aware of my actions. That strange dream of mine: What was that all about? There was something out of whack. Tommy had been quiet for so long now. He seemed to approve of the direction the case was taking. But what direction was that? I definitely wanted to know who sliced Adrian up, but I wasn't being paid for that. It was obvious that the cases were related. I had to caution myself. Hold on, Detective. You're not taking this strange New World for granted. You're fighting the flow. Next you'll be wondering who you really are. You're the Detective that's all that matters. Cotton can wait; you've got to go with your gut.

  The music stopped. It was replaced with the loud hush of crowd noise. The lights came up. I think someone lit a candle. I could just make out the dim forms of the musicians leaving the stage--flitting through a rustling curtain at the back.

  I turned to the barkeeper and caught her staring at me. I motioned her over.

  "Say, beautiful," I sang. I wasn't stretching a point. She was pretty enough behind over-done makeup and her figure was solid and panther-like beneath the gaudy purple spandex. "The musicians have a room back there?"

  "Do I know you?" she said, her head tilting from side to side.

  "Do you have to know me to answer me?"

  "I just get this feeling about you." She squinted.

  "Every kid loves a clown," I answered glibly. I couldn't believe how little patience I had. "Do they stay back there between sets?"

  "Yeah," she continued to stare then smiled again. "You look like someone I knew. Without the makeup." She laughed and sucked on her cigarette. "That's where they stay. They aren't allowed to drink until the last set." She laughed. "Like anybody's gonna enforce that one…"

  "Do you know Jimmy Harker?"

  She smiled. "Sure, nice ass on the guy."

  "Good," I sneered. "I'll just look for a nice ass."

  I left the bar and crossed to the stage only stumbling twice. I pushed the curtain aside and walked into a small room. A toilet roared from a tiny alcove at the back lit by a blinding fluorescent light. A tall, slim black man walked out. His hand twitched like a spider on his fly.

  Two vinyl couches ran the length of the room on either side of me. They were occupied. A man who looked forty sat closest me. His black skin gleamed blue in the weird light. He wore sunglasses that must have made him completely blind in the room outside. He had a whip-like ponytail that grew out of the top of his head and fell down the back like new silk. His moustache was as sharp as a knife. He looked at me, so did the other members of the band. They were a pair of white men of elder years who looked like they lacked the wind to blow their instruments, and another was a big dead Asian. He determinedly strummed a bass guitar. I was amazed at how much mass he had for a dead man. He looked like he Sumo wrestled in his spare time.

  "What the fuck you want?" This came from the black fellow I'd caught coming out of the washroom.

  "I'm looking for Jimmy Harker. I was told he played with you guys." I smiled.

  "So. People tell you a lot of things, I bet," the black man sneered belligerently. "Jimmy only play with himself."

  "So, I want to talk to him." I wished for a moment that I had come unarmed. "My name's Wildclown, I'm a private detective."

  The fellow with the moustache and ponytail broke out laughing. "A private dick, aw shit man, come on. Who the hell are you?"

  "Listen, I just want to ask a couple of questions." Tommy's spirit flashed ire. "Nobody's in any trouble. Does everybody in this town have a chip on his shoulder? You can't buy a newspaper without getting into a fist fight."

  The two old men broke out laughing now. They obviously weren't the leaders. I glared at them. There wasn't much else I could do.

  "All right, he's a funny, funny clown. Have your laugh." I grinned like an idiot. "Lucky for you, I'm in a good mood today. I'm looking for Jimmy Harker."

  The fellow nearest me stood up. He was a good head taller. "I'm Jimmy Harker. Who are you?"

  "You play a hell of a trumpet," I said feebly.

  "I play sax," he said and I immediately cursed the woman in Accounting.

  "Sax, sax. Sorry I get those things mixed up." I pursed my lips. "I'm not a musician."

  "So?" He glared at me--let his eyes rake over my form.

  "Okay, maybe if I appeal to the wayward newshound in you." I smiled again, threw my chest out--it wasn't old or anything I just threw it out. "I just came from the Gazette. I'm working on the phantom baby case."

  His face went blank then it drooped like someone had left it in the sun too long.

  "Phantom baby," he said smiling, and shook his head. "Get out."

  "I'm serious." I gestured to my clown's face. "Surely to Christ you guys can appreciate an idiosyncrasy. You're artists--God, what's the world coming to when artists get judgmental?"

  They all started laughing now--even the Sumo wrestler. His dead lungs thrummed like stretched rubber tires. I smiled. I had nothing else to do. Inside, I could feel Tommy railing for control. I had him though. A full day of detoxifying left him tired. Still, he managed to jerk my gun hand in and out of a fist. The Swing Dogs seemed to take the gesture as a threat. They stopped laughing. Harker came close to me. He pulled off his sunglasses. My arms instinctively bent to catch the flick of a knife. But he didn't have a knife instead he just stabbed me with his eyes. They were hard points of night.

  "What the fuck you want?" His voice was serious with a fragile edge of fear. I wanted to exploit that fear, but that kind of manipulation can turn on you quick, when you're in the back room of a bar with a bunch of guys you don't know.

  "Just to ask you a few questions. That's all. Then, you go back to your life, Harker. I'm not out to get anybody." I turned up both hands palms empty as proof.

  Harker's eyes flickered with something like recognition. "Ask." He slid his sunglasses on.

  "A man came in two-three years ago, he was somehow connected with a kidnapping. His name was either Grey, or Owen, maybe both. Wanted info on the baby. Here." I handed him the memo I'd picked up at the Gazette. He looked at it, and I noticed his shoulders round, his head tilt slightly to one side.

  "Well shit!" He cocked
his sunglasses at me.

  "What?"

  "That's funny." Harker looked at me again, grinned. "Guy's name was Owen Grey. I think he used to work for Authority, before he was a nobody. He sure as hell wasn't Authority anymore. I must have talked to him twelve times in all. He just showed up one day, asking questions about the phantom baby. Said he was a detective. Personally, I think he was a goddamn drunk--always smelled of booze. But hey, live and let live right? The Change has been hard on everyone. Anyway, he said he was looking for a missing girl. Some rich kid, parents looking for her. I let him look at the files, why not? Son of a bitch tried to use me as a library though, came back quite a few times. Couldn't guess why he was interested in the baby."

  "What's funny about that?"

  "I was trying to think who you reminded me of?" He slapped the note. "Him. The way you talk."

  "It's the detective shtick." My scalp was crawling. "Do you know the name of the girl he was looking for?"

  "Oh, shit. No. Two or three years ago, damned if I can remember." He shook his head, handed the memo back.

  I held fingers up. "Two or three years? Which?"

  Harker rubbed his chin. "A little over two I think--yeah, just before I packed it in. Isn't that right, Chang?"

  The big Oriental nodded, holding up two thick fingers.

  "Do you know where I can find Grey?" I watched my dim reflection in Harker's glasses.

  "No. He disappeared. I remember him coming in for the last time. He seemed really nervous, looked funny on him since he was such a big guy--tall as you but much heavier. One of those glass garglers, two-fisted palooka types, you know. Anyway, he came in that time looking scared, wanted to talk to me--I was on the crime beat back then. I sat down with him, even gave him a cup of my coffee. He suddenly lost interest in talking though because he drank it, and left."

  I could feel adrenaline pounding through my veins. "What did he tell you?"

  "Nothing." Harker shook his head, then resumed his seat on the couch. He picked up his saxophone, his hands fingering the keys nervously. "He drank the coffee, and left. I never saw him again."