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Confession Part 1 of 2
Set in the grim world of Mulefoot's _Slop_ webcomic. Suggest mature audiences for violence and some implied nastiness. Part One of Two- post too big for LJ?
"Get rid of that! Get rid of that now!"
The big Clydesbank horse-man looked startled. "Get rid of what, Mr. Fairweather?"
Fairweather was livid; in the state he was in, his horns could easily be a danger to life and limb. "That--inhaler! If you ever bring that stuff to work again, I'll fire you, do you hear? Fire you!"
Derrick looked at the Campho-Rub inhaler in his hand as if seeing it for the first time. He put the cap back on and dropped it into his pocket, his fingers flying away from it as if it were a snake. "Right away, Mr. Fairweather." He looked startled, and there was a world of mournful hurt in his big, soft eyes.
He turned and disappeared into his office. As a combination of personal assistant, receptionist, and security officer, his office was right behind the reception desk.
Art Fairweather shook. He took a deep breath, raised his hand, and rubbed his head at the base of his horns. "Sorry," he half-whispered to the other employees nearby. A few had sad understanding in their eyes. "Sorry. Let me, ah, catch my breath. I'll explain it to him."
Ten minutes later, he tapped on the doorframe of Derrick's office. "Derrick? May I come in?"
"Of course, Mr. Fairweather."
The office was dark, and scented with tea and... cedar incense? The desk lamp cast a pool of light on the green felt pad on Derrick Clydesbank's desk, but didn't let Art see the horse's eyes clearly. They were just faint gleams in the murk. With a pang, Art thought that perhaps Derrick didn't want him to see tears there. It also reminded Art of something, somehow. Something with a strong emotional connection, but he didn't quite place it.
"Look, Derrick, I'm sorry about the... inhaler. I'm sorry."
"I understand, sir. The medicine has an intense odor; it's really too strong even for me. I didn't stop to think how powerful it might be to a goat such as yourself."
Art barked something between a laugh and a sob. He took the normal-sized chair in front of Derrick's oversized desk. "No, it's not that simple. It's just that, ah, the odor of camphor brings back bad memories. But you don't need to worry about that. I was out of line, and I apologize."
"I doubt you could help it. They say scent is the most powerful of our senses, that it goes straight to the center of our minds and awakens associations without our being able to control it. I'm sorry to have awakened whatever ghosts haunt you."
In the shadows, Derrick turned and took something from the tabletop behind him. Art heard a clink and the sound of liquid pouring. The scent of tea intensified. Without asking, Derrick set a china cup, filled with tea and resting on its saucer, on the edge of the desk nearest Art. He set a much larger mug of tea in front of himself. Derrick always had wonderful tea; Art had no idea where he got it.
"Thank you, Derrick. I can use this just now."
"Perhaps you could tell me why the scent of camphor troubles you so. They do say confession is good for the soul..."
Art laughed. "That's it!"
"What?"
"That's what your office reminds me of. The darkness in here, the cedar incense. And I know you're there, and can hear you, but I can't really see you. It's like the confessional at church, back when I was a kid."
Derrick chuckled. "Strange you should say that. I once considered joining the priesthood myself."
"You do have a bit of a priestly manner about you, somehow. Yes, a lot of us raised in the Church have that idea when we're younger."
"I went so far as to enter a seminary. But I found something inside myself that was not appropriate for a man of the cloth."
Art chuckled. "Ah. Lust."
"No, sir. Priests feel that also; controlling it is part of their calling. For any worthy of calling themselves priests, anyway. No, what I felt was something else."
"What?"
"Something horrible for a priest to hide in his heart: I found I could not believe in the justice of God."
"Ah." Art sipped his tea. "Perhaps in that we can agree."
They sat in silence for a while.
Art set down his cup. "Our mutual friend Sam said you'd be a fine employee, and he was right. How much did you work with Sam before you came here? How much did he tell you about Nan's kidnapping?"
"We hardly knew each other, sir. Sam had dealings with my former employer, Mr. Crane, and spoke with me when he visited our offices. Somehow I must have impressed him, I have no idea how. Perhaps it was the tea, perhaps it was the way I finished my work, how I answered all the calls of duty I owed my employer, even under unusual and distressing circumstances.
"In any case, after Mr. Crane's tragic death, I needed a new position. Sam said he'd put in a good word for me here. As for the kidnapping, Sam was most circumspect. He told me it had occurred, and nothing more."
"And of course the kidnapping is public knowledge."
"Of course, sir."
"So our badger friend kept the rest to himself. I would have expected noting less from him."
"He did seem most professional. Although, to be frank, I wasn't sure exactly what Sam's profession might be."
"Sam... arranges things." The tone in Art's voice gave the bland words much significance. "He arranged a money transfer to some people. I think he may also have impressed upon them that it would be best if Nan returned to me unharmed. Unharmed." He sighed deeply.
"I believe you are trying to say she suffered no physical harm, at least."
"I can't say that, either. At least she came back alive..." Art sighed. "Let me explain about the Campho-Rub. The kidnappers kept her hoodwinked for the whole time they had her, and kept the hood well doped with that stinky stuff. That way she couldn't identify them by sight or scent. I suppose I should thank them for that, since if they hadn't been so careful, they might have thought they'd have to kill her to protect themselves. But ever since that day, just the slightest scent of Campho-Rub sets her off. Her, or me."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Fairweather. I didn't know."
"Of course you didn't. Don't worry about it, Derrick."
"And the police never caught the kidnappers?"
"No, and with the Statute of Limitations, now they won't even try. It might not be so bad if we knew the three of them weren't still out there somewhere, or even if we knew who they were, so we could avoid them. But we don't. Nan sees them in any stranger. For her, they live in every shadow."
"There were three of them?"
"Yes, Nan was fairly sure of that. Two of them raped her, a canine and a feline. She thinks there was a third, but has no idea what his or her bloodline might be."
Derrick nodded. "It's a terrible thing, sir."
"She's married now, and mostly happy. I guess we're both doing as well, things are going as well, as you could expect."
"But things could be better."
Art paused. "Yes. I suppose they could."
"Did you suspect any of your employees might have been involved?"
"Of course not! I only hire good people. I take care of them and they take care of me. That wouldn't have saved anyone if I'd had a hint they were involved, but... no. None of my people were involved. I'd stake my life on it."
"Please, have some more tea. It's good that your people are always so trustworthy. I have to wonder whether any of them behaved strangely, though, or perhaps left your employ around that time. Surely the police would have asked that question, and would have checked into anyone you mentioned. Just as a matter of routine, of course."
Art let Derrick top up his teacup. He picked it up and sipped, looking off into the winter's early darkness outside, not really seeing it. "No, nobody. Well, as I told the police at the time, there was one fellow, a summer student intern. But he doesn't count."
"Why not?"
Art set down his cup with a loud clink. His eyes were angry. "Are you insinuating that Presley O'Bannon could have been involved in this?"
Derrick leaned back in the darkness. "I'm afraid I really cannot say one way or another, since I have no idea who Presley O'Bannon is, or was."
"Oh--yes--of course. Well, I know his family. His mother is one of my oldest friends from high school." Art took a deep breath. "Presley's a good kid. As I said, he was a summer intern. It's my practice, you know? I hire young architecture students from Carillon College over the summer. They get a little practice in their chosen field of study, they earn a little pocket money. School costs are unbearable these days. Carillon is a private school, and it's even worse than most. It always was expensive. Even back when I got my architecture degrees there."
"It's most admirable that you help the youngsters that way."
"Thank you. Presley was with us the summer after his first year in the program. He left at the end of the summer, as all interns do. There was nothing unusual about that."
"Did he return after his sophomore year?"
Art sipped his tea before replying. "No, we never hired him again."
"That's not your usual practice, though, is it? Didn't someone say that one of your interns this summer, Thisbe, was in her third year with you?"
Fairweather twitched an ear dismissively. "Presley left architecture. That's not unusual, either. You can have all the heart and talent in the world, but the hours you have to put in during the architecture program are brutal. He broke down from stress, lack of sleep, I'd guess. Something like that."
"Ah. A perfectly innocent explanation."
"Of course. As I said, he and his family are fine people. He had nothing to do with Nan. I never suspected him for an instant."
"Of course not, sir."
#
"Mr. Clydesbank is here to see you, Lieutenant."
"Please send him in." Briley slid the list of shift assignments aside with a sigh of relief. He might not know what Art Fairweather's personal assistant wanted with the Fort Pitt Police Department, but anything--anything--was better than administrivia.
As he'd expected from the name, Derrick Clydesbank was an example of why ceilings in public buildings had to be so high. At that, the horse had to lower his head a little to get through the doorway without getting a concussion. Not for the first time, Briley thanked God that he himself was just a mutt dog, and not a large one at that.
"Mr. Clydesbank? I'm Lieutenant Briley. Please have a seat." Warned in advance by Clydesbank's name, he'd moved furniture for this appointment. The little couch that was usually against the wall was on the far side of his desk, where he usually had a small guest chair. That had been a good move.
"Thanks for meeting me."
"Anything for Arthur Fairweather. But I don't know why you wanted this meeting..?"
"Please understand that I am not acting for Mr. Fairweather in any official capacity, sir. He is not aware that I am investigating the kidnapping of his daughter Ananda, several years ago. I presume you are familiar with the case?"
"A bit. I was afraid that might be what you wanted. What's your interest? It's been so long that nothing could be done to bring the perps to justice now."
"Aside from my other duties, I handle security at Fairweather and Company."
"You?"
"Me. Even a placid Clydesbank can be an adequate security officer when there are no threats at hand. But as security is part of my job, I want to look to it as best I can, however great my natural handicaps in that area. And it seems to me that the people who kidnapped young Ananda are the greatest proven security threat the Fairweathers face."
"You may be right. I'm sorry I can't help you."
"Ah. You have an official policy against releasing criminal investigation records?"
"What? Oh, no, nothing like that, not for Art Fairweather. Or even his security officer. Not for a case that's as cold as this one.
"The problem is, we don't have anything on the case any more. When you called for an appointment, I went to look up what we had on the case, and there's nothing. Maybe our files got thrown out when we moved to the new building nine years back; maybe somebody purged the files more recently. No matter how much file space we have, we never seem to have enough. Now, statute of limitations or no statute of limitations, we should have kept the notes and evidence. What there was of it. But... it's just not there."
Briley spread his hands wide and sighed. "Look, I'm sorry. It's terrible, but I can't do anything about it."
"A true pity. But you, or other officers, must still remember something about the case. To begin, can you tell me who handled the investigation?"
"Detective Sergeant MacFaoil, as he then was."
"Would that be the Kelly MacFaoil for whom this building is named?"
"It would." Briley sighed again. "The surest way to get a building named after you is to die while it's under construction. See how tall this desk is? It was ordered for him, not for me. He never got a chance to use it."
"A big fellow with an Irish name. He was an Irish Hound, then? I wouldn't have dared bring up the stereotype of the big Irish cop, but there he is. And I saw another Irish Hound in uniform, on the street outside, as I came in. They're everywhere. I swear, it's almost as if they were bred for police wo-"
Briley's ears went back. His hackles rose. "We dogs are not bred. We're people, damn it, not just dumb animals you can breed any way you... want..."
He felt his ears drop, his eyes widen, and his face go cold all the way down to his fingertips when he realized what he'd said, and to whom. "Oh God, I'm sorry. I didn't mean..."
Clydesbank smiled. There was no anger in his eyes. A little sorrow, perhaps, but no anger. "No offense taken. My clan is proud of its heritage in war and afterward, to be sure. But we don't condone or forgive what the Highland Lairds did to us. Some of the things they did were beyond forgiveness. Does the term ‘gelding' mean anything to you?"
Briley flinched. "I know what it means."
"The Lairds' experiments in... breeding... were nothing less than criminal. But it wasn't your crime, or mine. It was finished, and the consequences were settled centuries ago."
"Indeed. Just what bloodline were the Highland Lairds, anyway?"
"They were an especially huge breed of deer; their closest four-legged analog on this continent would be the elk that roam the Western Mountains, I believe. But their antlers were even more massive. I've never seen it, but I'm told that the Clydesbank Clan Hall preserves several examples of them, mounted here and there on the walls."
Briley shuddered. He decided not to pursue that line of conversation any further. "About the kidnapping, then. I do remember a little... Back then, I was just a rookie walking a beat. But I heard a few things.
"The victim was of high school age. She was attending a private school--I don't know, that prep school on the West Side where all the rich kids go. You know its name? Nobody talks about it, of course, but one of the big reasons, maybe the biggest reason to go there, is the security." He shrugged. "I don't like to say it, but class and how much money you have make you a target, and that works both ways. Not to mention some of the meat-eater/leaf-eater problems that still crop up. Sorry to mention them."
"Well, the old antagonisms do still exist. I must say it strikes me as only proper that an officer of the law should recognize that fact. There's no need to worry about offending me by speaking the truth."
"Thank you. People can be so touchy, and considering history, I can't say I blame them."
The big horse nodded. "Mr. Fairweather should have felt Ananda was safe enough at a private school that is almost a fortress. I can see how shocked he would be when events proved she was vulnerable even there."
"Yes. Stunned was more like it. I saw him come into the station once, when the case started. They led him in, steering him by his elbow so he didn't walk into doors and walls."
"Horrible. Did they kidnap her from school?"
"No, just outside. Normally her father's car came for her, but she loves to sing--she used to love it, before, I mean. Thursdays she'd go to singing practice in Symphony Hall. She'd ride there with a friend. Her friend usually parked her car on the street, about a block from the school's gates. The kidnappers grabbed her on her way there. They jumped out of a van, threw her in the back, and left, simple as that. Got clean away, too. Nobody else saw it happen.
"After that, nothing much. The Feds came in, and they wanted to tap Fairweather's phone lines, but he wouldn't have it. We watched him and his people, and it wouldn't surprise me if the Feds had a tap on his line, permission or no. But somehow he managed to pay the ransom without our seeing who delivered the money for him, where the drop was, any of that.
"The kidnappers released Ananda Fairweather alive. Usually they don't, ransom money or no ransom money. I knew that, so during the case I thought Mr. Fairweather was stupid to handle things the way he did. With the way things turned out, though, maybe he was right.
"It didn't help us catch the perps, though. We had nothing on them. They got clean away, and that made me furious--still does. There's nothing worse than the kind of swingbacks who would kidnap and gang-rape a young girl. They're rabid four-leggers, not people. They should be hunted down and killed like the beasts they are."
"Did you happen to hear anything about Sergeant MacFaoil's progress in the case?"
"Nothing. He worked alone on this case. But let me assure you, if there were any evidence it would have led him to the criminals. He was good in those days. I think his failure weighed on him; I remember he seemed terribly depressed whenever I'd see him. He slowed down a lot after that, and the quality of his work suffered. Of course he must have been very sick, too, although none of us knew it."
"He was promoted to Lieutenant afterward, in spite of poor performance?"
"Well, MacFaoil had been an excellent officer. He was brilliant, in fact, a legend on the Force. It seemed to half-kill him that he couldn't solve the Fairweather case. I'm not sure he ever did get over it... ‘Time heals all wounds,' but for that you need the time, and he didn't have much. The heart attack that carried him off was only a few months later.
"I thought he'd get over it. And I remember thinking, even then, inexperienced as I was, that maybe he'd seen too much of life on the street. As Lieutenant, I do a lot more administrative work. It isolates me from some of the things you see out there, things you'd rather forget. Frankly, that's not all bad.
"I think MacFaoil's promotion was a good idea. I think he would have recovered and would have been fine, if he'd lived. If he wasn't a big Irishman. So many of them die so young; they're heartbreakers. So sweet, they seem so strong, and then they just... keel over. Tragic."
"Very sad. And that's all you know?"
"Not quite: I know what everyone else does. Ananda Fairweather said three people, at least two of whom were male, were involved in her kidnapping. One of the males was a canine and one was a feline. Also, the ransom was $180,000."
Clydesbank sat up taller, if that were possible. "That's a strange number, don't you think?"
"Money's money. I was so mad about the case that I hadn't thought about it. What do you mean?"
"I'm no expert on the ways of criminals, of course. But it seems to me that in setting a ransom, kidnappers might make either of two mistakes. They might set it too high, or too low. Correct?"
"Well, obviously."
"Please excuse a poor, slow-minded drafthorse for thinking that such basic observations are startling. But let us ponder this. They set the ransom rather low, correct?"
"Um. Arthur Fairweather seems to have a lot of money, yes."
"Yes. If I knew Mr. Fairweather's finances, circumspection would require me to forgo speaking of them. But it would not betray any confidence for me to observe that Mr. Fairweather's financial resources are... considerable.
"So, Lieutenant Briley, we have a paradox: You will no doubt have noticed that Miss Fairweather was kidnapped at the one point where she was most vulnerable. In order to know her movements that well, they would need to observe her daily routines in detail. That hints that the criminals were professionals. Yet they raped her. Having raped her, they let her live. And they set a ransom far lower than they could have. All those things say the criminals weren't professional at all.
"The amount of the ransom itself is strange, because it is not the sort of number that would naturally occur to someone. The sum of two hundred thousand bux, or even a million, would be something one might expect the criminals to demand. The number they chose instead seems oddly precise, oddly specific. It is as if they requested a specific amount, for some specific purpose."
"Which begs the question, ‘What purpose?'"
Clydesbank smiled. "Yes, it does indeed raise that question, Lieutenant Briley. It seems to me that if one knew what costs exactly $180,000--or, more precisely, what would cost three individuals exactly $60,000 each--one might be well on one's way to solving this case."
#
Karen bustled into the second floor break room. "Where's my carrot cake?"
Dall laughed and poured a cup of coffee for her. It was special, a Java Island variety infused with cherry and chocolate. They always had something special for the Thursday Morning Flock Meet. "I thought you weren't going to make it. I thought Sally and I would have to eat your cake for you."
"We wouldn't do that. And we have extra we could save for you anyway," Sal said. She looked worried. She was sweet, and always took things more seriously than she should.
"Nobody gets my piece of carrot cake! I wouldn't miss the Flock Meet for anything. All the wolves and lions and bears and such around, we sheep gotta stick together. Where'd you get the coffee, Dall?"
"The Beanery just got it in. How's things in Admissions?"
Karen struck a dramatic pose, back of her wrist against her wooly forehead, eyes heavenward, ears laid back in despair. "Terrible. It's not enough dealing with my real work, oh no. The Alumni Association's riding my fuzzy butt for copies of the archives, updated to the new format, too. And what they're doing is wrong. Carillon College is supposed to have standards! We shouldn't be supporting spam and junk mail campaigns. Blasted marketoid, that's what they're making me, and to Hell with education, we gotta squeeze money out of anyone who ever set hoof in this place. And then my computer croaks, as always."
"You should have them replace that thing."
"They won't. They say the computer is fine, but it isn't. The Internet is broken again. You can't believe how long it takes me to read any of those old files! I can't get anything done."
Sally said "I saw someone in maintenance working in that metal box, you know, the one on the outside wall near the west entrance? Bet the IT guys were trying to fix something and broke something else."
Karen grumbled into her coffee. "I bet. You know what I call them? Itiots. ‘Idiot' with an I-T, get it? I called them and gave them a piece of my mind. They said they'd send someone over, but he couldn't get here until 10:00."
"Ten o'clock?" Dall said, glancing at the clock on the wall above the sink. "You mean now?"
"Yes. My, the cake is fine this week."
Sally asked "How's IT going to fix your machine if you're not there?"
"I left it on for them."
"Don't you think you should think about security sometimes? Leaving your machine unattended and open like that?"
"Oh, posh, Sally. Obsolete files, who cares about them? You're a darling, but sometimes you're almost as bad as the itiots. All this security crap is just their making themselves look important to preserve their jobs, if you ask me."
Sally's words did make Karen worry, when she had time to think about it, but she wasn't going to show that. She finished her cake and coffee. She took her time about it, and enjoyed the usual gossip. (The new secretary in the office of the Dean of Liberal Arts was a canine of the dingo line, and he insisted on wearing traditional native Australian scents that made him smell like he'd rolled in a three-week-dead fish. Dreadful!)
When the twenty minutes were up, though, she hurried back down to Admissions. She almost ran.
Her office door was closed but unlocked. The lights were out. Inside, on her desk, surrounded by a mound of register books and miscellaneous papers, her computer was running some program she didn't recognize. She thumped down in her chair and squinted at the screen.
FILE STRUCTURE CHECK: DONE
VIRUS SCAN: DONE
SPYWARE SCAN AND REPAIR: DONE
DISC CLEANUP: DONE
FRAGMENTATION CHECK: DONE
FINAL CLEANUP AND SECURE DELETE: 89%
Should she stop it? She didn't know what it was doing--she didn't dare interfere!
And as she considered it, half in panic, her computer beeped and the screen went blank.
It flickered. The machine began to boot. Everything seemed normal. In fact, the computer booted faster than she expected.
Heart in throat, she checked the files she'd been searching and editing. Everything was where it should be. All her latest edits were in place. And file access was very, very fast.
Her computer worked beautifully after that, to the point that she called IT to get the name of the tech who had fixed it. Whoever it was, she wanted them the next time the Internet broke. But they couldn't find any record of her trouble ticket.
Itiots!
#
Emily Redcloud braided the second feather into the fur behind her right ear, and then stopped for a moment. Outside, the winter drizzle was unrelenting. She sighed deeply.
Anna, the nurse, stopped trying to fit a stylish brown half-shoe around Emily's footpaw. "What's wrong, dear?"
"Nothing. It's just such a dreary day. I wish I could get out to the park or something."
"You're not thinking about that again, are you?"
Emily was, but she wasn't going to admit it. "No, not at all. I just wish the sun would shine. Am I presentable for my gentleman friend?"
"You look ravishing, Ms. Redcloud. A true princess of the plains, as always."
"Liar. I'm an old, old wolf." But Emily smiled anyway. "My walker? No, not walker, my cane, please."
"I think we should wheel you down in the chair."
"I have my dignity, girl. Besides, I'm never going to recover if I don't exercise. Nothing personal, but the last thing I want is to be stuck in a nursing home for the rest of my life."
"But you're still so slow walking with the cane, and you'll be tired by the time we get there. Let's do this: Get in the chair, I'll take you to the door and you can go in to meet Mr. Wouters under your own power. Deal?"
"You're a saint, Anna. Thank you."
The Convalescent Center had what they called parlor rooms. They were quite homey, actually. Anna stopped the wheelchair just outside Parlor Number 2. Emily heaved herself to her feet. She planted her cane on the floor, took two tiny steps, planted her cane on the floor, took two tiny steps, into the parlor.
It was warm from the fire in the gas fireplace. The writer's name was Stefan Wouters. A big horse, he was already in the parlor; he rose to his feet as she came in.
He'd eaten apples for breakfast. Otherwise he smelled of soap, hay, a spicy cologne that was far too powerful for a wolf's nose, and some chemical--leather polish, hoof polish, something like that, she wasn't sure quite what.
Like all the Belgian Blacks she'd met, he had a luxurious mane, magnificent sweeping tail, and long ‘feathers' of hair at his wrists; at his ankles, too. They spilled from his jacket sleeves and from his trouser legs across the top of his impeccably polished black hooves. He was all black, except for a white star on his forehead. But he was much bigger than expected. Belgian Blacks were big horses, but this fellow was at least a hand or two taller than the standard.
He smiled. She didn't smell any threat in him, and his eyes were mild and friendly. He stepped forward to take her hand. His handshake, his entire body had the strength of granite, of some sort of force of nature. Somehow, effortlessly, subtly, his handshake became a grip to steady her.
"Ms. Emily Redcloud?"
"Yes. And you would be Mr. Stefan Wouters, of The Church Today?"
"You got it. Boy, am I glad you agreed to meet me! You prob'ly know why I'm here... but it's getting toward noon. How 'bout I treat you to lunch? There's a good place pretty close, and interviews go a lot smoother over good food."
Emily considered. This big horse smelled all right. He seemed as harmless and eager to please as a cub--rather typical of the drafthorse breeds, that--and surely they would have checked his credentials when he came in. She shouldn't be in any danger.
"I'd be delighted, Mr. Wouters, if it's not too much trouble or expense for you. Anything to get out of this place for a while."
"Great! My van's just outside."
He took her arm, a polite gesture that let him unobtrusively support her on the side of her broken hip, and to hold a huge umbrella over their heads to protect them from the drizzle.
Mr. Wouters's van looked like a plain tradesman's model. It was silver-gray, clean, undistinguished and unmarked. The rear tires looked a bit wide; that and the way the windows were darkened were the only unusual features.
Wouters opened the door for her. Emily stopped for a moment, eyes widening. Then, with a hand-up from Wouters, she got into the passenger seat, sinking down into a horse-sized bucket seat that was more like an armchair than a bucket. It had some serious padding beneath what seemed to be best-quality leather.
Wouters closed the door for her, walked around, and got into the driver's seat. He stepped on pedals and turned the key. A powerful engine started, smooth, deep, and quiet. Fastening his seat belt, Wouters shifted the five-on-the-floor into gear and put them in motion. Turning onto the street, the boxy vehicle slid into traffic with the smooth assurance of a shark easing into a school of mackerel.
There was music. It was rather insipid music, provided by the local Top 40 station. Wouters kept the volume low, thankfully. But if the music was utterly unmemorable, the stereo was very special indeed. Emily had spent much time around college students back when music systems were the big thing, and she still knew her audio. The European stereo system, by itself, was worth as much as this whole van appeared to be from the outside.
They pulled into the lot of a decent-looking local restaurant; not one of those chain jobs. Wouters came around to offer her his arm again. They walked in. Someone, a graceful and happy feline who might be the owner, gave them a big smile and led them to their table.
The place smelled wonderful. She wanted a steak here, yes. She sniffed. The one with the swiss and bleu cheese, and the sautèed onions and mushrooms. Her nose told her they had other good dishes, but that one--they'd probably call it a smothered steak--had to be their best.
Wouters helped her with her chair, then sat down himself. He picked up his menu and glanced at it.
"Mr. Wouters, I'm more grateful than you can know for getting me out of that house of suffering. I do have to wonder why you'd want to interview me for your article, though."
Wouters perked his ears up. "What's wrong with your place? Okay, it's a nursing home, but I figgered the Church ran it pretty good."
"Nothing. It's fine--for a nursing home." She looked at the drizzle outside, which seemed to be turning into rain. "It's just that I don't have long. I want to get out of there before my end comes."
"Hold it--‘end'?" He set down the menu and looked at her, all concern. "Your nurse said you had a busted hip, but you were doing great on the healing..."
"So they tell me. But I'm of the Plains People, full-blooded." She touched the feathers braided into her fur and smiled, a little sadly. "I follow the old ways, not the Church's ways. And we of the Plains know things. I know that I'll meet Death soon. When I do, I want to meet him on the prairie, or in the woods, alone and face-to face, as is proper. That's the way the Plains People should die, Mr. Wouters. Someplace peaceful and natural, where you can make your own peace with the end of a beautiful life. Not in some hospital with tubes running in and out where tubes have no business going."
He nodded and smiled. "Oh. Well, Death, everybody meets that guy some time, huh? Y' know, back in the real old days--before the Awakening, I mean--anyway, the horses back then, a lot of 'em had what'cha might call a suicide thing. They're gettin' old, can't run so fast, ain't so tough or strong any more... so they do one last thing for the herd: They split off by themselves. Give the wolves an easy target. They're dead no matter what, but this way, them dyin' helps out the entire rest o' the herd. So those old-time horses an' wolves, I guess it's kinda like a contract between 'em; mutual assistance, in a weird way."When they were old and their end was near, their last gift was to turn aside to lead the wolves away, as far as they could, before they were pulled down. They gave meaning to their deaths by sacrifice, and gave meaning to the sacrifice by removing a threat from the herd. We of the herd share those memories with you of the pack. I suppose it makes us colleagues, in some strange way."
"In a very weird way. Yet for those who are still in touch with nature, the link is strong."
The waiter came; they put in their orders. She ordered the smothered steak. Wouters ordered a sirloin salad. That was odd: Every sapient creature had at least some ability to handle an omnivore's diet, but she hadn't known many horses with a taste for rare meat.
He must have heard her chuckle; he looked up. "What?"
"You're not what you seem. A horse eating a steak salad, that's odd enough. But the bill here won't be small. Your clothing is plain, but I recognize fine British cloth when I see it. As well, your van is not exactly a standard model. You have a lot more money than the average churchman, Mr. Wouters. More polish, too, if I may say so."
"Who said I'm clergy? Sure, I write for a church magazine, but I ain't never gonna be ordained--not my calling."
"My argument stands. If there's anybody that has less money than churchmen, it's writers."
"Damn, you're sharp!" He laughed. "Okay, the writing's kind of a hobby for me. I like it and I'm good at it, but if I had to live on it, I'd prob'ly starve. The reason I don't is, I got lucky with some real estate back in the Troubles."
"Hm. Well, then: Why do you want to talk to me about Father Presley O'Bannon?"
"'Cause Pres and me went to Carillon College back in the druggie days. We both had the same temptations; I know how I dealt with it, but I wanna find out how he ended up."
"I see. Fascinating." The waiter slid her steak in front of her; it looked almost as good as it smelled.
"So... you was Pres's landlady?"
"Yes, the one and a half years he was at Carillon, including the summer between school years. He was a dear kid, always polite, always kept himself smelling nice. Of course, like most of the kids who took rooms along State Street, he didn't have two brasses to rub together."
"What sort of friends did he have? Was there anybody he hung out with in particular?"
Emily sniffed. She smiled. She might be old, but her teeth were still very good; they gleamed. "Why do you want to know?"
Wouters laid his ears back; only a fraction, but they did go back. "Well, I'm... writing about the guy..."
"Mr. Wouters, don't try to fool one of the Plains People. I broke my hip, not my nose. I can smell deception, I can smell that your casual question means way more to you than your story can explain."
He sighed. He looked away, then looked back at her again. "Okay. I was kind of a mess back then, right? If it was something you could smoke, snort, or drink, I was there, suckin' it down by the quart. An' Pres was a buddy.
"So, one night, I hit this huge party with him--him and two other guys, another dog and a cat. Don't remember anything else about 'em; as stoned as I was, that's no surprise, huh? An' somewhere along the way, things got real fuzzy; I got a few bits and pieces stuck in my mind, an' that's it. What I remember... I'm pretty sure somebody grabbed all the cash I had on me. I heard the door crash open, an' somebody screamed about the Drug Squad. Pres and some other guy, they dragged my tail outta there; they made me puke and cleaned me up.
"The next morning, I woke up in my own dorm room. I felt like a pack o' wolves'd ripped me apart, chewed on the pieces, and put the leftovers back together, but I was alive! An' I've been stone-cold sober ever since.
"I may not know who saved my ass that night, but I'm damn sure somebody did--and I've never had a chance to thank 'em."
Emily chewed a piece of steak, savoring it. She swallowed, set her fork down, smiled. "You never had a chance to thank whoever took your money, either. I bet it was that bobcat. I never did like him." The restaurant's owner flicked an ear in her direction. Emily vowed to lower her voice a bit more from here on.
Now Wouter quoted Scripture: "‘Gratitude is mine, but vengeance is the Lord's.'"
"So they say. I'm glad you believe that."
"Yeah, I do."
"Well, then: Since you've been such a nice young man... I called them the Cat Pack. It's not right for two canines to follow a feline's lead like that, you know. Presley broke free eventually, luckily for him.
"I'd guess it was Colin who helped Presley drag you out of there. I don't know his last name, but he was one of Father O'Bannon's two closest friends."
"What was he like?"
"Big dog, really big. He could smile like the sun, and some days it felt like he'd do anything for you. But on other days he'd get moody, slow, and surly. I think he had a good heart, all in all. He struck me as a bit lazy. That was his real problem; he let the bobcat tell him what to do, because it was easier than thinking for himself."
"And the bobcat? What about him?"
"Trevor... something-or-other. Trevor." She snorted. "I never liked him. Oh, the few times we talked, he was all right. Kind of quiet, very polite, very polished. And he was reserved. There was always something going on inside that head that he wasn't saying. Like you."
Wouters blinked. "Should I be insulted?"
"If you like--but at least I don't smell any malice in you. Trevor, now, he didn't smell right. He'd wear scents strong enough to gag you, trying to hide what was going on in his heart, but they weren't enough to fool me. That's why I never trusted him."
"Um... how do you mean..?"
"Sorry, but I fear I cannot explain. Not even to most other canines. A bloodhound, or another member of the Plains People, yes; but otherwise, forget about it. I can say he smelled... sour. That little bit of tension, as if he had that little bit of fear that someone might figure out what he was up to.
"And then, I was always afraid I might catch some disease from him."
"That's weird. Did he, I dunno, cough a lot or something?"
"No, no... come to think of it, he didn't. I think he struck me as ill because he smelled like medicine."
"Camphor?"
"Maybe. Something sharp, something like medicine anyway."
Wouters nodded. "Was Pres involved in church youth groups back then?" And so the interview continued.
(continued in part two)
"Get rid of that! Get rid of that now!"
The big Clydesbank horse-man looked startled. "Get rid of what, Mr. Fairweather?"
Fairweather was livid; in the state he was in, his horns could easily be a danger to life and limb. "That--inhaler! If you ever bring that stuff to work again, I'll fire you, do you hear? Fire you!"
Derrick looked at the Campho-Rub inhaler in his hand as if seeing it for the first time. He put the cap back on and dropped it into his pocket, his fingers flying away from it as if it were a snake. "Right away, Mr. Fairweather." He looked startled, and there was a world of mournful hurt in his big, soft eyes.
He turned and disappeared into his office. As a combination of personal assistant, receptionist, and security officer, his office was right behind the reception desk.
Art Fairweather shook. He took a deep breath, raised his hand, and rubbed his head at the base of his horns. "Sorry," he half-whispered to the other employees nearby. A few had sad understanding in their eyes. "Sorry. Let me, ah, catch my breath. I'll explain it to him."
Ten minutes later, he tapped on the doorframe of Derrick's office. "Derrick? May I come in?"
"Of course, Mr. Fairweather."
The office was dark, and scented with tea and... cedar incense? The desk lamp cast a pool of light on the green felt pad on Derrick Clydesbank's desk, but didn't let Art see the horse's eyes clearly. They were just faint gleams in the murk. With a pang, Art thought that perhaps Derrick didn't want him to see tears there. It also reminded Art of something, somehow. Something with a strong emotional connection, but he didn't quite place it.
"Look, Derrick, I'm sorry about the... inhaler. I'm sorry."
"I understand, sir. The medicine has an intense odor; it's really too strong even for me. I didn't stop to think how powerful it might be to a goat such as yourself."
Art barked something between a laugh and a sob. He took the normal-sized chair in front of Derrick's oversized desk. "No, it's not that simple. It's just that, ah, the odor of camphor brings back bad memories. But you don't need to worry about that. I was out of line, and I apologize."
"I doubt you could help it. They say scent is the most powerful of our senses, that it goes straight to the center of our minds and awakens associations without our being able to control it. I'm sorry to have awakened whatever ghosts haunt you."
In the shadows, Derrick turned and took something from the tabletop behind him. Art heard a clink and the sound of liquid pouring. The scent of tea intensified. Without asking, Derrick set a china cup, filled with tea and resting on its saucer, on the edge of the desk nearest Art. He set a much larger mug of tea in front of himself. Derrick always had wonderful tea; Art had no idea where he got it.
"Thank you, Derrick. I can use this just now."
"Perhaps you could tell me why the scent of camphor troubles you so. They do say confession is good for the soul..."
Art laughed. "That's it!"
"What?"
"That's what your office reminds me of. The darkness in here, the cedar incense. And I know you're there, and can hear you, but I can't really see you. It's like the confessional at church, back when I was a kid."
Derrick chuckled. "Strange you should say that. I once considered joining the priesthood myself."
"You do have a bit of a priestly manner about you, somehow. Yes, a lot of us raised in the Church have that idea when we're younger."
"I went so far as to enter a seminary. But I found something inside myself that was not appropriate for a man of the cloth."
Art chuckled. "Ah. Lust."
"No, sir. Priests feel that also; controlling it is part of their calling. For any worthy of calling themselves priests, anyway. No, what I felt was something else."
"What?"
"Something horrible for a priest to hide in his heart: I found I could not believe in the justice of God."
"Ah." Art sipped his tea. "Perhaps in that we can agree."
They sat in silence for a while.
Art set down his cup. "Our mutual friend Sam said you'd be a fine employee, and he was right. How much did you work with Sam before you came here? How much did he tell you about Nan's kidnapping?"
"We hardly knew each other, sir. Sam had dealings with my former employer, Mr. Crane, and spoke with me when he visited our offices. Somehow I must have impressed him, I have no idea how. Perhaps it was the tea, perhaps it was the way I finished my work, how I answered all the calls of duty I owed my employer, even under unusual and distressing circumstances.
"In any case, after Mr. Crane's tragic death, I needed a new position. Sam said he'd put in a good word for me here. As for the kidnapping, Sam was most circumspect. He told me it had occurred, and nothing more."
"And of course the kidnapping is public knowledge."
"Of course, sir."
"So our badger friend kept the rest to himself. I would have expected noting less from him."
"He did seem most professional. Although, to be frank, I wasn't sure exactly what Sam's profession might be."
"Sam... arranges things." The tone in Art's voice gave the bland words much significance. "He arranged a money transfer to some people. I think he may also have impressed upon them that it would be best if Nan returned to me unharmed. Unharmed." He sighed deeply.
"I believe you are trying to say she suffered no physical harm, at least."
"I can't say that, either. At least she came back alive..." Art sighed. "Let me explain about the Campho-Rub. The kidnappers kept her hoodwinked for the whole time they had her, and kept the hood well doped with that stinky stuff. That way she couldn't identify them by sight or scent. I suppose I should thank them for that, since if they hadn't been so careful, they might have thought they'd have to kill her to protect themselves. But ever since that day, just the slightest scent of Campho-Rub sets her off. Her, or me."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Fairweather. I didn't know."
"Of course you didn't. Don't worry about it, Derrick."
"And the police never caught the kidnappers?"
"No, and with the Statute of Limitations, now they won't even try. It might not be so bad if we knew the three of them weren't still out there somewhere, or even if we knew who they were, so we could avoid them. But we don't. Nan sees them in any stranger. For her, they live in every shadow."
"There were three of them?"
"Yes, Nan was fairly sure of that. Two of them raped her, a canine and a feline. She thinks there was a third, but has no idea what his or her bloodline might be."
Derrick nodded. "It's a terrible thing, sir."
"She's married now, and mostly happy. I guess we're both doing as well, things are going as well, as you could expect."
"But things could be better."
Art paused. "Yes. I suppose they could."
"Did you suspect any of your employees might have been involved?"
"Of course not! I only hire good people. I take care of them and they take care of me. That wouldn't have saved anyone if I'd had a hint they were involved, but... no. None of my people were involved. I'd stake my life on it."
"Please, have some more tea. It's good that your people are always so trustworthy. I have to wonder whether any of them behaved strangely, though, or perhaps left your employ around that time. Surely the police would have asked that question, and would have checked into anyone you mentioned. Just as a matter of routine, of course."
Art let Derrick top up his teacup. He picked it up and sipped, looking off into the winter's early darkness outside, not really seeing it. "No, nobody. Well, as I told the police at the time, there was one fellow, a summer student intern. But he doesn't count."
"Why not?"
Art set down his cup with a loud clink. His eyes were angry. "Are you insinuating that Presley O'Bannon could have been involved in this?"
Derrick leaned back in the darkness. "I'm afraid I really cannot say one way or another, since I have no idea who Presley O'Bannon is, or was."
"Oh--yes--of course. Well, I know his family. His mother is one of my oldest friends from high school." Art took a deep breath. "Presley's a good kid. As I said, he was a summer intern. It's my practice, you know? I hire young architecture students from Carillon College over the summer. They get a little practice in their chosen field of study, they earn a little pocket money. School costs are unbearable these days. Carillon is a private school, and it's even worse than most. It always was expensive. Even back when I got my architecture degrees there."
"It's most admirable that you help the youngsters that way."
"Thank you. Presley was with us the summer after his first year in the program. He left at the end of the summer, as all interns do. There was nothing unusual about that."
"Did he return after his sophomore year?"
Art sipped his tea before replying. "No, we never hired him again."
"That's not your usual practice, though, is it? Didn't someone say that one of your interns this summer, Thisbe, was in her third year with you?"
Fairweather twitched an ear dismissively. "Presley left architecture. That's not unusual, either. You can have all the heart and talent in the world, but the hours you have to put in during the architecture program are brutal. He broke down from stress, lack of sleep, I'd guess. Something like that."
"Ah. A perfectly innocent explanation."
"Of course. As I said, he and his family are fine people. He had nothing to do with Nan. I never suspected him for an instant."
"Of course not, sir."
#
"Mr. Clydesbank is here to see you, Lieutenant."
"Please send him in." Briley slid the list of shift assignments aside with a sigh of relief. He might not know what Art Fairweather's personal assistant wanted with the Fort Pitt Police Department, but anything--anything--was better than administrivia.
As he'd expected from the name, Derrick Clydesbank was an example of why ceilings in public buildings had to be so high. At that, the horse had to lower his head a little to get through the doorway without getting a concussion. Not for the first time, Briley thanked God that he himself was just a mutt dog, and not a large one at that.
"Mr. Clydesbank? I'm Lieutenant Briley. Please have a seat." Warned in advance by Clydesbank's name, he'd moved furniture for this appointment. The little couch that was usually against the wall was on the far side of his desk, where he usually had a small guest chair. That had been a good move.
"Thanks for meeting me."
"Anything for Arthur Fairweather. But I don't know why you wanted this meeting..?"
"Please understand that I am not acting for Mr. Fairweather in any official capacity, sir. He is not aware that I am investigating the kidnapping of his daughter Ananda, several years ago. I presume you are familiar with the case?"
"A bit. I was afraid that might be what you wanted. What's your interest? It's been so long that nothing could be done to bring the perps to justice now."
"Aside from my other duties, I handle security at Fairweather and Company."
"You?"
"Me. Even a placid Clydesbank can be an adequate security officer when there are no threats at hand. But as security is part of my job, I want to look to it as best I can, however great my natural handicaps in that area. And it seems to me that the people who kidnapped young Ananda are the greatest proven security threat the Fairweathers face."
"You may be right. I'm sorry I can't help you."
"Ah. You have an official policy against releasing criminal investigation records?"
"What? Oh, no, nothing like that, not for Art Fairweather. Or even his security officer. Not for a case that's as cold as this one.
"The problem is, we don't have anything on the case any more. When you called for an appointment, I went to look up what we had on the case, and there's nothing. Maybe our files got thrown out when we moved to the new building nine years back; maybe somebody purged the files more recently. No matter how much file space we have, we never seem to have enough. Now, statute of limitations or no statute of limitations, we should have kept the notes and evidence. What there was of it. But... it's just not there."
Briley spread his hands wide and sighed. "Look, I'm sorry. It's terrible, but I can't do anything about it."
"A true pity. But you, or other officers, must still remember something about the case. To begin, can you tell me who handled the investigation?"
"Detective Sergeant MacFaoil, as he then was."
"Would that be the Kelly MacFaoil for whom this building is named?"
"It would." Briley sighed again. "The surest way to get a building named after you is to die while it's under construction. See how tall this desk is? It was ordered for him, not for me. He never got a chance to use it."
"A big fellow with an Irish name. He was an Irish Hound, then? I wouldn't have dared bring up the stereotype of the big Irish cop, but there he is. And I saw another Irish Hound in uniform, on the street outside, as I came in. They're everywhere. I swear, it's almost as if they were bred for police wo-"
Briley's ears went back. His hackles rose. "We dogs are not bred. We're people, damn it, not just dumb animals you can breed any way you... want..."
He felt his ears drop, his eyes widen, and his face go cold all the way down to his fingertips when he realized what he'd said, and to whom. "Oh God, I'm sorry. I didn't mean..."
Clydesbank smiled. There was no anger in his eyes. A little sorrow, perhaps, but no anger. "No offense taken. My clan is proud of its heritage in war and afterward, to be sure. But we don't condone or forgive what the Highland Lairds did to us. Some of the things they did were beyond forgiveness. Does the term ‘gelding' mean anything to you?"
Briley flinched. "I know what it means."
"The Lairds' experiments in... breeding... were nothing less than criminal. But it wasn't your crime, or mine. It was finished, and the consequences were settled centuries ago."
"Indeed. Just what bloodline were the Highland Lairds, anyway?"
"They were an especially huge breed of deer; their closest four-legged analog on this continent would be the elk that roam the Western Mountains, I believe. But their antlers were even more massive. I've never seen it, but I'm told that the Clydesbank Clan Hall preserves several examples of them, mounted here and there on the walls."
Briley shuddered. He decided not to pursue that line of conversation any further. "About the kidnapping, then. I do remember a little... Back then, I was just a rookie walking a beat. But I heard a few things.
"The victim was of high school age. She was attending a private school--I don't know, that prep school on the West Side where all the rich kids go. You know its name? Nobody talks about it, of course, but one of the big reasons, maybe the biggest reason to go there, is the security." He shrugged. "I don't like to say it, but class and how much money you have make you a target, and that works both ways. Not to mention some of the meat-eater/leaf-eater problems that still crop up. Sorry to mention them."
"Well, the old antagonisms do still exist. I must say it strikes me as only proper that an officer of the law should recognize that fact. There's no need to worry about offending me by speaking the truth."
"Thank you. People can be so touchy, and considering history, I can't say I blame them."
The big horse nodded. "Mr. Fairweather should have felt Ananda was safe enough at a private school that is almost a fortress. I can see how shocked he would be when events proved she was vulnerable even there."
"Yes. Stunned was more like it. I saw him come into the station once, when the case started. They led him in, steering him by his elbow so he didn't walk into doors and walls."
"Horrible. Did they kidnap her from school?"
"No, just outside. Normally her father's car came for her, but she loves to sing--she used to love it, before, I mean. Thursdays she'd go to singing practice in Symphony Hall. She'd ride there with a friend. Her friend usually parked her car on the street, about a block from the school's gates. The kidnappers grabbed her on her way there. They jumped out of a van, threw her in the back, and left, simple as that. Got clean away, too. Nobody else saw it happen.
"After that, nothing much. The Feds came in, and they wanted to tap Fairweather's phone lines, but he wouldn't have it. We watched him and his people, and it wouldn't surprise me if the Feds had a tap on his line, permission or no. But somehow he managed to pay the ransom without our seeing who delivered the money for him, where the drop was, any of that.
"The kidnappers released Ananda Fairweather alive. Usually they don't, ransom money or no ransom money. I knew that, so during the case I thought Mr. Fairweather was stupid to handle things the way he did. With the way things turned out, though, maybe he was right.
"It didn't help us catch the perps, though. We had nothing on them. They got clean away, and that made me furious--still does. There's nothing worse than the kind of swingbacks who would kidnap and gang-rape a young girl. They're rabid four-leggers, not people. They should be hunted down and killed like the beasts they are."
"Did you happen to hear anything about Sergeant MacFaoil's progress in the case?"
"Nothing. He worked alone on this case. But let me assure you, if there were any evidence it would have led him to the criminals. He was good in those days. I think his failure weighed on him; I remember he seemed terribly depressed whenever I'd see him. He slowed down a lot after that, and the quality of his work suffered. Of course he must have been very sick, too, although none of us knew it."
"He was promoted to Lieutenant afterward, in spite of poor performance?"
"Well, MacFaoil had been an excellent officer. He was brilliant, in fact, a legend on the Force. It seemed to half-kill him that he couldn't solve the Fairweather case. I'm not sure he ever did get over it... ‘Time heals all wounds,' but for that you need the time, and he didn't have much. The heart attack that carried him off was only a few months later.
"I thought he'd get over it. And I remember thinking, even then, inexperienced as I was, that maybe he'd seen too much of life on the street. As Lieutenant, I do a lot more administrative work. It isolates me from some of the things you see out there, things you'd rather forget. Frankly, that's not all bad.
"I think MacFaoil's promotion was a good idea. I think he would have recovered and would have been fine, if he'd lived. If he wasn't a big Irishman. So many of them die so young; they're heartbreakers. So sweet, they seem so strong, and then they just... keel over. Tragic."
"Very sad. And that's all you know?"
"Not quite: I know what everyone else does. Ananda Fairweather said three people, at least two of whom were male, were involved in her kidnapping. One of the males was a canine and one was a feline. Also, the ransom was $180,000."
Clydesbank sat up taller, if that were possible. "That's a strange number, don't you think?"
"Money's money. I was so mad about the case that I hadn't thought about it. What do you mean?"
"I'm no expert on the ways of criminals, of course. But it seems to me that in setting a ransom, kidnappers might make either of two mistakes. They might set it too high, or too low. Correct?"
"Well, obviously."
"Please excuse a poor, slow-minded drafthorse for thinking that such basic observations are startling. But let us ponder this. They set the ransom rather low, correct?"
"Um. Arthur Fairweather seems to have a lot of money, yes."
"Yes. If I knew Mr. Fairweather's finances, circumspection would require me to forgo speaking of them. But it would not betray any confidence for me to observe that Mr. Fairweather's financial resources are... considerable.
"So, Lieutenant Briley, we have a paradox: You will no doubt have noticed that Miss Fairweather was kidnapped at the one point where she was most vulnerable. In order to know her movements that well, they would need to observe her daily routines in detail. That hints that the criminals were professionals. Yet they raped her. Having raped her, they let her live. And they set a ransom far lower than they could have. All those things say the criminals weren't professional at all.
"The amount of the ransom itself is strange, because it is not the sort of number that would naturally occur to someone. The sum of two hundred thousand bux, or even a million, would be something one might expect the criminals to demand. The number they chose instead seems oddly precise, oddly specific. It is as if they requested a specific amount, for some specific purpose."
"Which begs the question, ‘What purpose?'"
Clydesbank smiled. "Yes, it does indeed raise that question, Lieutenant Briley. It seems to me that if one knew what costs exactly $180,000--or, more precisely, what would cost three individuals exactly $60,000 each--one might be well on one's way to solving this case."
#
Karen bustled into the second floor break room. "Where's my carrot cake?"
Dall laughed and poured a cup of coffee for her. It was special, a Java Island variety infused with cherry and chocolate. They always had something special for the Thursday Morning Flock Meet. "I thought you weren't going to make it. I thought Sally and I would have to eat your cake for you."
"We wouldn't do that. And we have extra we could save for you anyway," Sal said. She looked worried. She was sweet, and always took things more seriously than she should.
"Nobody gets my piece of carrot cake! I wouldn't miss the Flock Meet for anything. All the wolves and lions and bears and such around, we sheep gotta stick together. Where'd you get the coffee, Dall?"
"The Beanery just got it in. How's things in Admissions?"
Karen struck a dramatic pose, back of her wrist against her wooly forehead, eyes heavenward, ears laid back in despair. "Terrible. It's not enough dealing with my real work, oh no. The Alumni Association's riding my fuzzy butt for copies of the archives, updated to the new format, too. And what they're doing is wrong. Carillon College is supposed to have standards! We shouldn't be supporting spam and junk mail campaigns. Blasted marketoid, that's what they're making me, and to Hell with education, we gotta squeeze money out of anyone who ever set hoof in this place. And then my computer croaks, as always."
"You should have them replace that thing."
"They won't. They say the computer is fine, but it isn't. The Internet is broken again. You can't believe how long it takes me to read any of those old files! I can't get anything done."
Sally said "I saw someone in maintenance working in that metal box, you know, the one on the outside wall near the west entrance? Bet the IT guys were trying to fix something and broke something else."
Karen grumbled into her coffee. "I bet. You know what I call them? Itiots. ‘Idiot' with an I-T, get it? I called them and gave them a piece of my mind. They said they'd send someone over, but he couldn't get here until 10:00."
"Ten o'clock?" Dall said, glancing at the clock on the wall above the sink. "You mean now?"
"Yes. My, the cake is fine this week."
Sally asked "How's IT going to fix your machine if you're not there?"
"I left it on for them."
"Don't you think you should think about security sometimes? Leaving your machine unattended and open like that?"
"Oh, posh, Sally. Obsolete files, who cares about them? You're a darling, but sometimes you're almost as bad as the itiots. All this security crap is just their making themselves look important to preserve their jobs, if you ask me."
Sally's words did make Karen worry, when she had time to think about it, but she wasn't going to show that. She finished her cake and coffee. She took her time about it, and enjoyed the usual gossip. (The new secretary in the office of the Dean of Liberal Arts was a canine of the dingo line, and he insisted on wearing traditional native Australian scents that made him smell like he'd rolled in a three-week-dead fish. Dreadful!)
When the twenty minutes were up, though, she hurried back down to Admissions. She almost ran.
Her office door was closed but unlocked. The lights were out. Inside, on her desk, surrounded by a mound of register books and miscellaneous papers, her computer was running some program she didn't recognize. She thumped down in her chair and squinted at the screen.
FILE STRUCTURE CHECK: DONE
VIRUS SCAN: DONE
SPYWARE SCAN AND REPAIR: DONE
DISC CLEANUP: DONE
FRAGMENTATION CHECK: DONE
FINAL CLEANUP AND SECURE DELETE: 89%
Should she stop it? She didn't know what it was doing--she didn't dare interfere!
And as she considered it, half in panic, her computer beeped and the screen went blank.
It flickered. The machine began to boot. Everything seemed normal. In fact, the computer booted faster than she expected.
Heart in throat, she checked the files she'd been searching and editing. Everything was where it should be. All her latest edits were in place. And file access was very, very fast.
Her computer worked beautifully after that, to the point that she called IT to get the name of the tech who had fixed it. Whoever it was, she wanted them the next time the Internet broke. But they couldn't find any record of her trouble ticket.
Itiots!
#
Emily Redcloud braided the second feather into the fur behind her right ear, and then stopped for a moment. Outside, the winter drizzle was unrelenting. She sighed deeply.
Anna, the nurse, stopped trying to fit a stylish brown half-shoe around Emily's footpaw. "What's wrong, dear?"
"Nothing. It's just such a dreary day. I wish I could get out to the park or something."
"You're not thinking about that again, are you?"
Emily was, but she wasn't going to admit it. "No, not at all. I just wish the sun would shine. Am I presentable for my gentleman friend?"
"You look ravishing, Ms. Redcloud. A true princess of the plains, as always."
"Liar. I'm an old, old wolf." But Emily smiled anyway. "My walker? No, not walker, my cane, please."
"I think we should wheel you down in the chair."
"I have my dignity, girl. Besides, I'm never going to recover if I don't exercise. Nothing personal, but the last thing I want is to be stuck in a nursing home for the rest of my life."
"But you're still so slow walking with the cane, and you'll be tired by the time we get there. Let's do this: Get in the chair, I'll take you to the door and you can go in to meet Mr. Wouters under your own power. Deal?"
"You're a saint, Anna. Thank you."
The Convalescent Center had what they called parlor rooms. They were quite homey, actually. Anna stopped the wheelchair just outside Parlor Number 2. Emily heaved herself to her feet. She planted her cane on the floor, took two tiny steps, planted her cane on the floor, took two tiny steps, into the parlor.
It was warm from the fire in the gas fireplace. The writer's name was Stefan Wouters. A big horse, he was already in the parlor; he rose to his feet as she came in.
He'd eaten apples for breakfast. Otherwise he smelled of soap, hay, a spicy cologne that was far too powerful for a wolf's nose, and some chemical--leather polish, hoof polish, something like that, she wasn't sure quite what.
Like all the Belgian Blacks she'd met, he had a luxurious mane, magnificent sweeping tail, and long ‘feathers' of hair at his wrists; at his ankles, too. They spilled from his jacket sleeves and from his trouser legs across the top of his impeccably polished black hooves. He was all black, except for a white star on his forehead. But he was much bigger than expected. Belgian Blacks were big horses, but this fellow was at least a hand or two taller than the standard.
He smiled. She didn't smell any threat in him, and his eyes were mild and friendly. He stepped forward to take her hand. His handshake, his entire body had the strength of granite, of some sort of force of nature. Somehow, effortlessly, subtly, his handshake became a grip to steady her.
"Ms. Emily Redcloud?"
"Yes. And you would be Mr. Stefan Wouters, of The Church Today?"
"You got it. Boy, am I glad you agreed to meet me! You prob'ly know why I'm here... but it's getting toward noon. How 'bout I treat you to lunch? There's a good place pretty close, and interviews go a lot smoother over good food."
Emily considered. This big horse smelled all right. He seemed as harmless and eager to please as a cub--rather typical of the drafthorse breeds, that--and surely they would have checked his credentials when he came in. She shouldn't be in any danger.
"I'd be delighted, Mr. Wouters, if it's not too much trouble or expense for you. Anything to get out of this place for a while."
"Great! My van's just outside."
He took her arm, a polite gesture that let him unobtrusively support her on the side of her broken hip, and to hold a huge umbrella over their heads to protect them from the drizzle.
Mr. Wouters's van looked like a plain tradesman's model. It was silver-gray, clean, undistinguished and unmarked. The rear tires looked a bit wide; that and the way the windows were darkened were the only unusual features.
Wouters opened the door for her. Emily stopped for a moment, eyes widening. Then, with a hand-up from Wouters, she got into the passenger seat, sinking down into a horse-sized bucket seat that was more like an armchair than a bucket. It had some serious padding beneath what seemed to be best-quality leather.
Wouters closed the door for her, walked around, and got into the driver's seat. He stepped on pedals and turned the key. A powerful engine started, smooth, deep, and quiet. Fastening his seat belt, Wouters shifted the five-on-the-floor into gear and put them in motion. Turning onto the street, the boxy vehicle slid into traffic with the smooth assurance of a shark easing into a school of mackerel.
There was music. It was rather insipid music, provided by the local Top 40 station. Wouters kept the volume low, thankfully. But if the music was utterly unmemorable, the stereo was very special indeed. Emily had spent much time around college students back when music systems were the big thing, and she still knew her audio. The European stereo system, by itself, was worth as much as this whole van appeared to be from the outside.
They pulled into the lot of a decent-looking local restaurant; not one of those chain jobs. Wouters came around to offer her his arm again. They walked in. Someone, a graceful and happy feline who might be the owner, gave them a big smile and led them to their table.
The place smelled wonderful. She wanted a steak here, yes. She sniffed. The one with the swiss and bleu cheese, and the sautèed onions and mushrooms. Her nose told her they had other good dishes, but that one--they'd probably call it a smothered steak--had to be their best.
Wouters helped her with her chair, then sat down himself. He picked up his menu and glanced at it.
"Mr. Wouters, I'm more grateful than you can know for getting me out of that house of suffering. I do have to wonder why you'd want to interview me for your article, though."
Wouters perked his ears up. "What's wrong with your place? Okay, it's a nursing home, but I figgered the Church ran it pretty good."
"Nothing. It's fine--for a nursing home." She looked at the drizzle outside, which seemed to be turning into rain. "It's just that I don't have long. I want to get out of there before my end comes."
"Hold it--‘end'?" He set down the menu and looked at her, all concern. "Your nurse said you had a busted hip, but you were doing great on the healing..."
"So they tell me. But I'm of the Plains People, full-blooded." She touched the feathers braided into her fur and smiled, a little sadly. "I follow the old ways, not the Church's ways. And we of the Plains know things. I know that I'll meet Death soon. When I do, I want to meet him on the prairie, or in the woods, alone and face-to face, as is proper. That's the way the Plains People should die, Mr. Wouters. Someplace peaceful and natural, where you can make your own peace with the end of a beautiful life. Not in some hospital with tubes running in and out where tubes have no business going."
He nodded and smiled. "Oh. Well, Death, everybody meets that guy some time, huh? Y' know, back in the real old days--before the Awakening, I mean--anyway, the horses back then, a lot of 'em had what'cha might call a suicide thing. They're gettin' old, can't run so fast, ain't so tough or strong any more... so they do one last thing for the herd: They split off by themselves. Give the wolves an easy target. They're dead no matter what, but this way, them dyin' helps out the entire rest o' the herd. So those old-time horses an' wolves, I guess it's kinda like a contract between 'em; mutual assistance, in a weird way."When they were old and their end was near, their last gift was to turn aside to lead the wolves away, as far as they could, before they were pulled down. They gave meaning to their deaths by sacrifice, and gave meaning to the sacrifice by removing a threat from the herd. We of the herd share those memories with you of the pack. I suppose it makes us colleagues, in some strange way."
"In a very weird way. Yet for those who are still in touch with nature, the link is strong."
The waiter came; they put in their orders. She ordered the smothered steak. Wouters ordered a sirloin salad. That was odd: Every sapient creature had at least some ability to handle an omnivore's diet, but she hadn't known many horses with a taste for rare meat.
He must have heard her chuckle; he looked up. "What?"
"You're not what you seem. A horse eating a steak salad, that's odd enough. But the bill here won't be small. Your clothing is plain, but I recognize fine British cloth when I see it. As well, your van is not exactly a standard model. You have a lot more money than the average churchman, Mr. Wouters. More polish, too, if I may say so."
"Who said I'm clergy? Sure, I write for a church magazine, but I ain't never gonna be ordained--not my calling."
"My argument stands. If there's anybody that has less money than churchmen, it's writers."
"Damn, you're sharp!" He laughed. "Okay, the writing's kind of a hobby for me. I like it and I'm good at it, but if I had to live on it, I'd prob'ly starve. The reason I don't is, I got lucky with some real estate back in the Troubles."
"Hm. Well, then: Why do you want to talk to me about Father Presley O'Bannon?"
"'Cause Pres and me went to Carillon College back in the druggie days. We both had the same temptations; I know how I dealt with it, but I wanna find out how he ended up."
"I see. Fascinating." The waiter slid her steak in front of her; it looked almost as good as it smelled.
"So... you was Pres's landlady?"
"Yes, the one and a half years he was at Carillon, including the summer between school years. He was a dear kid, always polite, always kept himself smelling nice. Of course, like most of the kids who took rooms along State Street, he didn't have two brasses to rub together."
"What sort of friends did he have? Was there anybody he hung out with in particular?"
Emily sniffed. She smiled. She might be old, but her teeth were still very good; they gleamed. "Why do you want to know?"
Wouters laid his ears back; only a fraction, but they did go back. "Well, I'm... writing about the guy..."
"Mr. Wouters, don't try to fool one of the Plains People. I broke my hip, not my nose. I can smell deception, I can smell that your casual question means way more to you than your story can explain."
He sighed. He looked away, then looked back at her again. "Okay. I was kind of a mess back then, right? If it was something you could smoke, snort, or drink, I was there, suckin' it down by the quart. An' Pres was a buddy.
"So, one night, I hit this huge party with him--him and two other guys, another dog and a cat. Don't remember anything else about 'em; as stoned as I was, that's no surprise, huh? An' somewhere along the way, things got real fuzzy; I got a few bits and pieces stuck in my mind, an' that's it. What I remember... I'm pretty sure somebody grabbed all the cash I had on me. I heard the door crash open, an' somebody screamed about the Drug Squad. Pres and some other guy, they dragged my tail outta there; they made me puke and cleaned me up.
"The next morning, I woke up in my own dorm room. I felt like a pack o' wolves'd ripped me apart, chewed on the pieces, and put the leftovers back together, but I was alive! An' I've been stone-cold sober ever since.
"I may not know who saved my ass that night, but I'm damn sure somebody did--and I've never had a chance to thank 'em."
Emily chewed a piece of steak, savoring it. She swallowed, set her fork down, smiled. "You never had a chance to thank whoever took your money, either. I bet it was that bobcat. I never did like him." The restaurant's owner flicked an ear in her direction. Emily vowed to lower her voice a bit more from here on.
Now Wouter quoted Scripture: "‘Gratitude is mine, but vengeance is the Lord's.'"
"So they say. I'm glad you believe that."
"Yeah, I do."
"Well, then: Since you've been such a nice young man... I called them the Cat Pack. It's not right for two canines to follow a feline's lead like that, you know. Presley broke free eventually, luckily for him.
"I'd guess it was Colin who helped Presley drag you out of there. I don't know his last name, but he was one of Father O'Bannon's two closest friends."
"What was he like?"
"Big dog, really big. He could smile like the sun, and some days it felt like he'd do anything for you. But on other days he'd get moody, slow, and surly. I think he had a good heart, all in all. He struck me as a bit lazy. That was his real problem; he let the bobcat tell him what to do, because it was easier than thinking for himself."
"And the bobcat? What about him?"
"Trevor... something-or-other. Trevor." She snorted. "I never liked him. Oh, the few times we talked, he was all right. Kind of quiet, very polite, very polished. And he was reserved. There was always something going on inside that head that he wasn't saying. Like you."
Wouters blinked. "Should I be insulted?"
"If you like--but at least I don't smell any malice in you. Trevor, now, he didn't smell right. He'd wear scents strong enough to gag you, trying to hide what was going on in his heart, but they weren't enough to fool me. That's why I never trusted him."
"Um... how do you mean..?"
"Sorry, but I fear I cannot explain. Not even to most other canines. A bloodhound, or another member of the Plains People, yes; but otherwise, forget about it. I can say he smelled... sour. That little bit of tension, as if he had that little bit of fear that someone might figure out what he was up to.
"And then, I was always afraid I might catch some disease from him."
"That's weird. Did he, I dunno, cough a lot or something?"
"No, no... come to think of it, he didn't. I think he struck me as ill because he smelled like medicine."
"Camphor?"
"Maybe. Something sharp, something like medicine anyway."
Wouters nodded. "Was Pres involved in church youth groups back then?" And so the interview continued.
(continued in part two)