He was alone in yet another long narrow ops room resonant with computer chortle and electromagnetic background hiss (or so he imagined), if a room at least broader than Norfolk’s. It was a plain white room whose walls showed ghostly crosses where the crucifixes had been removed. And Kevin was losing faith in his mission again. For the life of him he didn’t know why. It was Jaken’s deteriorating health. It was the soul-searching poetry. It was Kelly and the thought of a grandchild. It was not wanting to face that he was failing Michael Mender and so his old friend Johnson. It was November twenty-third. It was LaPhoc refusing to remain LaPhoc, becoming all complexly human and interesting.
LaPhoc was indeed a changed man, demonstratively courteous, more respectful of both Kevin and Brigid. He’d had the back end of the room sectioned off as ops HQ. It was equipped with an oversized (of course) MYCROFT terminal and huge holobanner maps of each of New York’s five boroughs. He’d had three comfortable cots installed, though he went home each night to the Upper East Side apartment that had been a wedding gift from his wife’s parents. LaPhoc had never so much as stretched out on his cot. Brigid said it was because he was self-conscious about his lack of length. That had been a revelation for Kevin: not LaPhoc’s heightism but Brigid’s empathy. Brigid herself only catnapped, returning to her hotel for the night. Kevin alone lived in the makeshift room, with the Global soldiers snoring all night on the other side of the so-called soundproof dividers, almost as loudly as the gangs in diesel-driven roarers that tore up and down the street like wannabe road warriors. Of course he snored too, like (as Brigid had testified from experience when he complained of the soldiers) some hippo blowing mud.
He was alone now in the empty middle of a quiet afternoon, alone with Death poem number four, and working with MYCROFT, of all possible partners in poetic crime.
“Let’s hear it.”
“Bong. Are you aware, Kevin, that bong carries connotations of marijuana smoking?”
“Lower, more vibrato.”
“Bong.”
“Better, but hold for a little longer.’
“A little longer?”
“Increase duration by ten percent. I thought you’d improved your command of idiom?”
“Bong.”
“Perfect. Now, here are your cues: one, big mouth; two, well of death; three, much for you; four—”
“New York, New York!” LaPhoc sang out as he entered with Brigid. “Why Global was headquartered in Toe-ron-toe for fifteen years and then moved to Washington instead of New York remains a mystery to me! This is the centre of the universe, people! Luh act-chee-own est ee-cee!”
“Shut up, Phil,” said Brigid.
LaPhoc’s face lost its sunshine: “Oh, uh, sorry, Kevin. Were you…working? Poetry?”
Kevin still showed embarrassment when caught writing, let alone having it referred to as work. He palmed his silver pen, flattening a large right hand on top of his pale copybook. “Yeah, LaPhoc, what rhymes with this is a wild goose chase?”
LaPhoc didn’t hesitate: “Kiss my caboose, Ace!” And laughed in surprise at his own wit. He actually flicked his ass dandily as he stepped to his unused cot and took off, turning in the air and landing on his back. With hands behind his head, he drew up his feet, tenting his short legs, puffed out his chest and addressed the ceiling:
“This is no wild goose chase, my friend. Mr. Malachai is going to strike in two days. He’s going to strike right here in New York. And it’s going to be his last strike. And, as promised, we’re going to take him alive. And I’m still willing to bet that case of Harp that the Garden’s the target!”
Brigid said, “Don’t look so concerned, Phil.”
LaPhoc smirked. “I’ll say one thing for the Christ-X brain-trust: they showed cajones when they picked their spot. In your face, eh? As you canuckleheads say.”
Kevin raised his eyebrows at Brigid and got only an indulgent smile. He grinned at LaPhoc. “LaPhoc, can I walk to St. Patrick’s from here?”
“Sure, you can walk anywhere in Manhattan! But why would you? I’ve placed a Global vehicle and driver at your disposal. Have you looked out on the broad world lately, Kevin? You poets really should get out more—it’s a carnival out there!”
Obediently Kevin went to the one narrow window in their end of the room.
LaPhoc continued: “Mandrake’s Hall has rallied its troops, and engaged the very best counter-protest service. They’re the ones on the opposite side of the street with the expensive holobanners screaming choice, all those quote-unquote women who look like the estrogen therapy never took.”
“Gender crime!” Brigid sang.
“Right below you, the ones dressed like clowns and acting like out-patients, they’re your Christ-X contingent, turfed out by us. None of them professional protesters, you can safely bet another case of Harp. And that heavenly music wafting up is the squeezebox strains of—get this—the Zydeco Zygotes! Reminds me of my ol’ Louisiana home!”
Kevin had followed LaPhoc’s directions through the street scene, which was indeed carnivalesque. He said, “Did you know that Cajun is a corruption of Acadian? That you, LaPhoc, are a descendant of Maritime French-Canadians?”
LaPhoc slapped his knee and hooted. “That’s a good one, Beldon! The north shall rise again!”
Kevin smiled. “If you’re so convinced Malachai is going to strike here next, don’t you think, just maybe, it would be a good idea to clear the crowds?”
“It could be, I agree, Detective Beldon. But even Global Patrol’s powers are limited when it comes to the public’s First Amendment right to peaceful protest. Besides which, I said only that Malachai will attempt his next strike here. Because when he does, we’ve got him—before the hit, don’t you worry, no one but Mr. Malachai his fucked-up self is in danger here! Anyway, clearing the crowd would risk scaring him off.”
“Right you are, LaPhoc.” Kevin raised his eyebrows, tipping his head at LaPhoc and mouthing to Brigid, What’s up?
Brigid met Kevin’s look directly and steadily, again refusing his conspiratorial invitation. “Dr. Fitzgerald over at the Garden has promised LaPh—Phil, that he can get him into an illegal makeover clinic in Havana, if Phil can get his domestic SENSOAR ration doubled. Guess what Phil is thinking?”
Kevin winked at Brigid…nothing. “But LaPhoc, wouldn’t it be better to accept yourself as you are than to surrender to social prejudice?”
“No. It would be better to be five-foot-eight, which the good doctor figures is the most I can safely hope for.”
“How tall are you, anyway, LaPhoc?”
“Five-foot-…insignificant. Why don’t you ask Ertelle—Brigid, how height affects a young woman who looks like a beanpole? And need I remind you, heightism is against the law, too, officer-of-the-court Detective Beldon.”
Kevin frowned. “It was Canadian law first, you know.”
“That’s all you Canucks ever say! Have you ever noticed that?” LaPhoc did a sneering nasal voice: “That’s Canadian, that’s Canadian, that’s Canadian. Did you know there are three As in Canadian, only two in American, and just one in asshole, eh? That’s more As per capita than any other G-twenty country. Nya-nya nya-nya-nya.”
Kevin gave a roar of true laughter.
Brigid said, “Boys, don’t we have work to—uh, I mean, if we’re not interrupting something you were doing, Kevin?”
“Nothing at all. We do have real work to do.” He said to LaPhoc, “If it’s not too much for you—”
“Bong.”
“What the hell was that!” LaPhoc was on his feet.
“Not now, computer, not now.” Kevin reddened beneath the white brush cut. “It was a church bell, something I was work—playing with…It’s the computer answering a cue.”
Brigid provided cover. “That’s it! I’m going back to the hotel for some lie-down time, then we’ll work. I’ll be back after supper. If only I could get some fresh vegetables—those Bronx pubs would fry water in bacon grease if they could.”
LaPhoc waited until the divider’s inset door closed behind her. “I know you have legitimate reservations, Kevin, but I’d appreciate your opinion on what we’ve done to secure the Garden.”
Kevin set aside his copybook and stood without a sign of anything but turning to duty.
LaPhoc brought up a real-time holobanner map of Madison Square Garden with its roof removed. No more running track, arena, court, or boxing ring. The centre of the building was now an actual garden of verdant hills and mature trees, centred on a heated mineral pool pumped up from an inundated aquifer, filtered and over-chlorinated. Fanning out from this centre were spas and restaurants and clothing stores and boutiques (if with an inordinate number of flower shops). Then, receding in three tiered rings from this sylvan centre, were the Mandrake’s Hall procedure theatres. The rim of the outermost ring was security, a barracks for hundreds, which circled the whole to the only entrance/exit on Seventh Avenue. The entire building emanated the mauve nimbus of highest-grade SENSOAR.
Kevin asked, “How many procedure theatres are there again?”
“Fifty.”
“The THANA-U comes from a central supply, and each theatre always has a preparatory amount on hand, right? And there’s the amount in the delivery tubing at any given moment.”
“Those have been my calculations and concerns, too, Kevin, but I’ve concluded we’re all right. It is a considerable central supply, but buried some fifty metres below the old Penn Station, encased in bellium steel and solid rock, three metres of reinforced concrete, and intensified SENSOAR powered by the Garden’s own equally protected nuclear reactor. I can’t conceive of a crack Global team, let alone one injured man, getting at the main supply.”
Kevin said, “Hmm…”
LaPhoc was unfazed. “Remember the good old days of Mandrake’s Hall, the body parts found blocks away? The Op-Pop franchise has most cause to dread a return of THANA-U accidents, especially now after Havre de Grace. And at the Garden? I do not think so, my friend.”
“Still, that many procedure theatres? The whole building must be full of residual THANA-U. What if a mini-device were smuggled in? Say, a Photo field-flash?”
“The place is hyperventilated.”
“You know better than that, LaPhoc—”
“Would you please call me Phil? Please. I know what you’re thinking, Kevin: the clinic at Havre de Grace was ventilated too. We’ve boosted it here, big time. What else can we do?”
“You’ve done good work…Phil.”
“Thank you. And I took your advice, Kevin. I invoked the full authority of Global Patrol, but Mandrake’s Hall will not shut down from November twenty-fourth. Mandrake’s Hall will not shut down on November twenty-fifth. They will not pretend to be fully operational with a dummy crew, claiming that the public would know anyway. They insist that anything other than business-as-usual would mean that Malachai wins—and mean so to the paying public.”
“Where have I heard that before? Fools, it’s not a pissing contest.”
“Publicly they insist they’re open for business as usual, that’s the way the great Saint Bledsoe would have wanted it, blah blah blah. Privately they say it’s our job to keep Malachai from getting close, and that if anything goes wrong they promise to sue Global Patrol back to where we began as rent-a-cops for the Climate Institute. So there is no way Mr. Malachai is walking up here like he did at Havre de Grace. His every cell is mapped now, every electro-chemical signature and frequency, every fucked-up impulse of his fucked-up brain. He’d never survive the dose of Contrarium required to fool the ramped-up SENSOARSCAN. If he comes within a mile, we’ve got him.”
Kevin turned from the map to the table and sat. He propped on his elbows and blinkered his brow with his hands. “I like what you’ve done there, La…Phil. The SENSOARWEB at every approach to the building, the SONO umbrella, the hyperventilating. That’s good police work. But, with all due respect, I still don’t think Malachai is going to hit here. It’s your very measures that make me surer than ever of Malachai’s—or his boss’s—anticipation of the Garden’s impregnability. It would be suicide, and his mission is far from completed. On top of that, he’s always chosen out-of-the-way places, with the exception of Norfolk. Striking anywhere in New York would be too obvious. Randome is no fool to rise to the bait, as much as the n of New York would make the perfect beginning for his nothing.”
LaPhoc was looking down on Kevin’s white balding head from behind, and, like Brigid, he smiled at the vulnerability of the tonsure. “I’m with you now on the Haiti-Randome conspiracy theory, Kevin, you know that. You convinced me with evidence and logic. Reason now tells me this is the place, and Brigid agrees with me. We’ve deployed a lot of resources here, true, but we still have the rest of New York’s clinics covered and every n-site from here into your great white north.”
“Since when does Brigid agree with you?”
“Since she and I just did a walk-through of security measures. Okay, she said she wanted to talk it over with you first, but she made no objections of her own. Only reminded me again of my promise to take Malachai alive, which I will try to do. Anyway, where else would we set up if not here? Newark? Newport? Covered, covered. But here we take our stand. Here we send out a message, and I’m not really worried if Malachai and Doctor Randome get that message beforehand. In fact, I’m hoping they do.” LaPhoc held out his hands, palms up, and wiggled his fingers towards himself: “Bring it, boys. …By all of which I mean no disrespect of your hunch, Kevin.”
“None taken. And it’s not a hunch.”
“Fine by me. Something else I’m prepared for: I also think this whole thing could come to nothing, because it’s just possible that our Mr. Malachai is either dead already or dying. Did you notice he didn’t leave his signature medallion at the last site?”
Kevin’s eyebrows went up. “That’s right, he didn’t. Good eye, Phil. Though, given the new wrinkle, the THANA-U explosion, it could have been blown into the bay.”
“We know the badge’s metallurgic signature, we’d have located it had it been blown to kingdom come.”
Kevin stared ahead. “Then maybe it’s identity confusion. That could be reason to hope, some loss of the Malachai identity, some reversion to Michael Mender.”
LaPhoc assumed a tone of authority: “Computer, how injured was the suspect in the explosion at Havre de Grace?”
“Given the plasma comparison of Norfolk site and Havre de Grace, after the latter the suspect was suffering serious, life-threatening wounds to the face.”
“Could he survive such?”
“Impossible to determine, as we would then be speculating on speculation.”
“Speculate on speculation already.”
“Were he to receive expert medical attention, the likelihood of recovery would increase significantly. We know that the suspect has an exceptionally resilient constitution, an AVIAIDS-free autoimmune system, and regular dosings of Recoop bio-enhancer. Because the wound is to the face—i.e., involving essential identity markers—the patient would require major cosmetic cloning followed by trauma therapy. Were the suspect to receive only field medical attention—i.e., self-administered Protoplazmat—the likelihood of his surviving would decrease significantly. Much depends on the precise depth of the facial wound, which, we speculate, is sufficiently life-threatening. There are numerous other variables. For example, infection. If present, when did it set in? Was it treated? If so, when? If so—”
“Enough. But you see what I mean, Kevin? It may be over.”
Kevin clenched his fists in his lap under the table. “Did you say that, LaPhoc, to the Mandrake’s Hall directors when you asked them to close for the day?”
LaPhoc went cold: “No, I didn’t. But the franchise has its own security—top-notch boys and girls—its own AI crime computer, and they know as much about Malachai’s injury as we do.”
“Okay. …I just want you to remember who we’re dealing with.”
“I’m dealing with Malachai. …Okay-okay. What is it with you anyway, you and the notorious Doctor Ewan Randome?”
Kevin placed his reddened hands flat on the table. “It’s no secret. Didn’t you study the case—Widower-Omphalos—at college? It’s record.”
“No. We only heard about that case, because it was small potatoes down here: a serial killer targeting middle-aged women, extortion or something. Besides, Widower-Omphalos was a partial, wasn’t it? The true perp, your Doctor Randome, got away, didn’t he?”
Kevin stood from the table and went to his cot, wishing LaPhoc had remained simply an irksome twerp. He lay down with his hands knitted behind his head, closed his eyes. “You won’t hear the truth about Randome from Global Patrol, the Macro, or anywhere else, because they don’t know it.”
“The truth, Reverend Beldon?”
“Doctor Ewan Randome came to Ottawa from Haiti to head up Psychiatric Wellness at the international charity NGO Omphalos, which, as you know, was laundering money to Haiti under the guise of philanthropic work. Randome used his Omphalos cover to carry out mind-control experiments. He preferred middle-aged women, drugging them, humiliating them, then having them suicide. Not for money, just for his own sick fucking reasons. Randome—”
“If you’d rather not talk about it, Kevin.”
But Kevin was talking to the ceiling. “I had Randome. With the help of MYCROFT’s granddaddy, I had tied two of the Widower murders to Haiti, where the women had gone on therapy holidays hosted by Randome. But I needed a search warrant for Omphalos, where, as was later proven, I’d have uncovered a shit-pit of vileness no one could have imagined. The warrant was denied by Judge Johnson Mender. Randome had somehow blackmailed Judge Mender, which, as that Caucs beast Belial confirmed, had to have something to do with Mender’s and Randome’s presence in the Caucs’ Smart Camp in Sicily.”
“This was all happening when?”
The interruption surprised Kevin. “About ten years ago. It gets worse. Randome has an obsessive hatred of me. I don’t know why the intensity of it, other than that I’d messed with his fun and come close to putting him away. But, yes, the Widower case remained unsolved.”
“I would say his obsession is recognition of having met his match in you, more than, of course. It even has a name in criminology: the nemesis complex.”
“If you say so, Phil. About a year later Randome used my daughter Kelly, who’d once been a junior lawyer at Omphalos. He used Kelly to lure my wife, Cynthia, to his offices. With his drugs and psychiatric voodoo, he caused Cynthia to suicide too. With my own service revolver. …”
“Kevin, I really am sorry, this is none of my business, I have no right—”
“It is your business, Detective LaPhoc. Randome used my wife and daughter. When we—Brigid and I—almost had him, Randome placed me in a no-win situation: either I put Kelly away for life or let him get away with murder, if only by not acting quickly to apprehend. I broke the law twice, directly in not arresting Kelly and indirectly in letting Randome get away, though others were to blame for that too. His close call in Ottawa sent him hightailing back to Haiti, which is some solace. I retired. And now you have a couple of big ones on me, LaPhoc.”
“Would you please speak towards the overhead light, Officer of the Court Beldon.”
First frowning, Kevin grinned big without opening mouth or eyes. “I hear you put the bag on Belial.”
“Moi?”
“Anyway, I’m sure Randome’s been a none-too-happy camper in that stinking sinkhole of Port-au-Prince. As you also now know, things must have been getting even worse down there since Mandrake’s Hall stopped the payments to Haiti two years ago with the murder of so-called Dr. Lieutenant-Colonel Mandrake Bledsoe. The natives, including Grand-Enfant Duvalier, should be getting very restless with Randome by now.
“In Michael Mender, Randome thinks he’s found his ideal avenging angel: a young man of superlative skills, an interested party, a betrayed son, a matricide, much vulnerable, so controllable, if increasingly unstable. And I do firmly believe Michael Mender’s been made a weapon that will eventually be pointed at me and mine. Which now includes you, LaPhoc.”
“Hmmm. …Your daughter Kelly is all right, though?”
“Yes, LaPhoc, thank you for asking.”
“Phil, please. And I wasn’t being polite.”
Kevin turned his head and frowned at LaPhoc. “But that’s why Malachai is not going to strike anywhere in New York, and certainly not at that Mandrake’s Hall cathedral across the street. Randome is not ready to end this. But I’m ending this, I need my beauty nap.”
“We’ve got only two days.”
“Very funny. Do you know, Phil, I’ve lost an inch of height over the past ten years and I’m still six-foot-one.”
LaPhoc sneered his irony: “Gee, how did you do it, Kevin? What an accomplishment!”
“Okay, okay. Point taken.”
LaPhoc walked to the window and looked out. He talked quietly:
“Something else to look forward to, spinal compression. By the way, whatever else you’ve heard from the grunts out there, I love my wife, Louise, a towering beauty, and she loves me, the opposite. If only I would stop snoring, the greatest misfortune of our marriage. She snores too, which makes it murder getting back to sleep after a pee, but I’ve never told her so.” He snickered. “And sure as I’m standing here at five-foot-three, she’s not going to let me go for the limb-lengthening makeover.”
“Once again, LaPhoc, I don’t agree with you.”
“What?” He twisted round, his face an irritated puzzle.
“Such a marriage is pure fortune, LaPhoc, even in its problems. I know, or I do now.”
LaPhoc beamed: “Please, Kevin, call me Phil. The name actually means—”
“I don’t think so. I tried, but I like LaPhoc too much.”
“Tell me more about Randome and all that.”
“No more backstory. Goodnight, sweet prince.”
“Hey, great minds, I’m his biggest fan! I watch Purple Rain whenever it’s on, a classic.”
“Jesus H. Christ.”