THIRTY-THREE
THE AIR WAS WARM, AND CLOSE, and there was a creeping dampness underneath Rad. The back of his head hurt like all hell, and when he moved to feel the damage, sensation suddenly returned to his whole body like he'd put his finger in a wall socket. The ground was hard, grooved somehow. His hand found wet wood underneath him, past the bump at the back of his head.
Rad opened his eyes, and saw an orange-tinged sky, dark with lighter patches drifting on the wind. His view was obscured by something black and moving. He sat up.
He was lying on a park bench in a small park, laid with grass, ringed with hedges, with a tall, spreading tree in the centre, its leafed branches swaying in the slight breeze. The sound was, Rad imagined, that kind of peaceful, almost melancholic rustling, a tiny sliver of natural, organic sound in the heart of the industrial city. Except he couldn't hear it over the buzzing in his head. He blinked, and moved his eyes. It felt like someone was trying to scoop them out with hot spoons.
He closed his eyes, screwing them tight and drawing balled fists against them by primal instinct. Rad moaned, and curled his legs up to his chest. One roll to the right and he collided with the ground in front of the bench.
Something snagged on the narrow edge of one of the wooden planks of the bench. It pulled Rad's left arm up awkwardly, and as his conscious mind fought against the wreath of pain that had suddenly enveloped it like boiling water around a coddled egg, his subconscious worked on getting his hand free. After a few minutes of waggling the appendage, without success, Rad finally realised what it was. One of the looped straps of his mask was caught over the edge of the bench. Rad stared at the mask as it strained on the end of the strap, using it as a focal point. He pulled himself to his knees, eyes narrowed on the glass goggles glinting in the orange night air, and sucked in wet air across clenched teeth, lips pulled back in a dog-like scowl. His head buzzed and his chest hurt and his teeth throbbed as the air was drawn over them.
How long he could last, he wasn't sure. He'd been awake a minute and already his vision was spawning black clouds at the edges. The park bench swung sideways before him, but he couldn't be sure whether that was because the whole world was spinning as his inner ears gave up the ghost, or because he was heading back to the ground.
He got the mask free, wrenching it from where it had been hooked and pushing it onto his face. Forgetting about the straps, he let momentum carry him backwards, mask held firmly with one hand. The path around the park was narrow, and Rad was a big man, but he was grateful his head hit the damp grass rather than the edge of the abutting flagstone.
Rad lay on the grass, and breathed, and breathed, and breathed. After a minute, the buzzing began to fade. After two, it was gone, replaced by the sharper sting of the split on the back of his scalp. But that was just pain, good old regular pain, unpleasant but familiar. The buzzing was an alien sound, a foreign sensation, one that would drive you to panic if you didn't know what it was. Rad did. He'd had it in New York. He'd had it close to the Fissure. He was now incompatible with the Empire State, at least a little bit, at least for the moment.
Rad opened his eyes to see the tree branches waving above him. The breeze had picked up, bringing with it a warm, slippery drizzle. Rad watched it spot on his goggles, and listened to the rustling of the leaves. Beneath the mask he smiled as he drank in the rubbery, filtered air.
He didn't know where he was, or why he hadn't come directly out of the other side of the Fissure, but he was home, of that he had no doubt. He let go of the mask with one hand and ran the other over his chest, sides, neck, wherever he could reach while lying on his back and not moving a whole lot. He was all there. Aside from the crack on his head and a developing headache, nothing was broken, damaged or missing. He'd survived passage through the Fissure. Lying under the tree, the night was quiet, warm and wet, with floating fog and the orange glow of the clouds above. This was the Empire State all right. Home sweet home.
He coughed into the respirator and drew another forceful breath. How long had he been in New York? Just a few hours, he assumed. What did that equate to here? More time, or less? Given Nimrod's concern, he assumed it was likely to be more.
Well, the city was still here, so the end of the world hadn't quite happened yet. Of course he might still be too late. Perhaps the Skyguard would take out the Battery in the next thirty seconds, and Rad's world would pop out of existence. Rad laughed at the thought, then regretted it, and closed his eyes as he focussed on his breathing for a while.
A minute passed, maybe two. Rad opened his eyes. He was still here, as was the Empire State. Which meant there was still time to do the job he'd been sent back to do. He pulled the mask straps around his head and pulled the tags to secure the respirator. Hopefully he wouldn't need to wear it for very long, maybe an hour or so, until his body had reacclimatised to the Pocket.
The Pocket. It sounded ridiculous. The Empire State was a city, a huge, sprawling industrial complex, full of people and architecture, and streets and buildings. An impossible city with no history. A city with no resources and an impossible economy. How much air was there in the Pocket? Where did the food come from? The power? Maybe it really was magic, a side effect of being tethered to – being a reflection of – the Origin – what the Origin had made or produced, so this was reflected through the Fissure.
Rad gave up as his head began to pound again. The Pocket stopped you thinking, and perhaps for a good reason. Rad rolled his head and stood, flexing as many joints as he could while he got his bearings. He didn't recognise the park, but it was no more than a tiny walled lawn set up on a street corner. A short set of stairs would take him down to street level, and with the tree out of the way, he figured he'd be able to recognise some landmarks.
The street was dead and washed in yellow light. Rad thought back to New York City. So much life and energy. In the Empire State there wasn't actually an official Wartime curfew, but people tended to stay indoors after dark. Rad's new nocturnal lifestyle was becoming a drag. He was a loner, and he enjoyed his own company, sure, but even he had to admit it had been good to see the hustle and bustle of New York.
Looking around, none of the street names meant anything to him, but ahead, down a wide boulevard that curved away to the left, came a different sort of light. A white glow: fairly bright even in the yellow street glow, diffused by the low-lying mist. The Pastor's house? Could be. At least from there he knew where he was, which was a start.
Stop the Skyguard, Nimrod had said. Well, OK. Stopping the Skyguard meant stopping Kane, and for that, a little help would be required from Captain Carson.
But perhaps Kane didn't know Rad was onto him. Perhaps he could be convinced, shown the error of his ways, told the truth about how the Pocket and the Origin were linked together. Perhaps he could solve things peacefully, sensibly.
Two places were obvious starting points – Kane's apartment, and Jerry's speakeasy. And Rad really, really needed a drink.
Footsore and with a thirst, Rad headed downtown.
Rad walked into Jerry's, then turned around and walked back out. Taking a breath, he slid the mask off, and shoved it under his trench coat. He sniffed the air experimentally. It was OK, easier in fact than using the mask. But almost immediately his head began to throb, and a buzz-saw vibration behind his eyes started up. Rad had no idea what was in the soup can on Nimrod's fancy masks, but it wasn't an ordinary respirator. Still, he felt could manage a few minutes. If Kane was in there, he'd pull him out quickly, get the mask back on, and then take him back to his office to talk. The mask would be a giveaway, but Rad hoped that Kane was still, at heart, the reasonable young man Rad had always thought he was.
Rad held his breath as he headed to the bar, but his head thundered with each beat of his heart, forcing him to release the air and gasp for a moment as soon as his fingers hit the bar. Jerry, never far away, gave him a dirty look and reached into the pocket of his apron. He slapped his hand down on the counter in front of Rad, making the detective jump. When Jerry removed his hand, Rad saw a white slip of paper on the bar.
"I said Friday, bub. You can't run out on me. Pay now, or you're barred. You and your friends."
Rad focussed on the note. The dim light made the writing swim a little; Rad picked it up and drew it closer to his eyes, adjusting the focus by moving the paper back and forth like an old man.
"You said Friday, Jerry."
Jerry leaned over the bar, and twisted a finger into his own temple. "You got, what, a deficiency or something? You're late, pal. Late!"
"Wait," said Rad, glancing behind the bar in case a calendar would magically appear behind the endless shelves of cups and saucers. "What day is it?"
Jerry leaned back, too far, as if he'd got a whiff of something particularly nasty. "You playin' the game with me, Rad? I'm not interested. You got the money, I'll take the money. Problem solved."
"Easy, Jerry, easy." Rad patted the sides of his trench coat until he found his wallet. It was fatter than it was normally, and then he remembered. Katherine Kopek's advance on Sam Saturn's missing person case. Shit. As ludicrous, as criminal as it was, he'd forgotten about the dead girl and her bereaved partner. He knew how the pieces fitted into the puzzle now, but his mind raced as he tried to think of a way to handle it with the mourning Katherine Kopek.
"Jerry, what day is it?"
"Boy, you really do need a rest," said Jerry, eyeing the notes Rad flipped out of his wallet.
"I ain't playin', Jerry!" Several patrons looked over at the bar from their tables. Jerry closed his eyes and shook his head. This kind of scene was not needed in an illegal basement bar.
"Just tell me," said Rad, waving the money under Jerry's nose. Jerry sighed and took the cash. There was too much, but as Jerry peeled off a few notes, Rad waved a hand. "Put me in credit."
"Well, I'll let it pass this time. But Jesus, Rad, I gotta business to run. Anyway, it's Monday. Now go home and get some sleep. You're working too hard, boy."
Monday. He'd left on Thursday. He'd been away half a week. Rad whistled, then coughed. His head was beginning to smart real bad and the buzzing behind his eyes was turning his vision black. He had to be quick.
"OK, I apologise, Jerry. Call it overwork. So, you seen Kane recently?"
Jerry shook his head, nice and slow. "He ain't been here. Thought you two ran off together."
"You're a comedian. Thanks, Jerry."
Rad pushed himself off the bar, stumbled slightly, then righted himself under the glare of a nearby table of drinkers. Rad touched a finger to his forehead in apology, then halfwalked, half-ran to the door. In the stairwell leading up to the street, he paused, leaning against the wall, then took the mask from inside his coat and pushed his face into it. He held it there for a moment, taking deep and difficult breaths, until the pain in his head and the pins and needles in his limbs subsided.
Flipping the mask straps over his head, Rad headed for Kane's apartment.
Rad was too wet for his liking by the time he got back to his office. Kane's apartment had been a negative. It had been open, but dark, and Rad had snooped only a little to confirm his friend wasn't in. The three-room apartment was so cluttered it was impossible to tell whether there was anything amiss or not, although the bed was neatly made. Leaving the room, Rad's foot crunched on something brittle. Looking down, he traced the few tiny crumbs of broken glass to an old dressing table, an elaborate affair in several different types of wood that wouldn't have looked out of place in the star dressing room of a fancy theatre. The dressing table had a plain wooden panel that tilted on arms. It used to hold a mirror, but it had been cleanly removed. There was no sign of broken glass anywhere, except the tiny, cuboidal fragments hidden in the carpet, but there was a fresh cut in the front of the dressing table, the newly revealed wood under the lacquered top bright and pale. Kane had taken the mirror out and dropped it, damaging the dressing table and chipping the edge, and breaking the glass. He'd cleaned up, but not perfectly.
Happy with the small piece of detective work, but unhappy with what it suggested, Rad had headed home. The third stop would be to see Captain Carson, but once he had filled the old man in on his journey to New York, there would be no going back. They had to find the Skyguard and protect the Fissure. He needed Carson's help, and they'd either succeed, or fail.
Rad's naked head was wet and itchy, the rain trickling off it making the stubble bristle. The straps of the mask were also starting to bite – even though they were buckled at maximum length, Rad's head was still a little large for it. And if it was going to be battle stations, all-for-one, do-or-die, he needed to clean up and get out of the mask. As he turned the key in his office door, he hoped that it had been sufficient time to acclimatise back to the Empire State, and that trekking around the city blocks from Jerry's to Kane's to his office hadn't impeded the process.
The key turned loosely in the tumbler, but Rad wasn't sure if that was just the slight numbness in his fingers. He swung the door open, closed it behind him, and reached for the light switch without looking.
The light came on, and Rad stopped. His hand was still inches away from the switch, fingers only just beginning their crawl up the wall to find it. Rad turned his head, far too slowly.
There was a man standing there, in his office, in a white hat. Rad recognised him somehow – a large black man, his goatee beard surrounding a scowling mouth. The man's arm pistoned forward oddly, the butt of the gun in his clenched fist connecting with the side of Rad's head, behind the protective rubber seal of the mask.
Rad moaned, hands at his ear, and toppled sideways to the floor. Before he passed out his last sight was an image of himself, in his brown suit and white hat, looking down at him, skin slicked with sweat, spittle clinging to the lips pulled back in a vicious grin.
And then Rad surrendered to the rubbery darkness.
"I said wake up, you sonovabitch."
The slap was like a firecracker, a hot, dry sound in the small office. Rad's head snapped back and he opened his eyes. He looked at himself looking at him, and began to cough. He looked past his own self, standing there, and saw the mask discarded on the floor near the front door. Rad tried to gesture to it with a hand, but his wrist was jerked back by a tightly tied rag. Shaking his head to fight the buzzing, he tried to assess the situation.
He was tied to his office chair, which had been pulled around to the front of the desk. His feet were not tied, but his legs felt as heavy as granite, and without his mask he didn't think he could hurt a fly, let alone fight... himself.
The man was him, he was sure of it. The goatee was a little rougher, the suit wasn't exactly the same as his own, and the way the man held himself didn't seem quite natural for Rad. But these were details only he could pick up. To anyone else, it was Rad Bradley, the private detective. Standing in front of him, holding a small snub-nosed pistol.
Except it wasn't him. Or rather it was him, the original. The man wanted by Nimrod, Rex. Rad was the copy, the reflection, an after-image burnt into the fabric of the universe by the final battle between the Skyguard and the Science Pirate.
Rad wasn't sure what he felt, looking at his original, the original, the source of the fingerprints on Sam Saturn's neck. The killer, standing there with the gun. He felt as alive and kicking and real as anyone, yet he knew that the man in the white hat had memories stretching back forty years or more. Rad wondered whether Rex could remember why he split from Claudia, or whether he was still married to Claudia, or whether he'd ever met Claudia in the first place.
Rad sighed. More than anything, he was just pissed off. Life was what you made it. Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of your life. Other such smug platitudes wandered through his head as he eyed the wicked smile behind the barrel. The gun wavered, just a little, and Rad realised he was rocking back and forth on the office chair enough to make it tap-dance on the floorboards. But the rags held tight.
"Don't try it, buster," said the original. "You and me gotta date with someone real important, see."
Rad frowned. Did he really sound like that? He sure as hell didn't talk like that. Then again, perhaps the original didn't either. Maybe this was all new to him. For the second time in just a few days – give or take, considering his holiday in New York – Rad was in his own office being held at gunpoint. Maybe if the universe didn't end he'd think about looking into another line of work.
"Who put you up to this?" asked Rad.
"Shut your mouth, boy, or you're history."
Rad chuckled. "Nice cliché. You ever thought about becoming a private dick?"
The original's smile tightened. "Detective, huh?" He looked around the office, gun still pointing dead ahead. "Shitty office you got here."
"Gee, thanks." Rad decided to try something. "They don't teach you any manners in New York City?"
The man's smile vanished. In its place, his lips pursed together like he was sucking a lemon, the skin around his mouth pulled pale and ugly.
"What do you know about New York City?"
"Oh, it's a nice place. Might take me up an apartment there. You know, somewhere upmarket."
The man raised an eyebrow. "Nice idea."
Rad asked again, "Who put you up to this?"
The man shook his head. "I gotta job to do, pal. Nothing personal."
"You want to go home, right?"
"What?"
"Home," said Rad. He nodded his head sideways at the wall, not pointing, just pressing his point. Not here, but there.
The man put on the sick smile again and raised the gun.
"Oh, you betcha bottom dollar."
"The name's Rad, by the way. Rad Bradley." Rad looked the man up and down. The gun was wavering again, just a little, maybe just enough.
"Colour me impressed."
"Aren't you going to introduce yourself?"
"What?"
"You deaf too?"
"Rex," the man said. "Rex Braybury. Ain't that just hilarious?"
Rad nodded. "Hilarious," he said, voice flat.
Rex twisted his gun hand just enough to check his watch. His eyes flicked from his wrist to the wall behind Rad's desk, over Rad's head. Rad craned around as best he could, but saw nothing except his desk and the corner of the big window, blinds down.
"Don't move, sucker."
Rad faced front. "Whatever you say, boss."
Then the telephone rang. Rad jumped in his chair and closed his eyes, convinced that Rex had pulled the trigger out of pure fright, and that he was now bleeding to death in his office. He opened his eyes after a second, realising that the gunshot he'd heard was only the sound of his heart thundering against his throat at the surprise.
The phone kept ringing. Rex stood over Rad, gun hand jogging up and down as he shifted his weight from his right foot to his left then back again. He looked worried, very nervous, and glanced at the phone on the desk out of the corner of his eye, showing big scared whites to Rad.
"You gonna answer that?"
"Shut up!" The gun stabilised.
"Might be the landlord. Sees us here, he'll want two rent checks."
Rex snorted. "You're a real comedian."
"Hilarious," Rad said again, voice still flat.
The phone rang for a long, long time. Rad tried counting the rings but lost it as soon as Rex started pacing the floor, his footsteps unconsciously in sync with the telephone. When the phone wouldn't stop, Rex disappeared from Rad's sight, going behind the desk. Rad stared at his office door, wishing for a heroic rescue by... hell, by anyone, right about now. Behind him, Rad heard his captor rip the blinds up to the top of the window. Rad sniffed. With the light on and it being the dead of night outside, the window would be nothing but a mirror. Rex wouldn't be able to see a thing.
The telephone stopped ringing. Rad heard Rex swear, and there was a buzzing, electric sound. A light came on, a light from behind Rad, casting his shadow on the front of the office. Rad saw his own silhouette, tied to the chair, and Rex's outline, complete with hat and gun, stumbling. And then two more shadows, at first long, as if cast from two people standing at the opposite side of a football stadium with the floodlights on them. Then smaller, resolving into two shapes, men in hats. There was something odd about the shapes of their faces – they were bulky, bulbous, angular, with a weird bobbing soup can in the front.
Rad yelled and tipped his chair over, spinning himself around on the floor to face the window, just in time to see Grieves and Jones step out of an opaque white void where the solid glass had been and grab Rex by the arms. Grieves yanked on the gun; Rex struggled and the hand went skyward and the trigger was pulled. Rad blinked at the report, then saw a meaty fist belonging to Bullethead Jones fly forward and take Rex out under the jaw. Rex went rigid and flew back at least a foot, before hitting the floorboards cold. Grieves and Jones took two steps further into the office, backlit by the white rectangle that was Rad's office window. Then the light flickered and snapped off, and the window reappeared, black and mirror-like against the night outside.
Black brogues stepped into Rad's floor-level line of vision, and hands sheathed in leather gloves gripped him by the elbows and pulled him, and his chair, upright. Grieves made to slap Rad on the cheek, but Rad pulled his head away.
"I'm all right, jackass!" He tugged on his hands. "Get me loose."
Jones was down on one knee, checking Rex's pulse. As Grieves bent over to untie Rad, he called back to his companion for an update.
"He'll live, but he'll have a headache when he wakes up." Jones poked at Rex's lower jaw indelicately. "And a sore mouth for a month." Bullethead's voice matched his head exactly. Ugly and gravelly, like a retired boxer turned to drink.
There was a coughing sound behind Rad's head, and it took him a moment to realise it was Grieves laughing inside his mask. The two agents really were thugs. Rad wondered how Nimrod could possibly put up with them. On the other hand, he could see how the two heavies would be useful in a corner.
The rags loosened and Grieves stepped back. Rad pulled the last of the knot apart and brought his arms around so he could check his wrists. They hurt like heck, but were otherwise uninjured. He rubbed the circulation back into them.
"I appreciate the entrance, gentlemen," said Rad. He looked at the office window. It was intact, completely unblemished. He shook his head and whistled. "And what an entrance it was."
He stood and exercised his stiff knees, walking over to where Rex lay snoozing on the floor.
"But what's the occasion? Nimrod said you guys couldn't make the party. Were you actually watching what was happening, from the Origin?"
Grieves thrust his hands in the pockets of his trench coat and joined Rad to look down at Rex. "Something like that. Not see exactly, but detect. It's not like we sit there watching you like you're some kinda game show on TV. But Captain Nimrod has some tricks up his sleeve. He said you'd come into your office twice, and then you didn't answer the telephone. Looked like a problem. Then you, or rather, he, opened the blinds and let us in. 'Transition via projected reflection'." Grieves shrugged. "Mr Nimrod has some tricks, I told you."
"OK. Appreciate it." Rad knelt next to Rex. It was weird, seeing himself lying there, and to begin with he didn't want to touch Rex. But maybe he was carrying something, anything that might be a clue as to who sent him. Rad began to pat the body down, checking pockets, grimacing as he did so. Was he really that big? Were his arms really that flabby? Rad held his breath as he went, and realised he was doing fine now without the mask. Good. He had reacclimatised.
Rex's pockets were empty save for a couple of spare buttons sewn onto a little fabric tag. The suit was thin and cheap, not like Rad's own tailored number. It was also fairly new. The hat was the real deal, however; there was only one store in the city that sold white fedoras. He slipped it off Rex's unconscious head and checked the size. It was a half size too big, although it had seemed to fit the crook perfectly. So, there were differences after all. The hat would do for now; Rad felt a little better already with it on.
"Someone dolled him up to look like me," said Rad, standing up. "Seems a lot of effort if it was just to come here and shoot me in the head."
"He'd need the get-up if he was going to meet one of your contacts, no?" Grieves stood over Rex, who sighed and began to move his head from side to side.
"I guess," said Rad. "Fortunately that's a short list. Kane is the Skyguard, which just leaves Carson."
"You been in touch with him since you got back?"
Rad looked at Grieves, eyes wide. Carson was locked in his house on the other side of the city, and had Byron to protect him, but even so…
"No, I wanted to work on Kane first. Goddammit." Rad watched as Rex stirred. "You think this sonovabitch was sent to, what, assassinate me and then Carson?"
Bullethead Jones spoke from where he was standing by the office door. "They're taking out anyone who could throw a spanner in the works."
He had the door open a crack, and was peering into the deserted corridor. Standard practice, Rad thought, although nobody ever came to his floor that wasn't a client. Or – looking down at Rex – someone trying to kill him.
Grieves kicked Rex in the ribs gently, but enough to make a point. Rex opened his eyes and moaned and tried to rise, then seeing Rad and the masked agent above him, swore and settled back down on the floor.
"If Carson knows as much about the Pocket, the Origin, and the Fissure as we do, he's gotta be the prime target," said Rad. "My not-so-friendly twin here said he was taking me to meet someone. Which means he's working for someone else. And that someone else has dolled him up as me, using him as a stooge to get in, see what Carson knows, then put him to bed."
Rad stopped and shook his head. "But why send my master copy from the Origin here, with all the theatrics of tying me up, making threats? The Skyguard could waltz in here anytime and take me out. Last time we met, he tried to recruit me."
"Maybe they need you alive," said Jones from the door. "Maybe the Skyguard is otherwise indisposed." He shrugged. "What am I, psychic?"
Rex fidgeted on the floor. Grieves bent down to help him up. He offered no resistance, and peacefully allowed himself to be placed in the office chair which had so recently held his counterpart.
"Look," Rex said, focussing on Rad. "I just wanna go home, back to New York. They said this would do it. I don't want to hurt no one no more. Not again." Rex shook his head and looked at the floor. "I just want to go home." His shoulders slumped. It was either a good act, or the man had broken.
"Can you take him back to New York with you? Arrest him or something?" Rad asked.
Grieves shook his mask, the soup can swinging comically. "Seems our friend here knows something. Our first priority is to protect the Pocket and prevent the Skyguard shutting off the Battery."
He looked at Rex. "Hey, buddy!"
Rex looked up. His expression was slack, like the muscles of his face were just hanging off his skull. It was the kind of expression worn by someone who had gone beyond fear and into total abject surrender. It was pathetic. Rad felt sorry for him. Rex just wanted to go home. Rad thought back to his glimpse of New York City, and knew that being sucked into the Empire State would be quite a shock. Rad's mood turned black. Someone was manipulating Rex in the same way that someone was manipulating him. Both were victims, pawns in an indecipherable game.
"Where's the Skyguard?" asked the agent.
Rex blinked wetly. "The Skyguard?" He paused, and cleared his throat. He was trying very hard to give the right answer.
Rad thought perhaps Grieves could lose the attitude... but then Rex had pulled a gun on him. And Rex was a hood: the opposite profession, in a way, to Rad's. And as with most tough guys, he seemed to be breaking when the odds were stacked against him. Self-preservation. All criminals were cowards at heart. Rad's sorrow was replaced by a feeling of anger.
Rex fumbled for an answer, and when he spoke the words tumbled out too quickly. "He's dead, isn't he? Disappeared in the fight. The fight that started all this."
Rad and Grieves exchanged a look.
"So you know about the Skyguard and the Science Pirate, and how the Fissure was created?" Rad stroked his beard as he posed the question.
Rex shook his head. "I don't know nothing about no 'fissure'. But I got the story of this place, how it's like New York, but it's not New York. He gave me the job to do, said when it was done we could go back home."
"Who's 'we' and 'he', Rex?" asked Grieves. "The Skyguard and you?"
"No, no." Rex licked his lips. "The guy in the white hood. Some kind of preacher. He's from New York too. He knows how it all works."
Rad clicked his fingers and nodded, threads of evidence slowly stitching together. Grieves looked at him; Rad could see the thin man's eyes blinking in the deep glass goggles of his mask.
"Mean something?" Grieves asked.
"Sure does. There's a guy, wears a white hood. Runs some kind of underground cult. Calls it a church, but it's not the kind of Sunday service I've ever seen." Rad walked around to his desk and pulled his copy of The Seduction of the Innocent from the drawer. He tossed the hardback to Grieves, who stared at the cover for a while, but didn't open the book.
Rad pointed at it in Grieves's hand. "That's his book. Pretty dull stuff. That copy belonged to Sam Saturn, the girl whose disappearance – and murder – I was... am... investigating."
"And he's from New York?"
Rad shrugged and inclined his head towards Rex. Grieves turned back to the man slumped in the chair and repeated the question. Rex nodded.
Rad leaned over Rex's chair, placing his hands on each arm and peering at the man's face. It was weird – wrong even – to be looking at himself like this. Rad closed his eyes to clear the thoughts, which were unhelpful and illogical, then fixed Rex with a hard glare normally reserved for the most difficult parts of his investigations.
"Why tie me up? Why not just shoot me? You expecting someone else to arrive?"
Rex shook his head, his heavy cheeks flapping with a faintly wet sound. Rad grimaced.
"No, no, I had to keep you busy, then when I got the call, head across town and pick up someone else, an old guy in a big house. Y'know, play the part. Then show him how I caught the killer and together we take you over to the Empire State Building. He said we'd go straight to the top, he'd cleared the way."
Rad stood up and frowned. "To the City Commissioners?"
Rex shrugged. "I don't know," he said, quickly. "I'm just doing what I'm told. I don't know what's up there."
"You came here first?" Rad pulled on the lapel of Rex's jacket. The material was sharp against his fingertips, a poor imitation of his own suit.
"Straight here. Do the thing, get the guy, then we go. That's it, I swear it."
Rad turned away and paced the office space between where Rex was sitting in the chair and the front of his desk.
Bullethead Jones closed the office door with a click and joined them. "We're wasting time here. Let's go."
Grieves shook his head. "We call Nimrod."
"Trust me," said Jones. "We gotta act." He jerked a thumb towards Rex. "We take the schmuck here to the Empire State Building, see what the jazz is. Sounds like our targets might all be there."
Jones paused. Nobody said anything. Grieves seemed to be considering behind his mask, then Jones reached out and punched him lightly on the chest in impatience.
He said, "Come on, we ain't got no time for any of this. Let's go."
Rad nodded, mouth curled upside down. "We've got to find the Skyguard somehow. Sounds like the Pastor might know a thing or two about him. Sounds like the whole gang is going to be there."
Grieves ground a gloved fist into the open palm of his other hand. "OK," he said at last. "Let's go."
He held out the pistol that belonged to Rex, offering it to Rad. Rad looked at it, but shook his head. He heard Jones sigh through his mask before the agent snatched it and slapped it to Rad's chest, then Jones drew his own weapon, the odd fat-barrelled revolver. He jogged Rex's shoulder.
"Come on, let's move."
The four of them left the office, Rad and Grieves in front, then Jones following Rex in the middle, gun in the centre of his back.