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We hadn’t followed Gary Emmerson that night. It was too late in the evening. But I’d arranged to meet up with him the next day, not least because of his appearance at the Church, but because he would be the best person to help with my other case. A more important case, given to me by someone who should be the most important person in my life. Could I trust Emmerson? No. Not that I’d trusted him before I’d seen him in that warehouse but now, I trusted him less.
I turned my focus to the missing Delartes.
Graves, I was goddamned sorry to say, had well and truly paid for the information she’d provided. The ultimate price. And now, it was time to use the information that had left a child without a mother. I needed Gary’s skills to get me, and Regan, access to the hospital databases.
Regan had stayed the night on my sofa, and I’d left him at my office; told him not to get into any trouble and I hoped he’d followed my instructions to lay low.
Gary Emmerson lived in a small hovel in Sector Six, near to the fire door that joined this sector and Sector Seven. I’d only ever been to his apartment once before and usually arranged to meet him in public. He could be a little creepy. I’d sent him a message ahead of time, not only to prepare him for my visit, but to prepare myself, mentally.
I felt like I was being watched, tracked. I was almost certain I’d seen the familiar robes of the cultists in my periphery, but I couldn’t be certain. I ducked into a dark alley, something Sector Six had no shortage of, and made sure I was out of view of the street. It paid to be careful. And it gave a chance for whoever was, if they were following me, however sloppy, time to catch up.
It was mid-morning, and this was the first indication that there were any repercussions from our actions last night. Maybe I was being paranoid; the cultists often stalked the streets looking for converts and donations. I peeped into the main causeway. No-one. I didn’t want to draw much attention to myself, not that the downtrodden souls of my home sector would care, but I checked my pocket and ensured my gun was loaded and cocked. Just in case.
Emmerson’s appearance at the Church of the Third Encounter might’ve been nothing, might’ve been me seeing things that I wanted to see. I wasn’t the most trusting person. Trust was not something helpful in my line of work, but something about him being there made my instincts reel. I’d known he’d been a little obsessed with the place, the organisation, but something wasn’t right. And it couldn’t have been work related; it was rare to see him leave Sector Six, even when a pay cheque beckoned.
Damn it.
I shouldn’t speculate. Not yet. I needed to speak to the man himself before I jumped to any conclusions. Or before I shot him.
I returned to the main street, no sign of the grey robed stalkers or anyone else following me, if there had been any, and made my way to the front door of Gary’s apartment complex. I reached to press the buzzer, but the door swung open automatically.
He was expecting me.
The hallway stank of urine and its walls were yellowed by decades of tobacco stains and other things I didn’t want to focus on. Welcoming. I made my way to the elevator but decided it would be wiser to take the stairs instead; if the urine was half as bad in that small metal box as it was in the hallway, I’d be unconscious within minutes of stepping within that enclosed space. I wasn’t exactly the fittest person, and the stairs would be a challenge. Gary Emmerson lived on the top floor. Damn it.
I slipped into the stairwell and retrieved a cigarette. If I was going to try and accomplish the feat of reaching the top floor, I needed a smoke first. And a smoke before meeting Gary Emmerson. He was hard work sometimes. I lit up. It probably wasn’t the wisest decision, and I wasn’t supposed to be a smoker anymore, but it was necessary.
I took a deep drag and spent some time enjoying my cigarette before braving the stairs and making my way to the top floor.
I was damned exhausted by the time I reached Emmerson’s apartment. The door opened as I approached; I hadn’t had a chance to catch my breath, yet. Goddammit.
“Come in,” I heard Gary call from within.
I was sweating, tired. And I craved another cigarette.
Gary Emmerson certainly didn’t live in filth. But he did live in mess. A hoarder. Papers, as much as the medium was rare to see these days, boxed and shelved documents and folders lined the halls and rooms of the apartment, squeezed into any available space, forced into every orifice of the apartment. It seemed organised, with colour codes and numbered signs, but it was still untidy.
The man was waiting for me in his living room, or at least what seemed to be a living room, it certainly looked lived in, and as I approached, he stood and almost toppled a pile of paper next to him. Seating was vague, at best, and I managed to find a space in the carnage he’d pointed to. I took a look around as I made myself comfortable. Everything was so... busy. It wasn’t just that the room was filled with papers, but there were multiple SmartBoy screens, within reach of Emmerson, floating in situ or flashed against what little wall space remained. Some had what looked like complicated code. Others played silent videos, the news, weather, animation. It was a cacophony of images. The biggest screen, on the wall to my left, displayed the silenced images of a news report about the copycat killer; it was the same report I’d heard in the café yesterday.
“What’ll it be, Jack?” said Gary.
“Huh?” I hadn’t realised he’d spoken.
“Sugar?” A pair of tongs holding a sugar cube hovered over an ornate china teacup. The cup, flowery and delicate, perched perilously on a stack of files, seemed out of character for Emmerson. In fact, the tea set made me think of Dionne Bex; she’d served tea at the hospital in Sector Eight. Fancy cups.
“Four. No, five.”
Gary raised an eyebrow as the cubes tinkled against the sides of the empty cup. He retrieved a teapot from somewhere amongst the piles and poured hot brown liquid over the sugar. Tea. It had a strong, pungent smell and was likely great quality, knowing Gary. I wondered why people kept insisting on serving me goddamned tea.
“Better make that six,” I said.
He filled his own cup and deposited another sugar cube into mine. If I was going to be cordial, I needed the sweetness to disguise this vile concoction. Milk followed.
“You know,” said Gary, “you still haven’t told me if you’re from a parallel world or not?” The question was a little out of the blue, although not completely unexpected. It must’ve been playing on the man’s mind. “Last time we met, you told me you’d tell me the answer.”
I lifted my cup and took a sip. Vile. “I didn’t say when; I just said I we would talk about another time.”
“Now is another time.” He raised his eyebrows.
“Yes.”
“Yes, it is another time? Or yes, you are from another world?”
I grinned. “I see they still haven’t found the copycat killer,” I said, changing the subject. I nodded at the wall where news of the killer was still being played out. “That’s a lot of people dead. Augustus Smith has much to answer for.”
“I’m sure he’s hoping he’ll be forgiven for his actions, somehow.”
“You think he’s still alive?”
“I know he is,” said Emmerson.
“Why in hell do you think that? The police are pretty certain it’s a...”
“You don’t seriously think it’s a copycat, do you?” He pointed to the wall. “That’s the real thing, the real Augustus Smith. He was never dead. What do you think happened to the Emerald Killer after he disappeared?”
“I was hoping he was dead,” I said. “And why do you think he’d want to be forgiven? I mean, if there’s no copycat, he hasn’t stopped killing.”
“Maybe he’ll stop once he’s forgiven?” Gary drank from his own cup. “I mean, we all have some dark things in our pasts. Some more than most. Does that mean we can’t be forgiven, can’t atone?”
“I don’t think you understand what I’m saying, he’s still killing!” I realised I’d stood. I sat, a little embarrassed. “If that’s really him.” Gary Emmerson really was batshit crazy; Augustus Smith still killing? Really? “Ha! Forgiveness!”
“It is him. I know it. And I understand, but that doesn’t change the fact that forgiveness can go a long way. Maybe that’s all he needs... all he needs to stop.”
“Forgiveness for murder?”
Emmerson nodded. “Yes.”
“And what about his other crimes? Augustus Smith is, at least in some way, responsible for my accident.”
“That time vortex thing?” He finished what remained of his beverage and the china tinkled as he placed the cup in its saucer.
“I lost five years of my life!” My own teacup was still full, I’d only imbibed the teeniest of sips, and decided I should probably drink more, not to be rude. I needed his cooperation after all. “I mean, he’s not completely responsible but he certainly led me to my fate.” I picked up my cup and took a hefty gulp; the sugar didn’t disguise enough of the taste.
“So, not his fault at all then?”
“If I hadn’t chased him into the Tribeca building, I wouldn’t have gotten caught up in the time vortex!”
“Yeah, but he didn’t exactly push you in, right?”
“I guess not.”
“Which brings us back around to my earlier question...” He lifted the teapot toward me. “More?”
I shook my head in response. I knew where this was going.
“The time vortex wasn’t just a time vortex.” It was a statement, not a question; Emmerson knew more than he let on. He topped up his cup and tipped in a little milk. “It’s got something to do with parallel dimensions.”
“I can’t confirm that.”
The man opposite grinned and leant back into the papers and files where he sat. “Your lack of answer speaks volumes.”
“Does it?” I took another sip of the abhorrent brew. “I have a question for you.”
“Go on.”
“You were at the Church of the Third Encounter last night. I’m wondering why.”
At first he seemed shocked by my statement, but that changed; Gary stifled a giggle. “I can’t confirm that.”
“I know you were there.”
He shrugged. He was goddamned smirking.
“I guess we all have secrets.” Damned bastard. Why wouldn’t he just tell me? I saw him. We saw him. Me, and Regan. And I already knew about his obsession, but something just wasn’t right about the whole thing. Who was he there to see? “Do you know Emmett Greene?” I asked.
“Maybe we’re related. Brothers. Maybe not. Maybe he hired me to do some work for him. Or maybe I’m dating him. Or just friends.” He was bullshitting me, trying to push my buttons. “Of course, I might not know him at all. Strangers. No connections at all.” He laughed. “Actually, you know what, I’ll tell you another time.”
Goddammit. “Fine.” Gary Emmerson should know by now that I always find out the truth. Or it slaps me round the face before I see it coming. Either way, I’d get to know why he was really there. Eventually.
“I guess it’s time to get down to business.” The other man sighed. He reached into his trouser pocket and retrieved what I was there for. He held up two memory cards. “This is what you need?”
“Yeah.” I was tempted to keep pressing him for more information about his connections to the cult, but I’d be pressing my luck more than anything else. I needed access to the hospital database more than I needed to know about Gary’s shady dealings.
“This will let you, and your friend,” he raised an eyebrow, “into a secure area of a hospital. A Sector Seven or Sector Eight hospital will probably be best since they tend to be a little more lax with their security.”
I thanked him and took the cards from his hand. “What about...?”
“They’ll also give you access to the databases, as promised. I can’t hack them remotely so you’ll need to find either a server room or a data input point.”
“I know what to look for; this isn’t my first rodeo,” I said. “Usual fee?”
His eyes squinted and brow furrowed, and strange expression passed over his face. Was that guilt? “No charge,” he said.
“Seriously?”
He nodded. “Call it a gift.”
“A gift?” I wasn’t going to argue; there weren’t many things you could get in life for free and I wasn’t going to turn this down. Still, it was suspicious. How much could I really trust him? Was our relationship, the professional relationship I’d developed with him, only a sham?
“I insist.”
I took them. Despite my suspicions I knew the memory cards would work. Integrity was highly valued in the community in which Emmerson operated; if your tech didn’t work, you wouldn’t get any business. And it could get you killed. Some crime bosses relied on the stuff. No, the cards would work.
And I did need them.
Damn it.
I had to trust him on this, but I couldn’t trust his actions last night and his connections to the Church and Greene.
And this was the first time he’d ever offered something for free.
Odd. Damned odd. Suspicious.
I left, my mind swirling with thoughts of my encounter with Gary Emmerson and thoughts of what I needed to do next.