Alien Eyes (15 page)

“In spite of—” David glanced at Yahray. “Major differences?”

“Unthinkable,” String said.

“Have you no Mother-One?” the Elaki asked him. “Pardon the personal, do humans really come from eggs?”

“Yes and no,” David said.

“No wonder the confusion.”

David put his chin in his hands. Captain Halliday was watching from his office.

“I need some time to look into this,” David said. “Where can I reach you?”

The old Elaki raised a fin. “Out there.”

David looked at String. “Think we could find her a hotel?”

TWENTY-FOUR

David shut his eyes, just for a moment, thinking about private moments and how often cops were involved—uninvited but involved.

“All beautiful buildings are for funeral homes,” String said. “This is why?”

Mel shrugged.

David shifted his weight. He was perched on a high wood stool that would be uncomfortable before too much longer. Mel leaned against the wall, his arms tightly folded. He yawned, jaw cracking.

“This sucks,” he said. “Arnold didn't do nothing. You think he had anything to do with this?”

“Something isn't right about it,” David said. “The whole setup.”

“You really think
Arnold
had anything to do with it?”

“Likely?” David shook his head. “I think he was the target. But I also think he couldn't stand his son-in-law.”

“Yeah, but what about Charlotte?”

“Could have been a mistake. Maybe she wasn't supposed to be there. The grandsons were taken care of—stashed out of the way. And he turned us down flat on the protection.”

String stood silently, looking through the two-way into the next room.

“Something on your mind, Gumby?”

String twitched an eye prong. “Please to explain. This is not home movies? This is not the real memory?”

“Nah.” Mel studied his fingernails. “It's a form of grief counseling. You get a hologram of your … the person that died. They put it together from questionnaires and stuff. It helps the bereaved accept the death.”

“Why would they
not
accept it?”

“Well, it could be a sudden thing. Say some lady's sister dies of some disease or something. This gives her a chance to say good-bye.”

“Why does she not just say good-bye when the sister becomes ill?”

“Gumby, you wear me out. She didn't
know
her sister would die.”

“But surely the medicals would warn her. What disease did the sister have?”

“There
wasn't
a disease. There wasn't a sister. And you—”

“Humans are unreasonable,” String said. “To need this help to accept what
is
. Better just to grieve.”

“It is grief,” Mel said.

“It puts me in mind of a female Izicho I did the training with when I was but most young. She was odd in that …” String's voice trailed off.

Mel looked at David, then back to String. “And so?”

String stayed silent, his body turned to one side.

Mel leaned close to David and spoke in low tones. “He ain't told me a whole story or done a magic trick since he caught us by the van in the parking garage.”

“Count your blessings,” David said.

The door to the next room opened, a wedge of thickly carpeted hallway in their range of vision through the two-way.

“Heads up,” Mel said.

Stephen Arnold was formally dressed in a dark grey suit. His shoes were polished and glinting, and he wore a thin black stripe down his white shirt. His hair had been mussed by the wind. He smoothed it back. One piece stuck up at the top, making him look vulnerable.

The funeral director was waving his hands. “No, sir. The insurance company covers all of this. Your particular policy was what I call generous.”

Arnold said something David could not hear.

The director lowered his voice. “That's not usually done. The expense would be prohibitive—and to tell you the truth, it's not recommended.” The director held out a hand and turned the palm up. “Some experiences aren't keepers. You have to move along afterward.” He glanced self-consciously into the two-way.

“Aw,” Mel said. “Quit
looking
at us. This guy. Does it every single time. Must be he does it on purpose.”

David felt the first twinge of an ache in the small of his back.

In the next room, Arnold looked around, arms tight against his sides. The room was small, the couch an old Duncan Fyfe, tautly stuffed. The end tables were mahogany, simple lines, Queen Anne. The walls were papered and set off with white wood molding. Arnold perched on the edge of the couch, then glanced at the two floral wingback chairs. He got up and moved from the couch to a chair.

Arnold crossed his legs. David adjusted the volume until he could hear him clear his throat. David heard his own door open. The funeral director stuck his head in.

“Ready in here?” He spoke in a loud, hoarse whisper.

“It's a go,” David said. He sniffed. The director was wearing a heavy dose of shaving lotion that smelled like vanilla. His face was florid, well scrubbed.

“You wearing vanilla extract?” Mel asked.

“Male Bonding.”

“What?”

“The scent.”

“Smells like vanilla to me.”

The funeral director grimaced. “Any minute now.”

“Dad?” The voice was young, female, coming from the next room.

The director ducked out the door, and David looked through the two-way.

Charlotte stood in the room in front of her father.

“
Charlotte
.” Arnold stood up and reached a hand to his daughter. His fingers, flesh and blood, passed through the hologram that registered on his skin as so many dots of light.

Arnold sat down very suddenly, grasping the knee of his pants leg in a wad.

“Dad, I'm so glad to see you! I knew you'd come.”

“Course.” Arnold cleared his throat. “Of course.”

David was surprised at how pretty Charlotte was. There was something there, some quality the portraits had not caught.

“I wish things weren't … well,
you
know. The way they are.”

Arnold nodded. He blew his nose on a handkerchief.

“Daddy, do you remember Cleopatra?”

A brown and white border collie appeared beside Charlotte. The dog barked, pink tongue lolling. Charlotte bent down and picked up the dog, holding her belly side up like a baby. “'Member how I used to carry her like this?”

“Yes,” Arnold said hoarsely. He nodded vigorously.

“You always told me it was bad for her back. Oh, and Daddy! How about this day? You remember?”

Charlotte was younger suddenly, her hair long and straight. She was slender, her nose freckled. And she looked worried.

“Remember how I was so nervous about defending my dissertation before the committee?” She held up a foil-wrapped package of chocolates. “And you said eat chocolate, Charlotte, you'll feel better. And you sang that
stupid
song. About sex, chocolate, and females.” Charlotte tilted her head sideways, her laugh deep and gusty. “That song ran through my head the whole time, Daddy. It drove me nuts!”

Arnold's smile was painful.

“How about this one?” Charlotte was plump-tummied and tan, hair slicked back. She stood at the edge of a swimming pool, the blue water shimmering with sunlight.

“I'm going to
dive
, Daddy!”

Charlotte was suddenly an adult again. “I don't know why.” She shrugged, face full of good humor. “These are the ones that stuck in my mind.” Her smile faded.

David felt sweat prickle his palms.

“Here it comes,” Mel said.

David nodded. The psychiatrist had particularly warned them about the next section, which she herself had prepared and spliced in, according to the class four court order they had obtained. Class four was mild. There would be no sudden accusations, no surprise reenactments of the death scene. Which was just as well, David thought. Arnold didn't deserve it. He didn't deserve any of this. It was interesting, though, that Mark was in none of the happy memories.

Something somewhere didn't sit right.

Charlotte's lip trembled. “Why did this have to happen to me, Daddy?”

Arnold wiped his eyes with a handkerchief that was crumpled in his fist.

“Please, just tell me what I did.”

Arnold was shaking his head. “My fault,” he whispered.

Mel leaned forward.

“It was me they were after. It should have been me.”

David let air escape from between his teeth. No apologies. No confessions. Arnold's pain-wracked face convinced him. Whatever was tainted here wasn't Stephen Arnold.

“Take care of the boys for me, Daddy.”

Arnold was nodding.

“Take care of my babies.” She turned away, then looked over her shoulder. “Still one more,” she whispered, a half smile on her face. “The best one, 'cause she was there. You remember, Daddy? The night you and me—and Mom was there, too? The night I thought the moon was close enough to get to. I thought if we could just walk far enough, we could go and get it.” Charlotte's voice softened. “I wish you could come with me, Daddy. Like we did that night.” She smiled at him over her shoulder. “Going to find the moon. All kids get that notion, sometime or other. When mine do, will you take them looking, Dad?”

“Yes, Charlotte. Yes.”

And she was gone. David caught a glimpse of a man and a woman walking over a hill, a heavily diapered toddler between them clutching both their hands, taking large and uncertain steps up a grass-covered hill.

TWENTY-FIVE

The funeral was a bad one.

Ogden had alerted the press pack—he would be there and he would make a statement.

He was magnificent, as always. His suit was sober and expensive, and his shoulders broad. He took up a lot of room. A cluster of cops stayed close.

“Oh, la,” Mel said. “Take a look at the queen bee.”

“These are not normal police,” String said. “Watch them. They are … they are
protecting
.”

David folded his arms, one shoulder higher than the other. He spotted Wendy McCallum. She wore a dark grey dress and a hat. Hats were popular again. She looked pretty in it—feminine and dignified.

She was flanked by two small boys. David recognized George and Mickey, Charlotte's children. Mark's too, he reminded himself. Somehow it was Charlotte who stuck in his mind.

The boys' hair had been wet down and combed back, making them look fresh and young. They wore suits and shiny black shoes, new.

A knot of reporters stopped the three of them, clumping around Wendy McCallum, who edged backward. David got a quick glimpse of her white, panic-stricken face before she was swallowed up.

David turned to Mel. “Who's doing crowd control?”

“Hell, I don't … looks like Van Meter over there.”

“He's doing a lousy job. Go over and see what you can do.” David moved quickly, heading for Wendy McCallum.

Her hands were tightly entwined in the small fingers of her grandsons, but she was answering questions with becoming dignity. It was the boys that worried him. Their eyes were huge and dark. They looked dazed.

David stuck his left elbow into the ribs of the man closest, then felt a prick of guilt when he saw it was Arnie Bledsoe—definitely a nice guy. David worked his way to Wendy McCallum's side.

“Commander Ogden is arriving,” David said. He pointed at random to the right. He didn't know the man getting out of the station wagon, but it wasn't Ogden. Ogden had already arrived, and he favored limousines.

The reporters ebbed away. Wendy McCallum took a deep breath.

“Detective Silver. Thank you very much.” She bent close to the boys. “George? Mickey? This is Detective Silver.”

George extended a hand. David leaned down and shook it. George frowned at his brother.

“Shake,” he whispered.

Mickey gave David his hand. It was ice-cold.

Wendy McCallum was looking toward the street. “Law is parking the car,” she said. “
Why
are all these people here?”

“Curious,” David said. “And Ogden's called a press conference.”

Wendy McCallum frowned. “Is there news?” She glanced at the boys.

“No,” David said. “When there's news, I'll come and tell you myself.”

“Thank you. I appreciate how kind you are.”

“He's our departmental sweetheart.” Mel was loud, as always, but he smiled at Wendy McCallum and shook her hand. “I'm Burnett. Me and David work together.” Mel glanced toward the crowd. “It's time you went in, Mrs. McCallum. I'm supposed to tell you your husband is already inside, waiting. We'll keep the news folks out of the church for you, but the grave site will be something else.” Mel reached down absently, ruffling the hair of the littlest boy.

George gave him a stern look, and smoothed his brother's hair back in place.

Mel nudged David. “It speaks.”

Ogden stood on the steps of the church, pausing dramatically halfway up. He turned and faced the cameras. It was cloudy and overcast, and someone was shining a light. David frowned. The light was held by a cop. Good job for a cop, David thought. No point in the man wasting time trying to actually catch these killers.

“Jesus Christ, he's wearing makeup.” Mel grinned. “Let's go see what it says. Maybe he's solved the case.”

Ogden was looking concerned, but competent. He raised his right hand. “There is no doubt now that these killings are political.”

Mel groaned. “Here come de FBI. Thanks, Ogden, I love you, too.” Mel blew a kiss.

Ogden straightened his back. “I myself have received no less than three death threats in the last two months.” He swept a hand toward the men and women clustered around him. “And can go nowhere, without this security force.” He smiled bravely. “Whether I like it or not.”