Great North Road (72 page)

“You’re not sending in our people first?”

“Vermekia has vetoed that. He wants the investigation to continue uncompromised.”

Vance knew what that meant: HDA command was coming around to the corporate conflict theory. From a political perspective, the expedition was now left with its ass hanging in the wind. “Does anyone have any theory why the Norths might be fighting?”

“That’s the odd thing, there’s no reason anyone can work out. They deny it completely, of course. Given that the imposter who came through is probably a B North, the best anyone can suggest is Brinkelle trying to take over Northumberland Interstellar, but that’s pretty wild. Since this broke, the one person both the police and Brinkelle are interested in is Zebediah North.”

“Isn’t he the family nut job?”

“Yeah, Barclay North, who went crazy after his father’s death. Unfortunately, he’s the wrong age—he doesn’t fit the imposter who came through.”

“It could have been one of his children, a 3 we didn’t know about.”

“Possibly, but it was definitely a 2 that Hurst pulled out of the Tyne. And all the A 2s are accounted for.”

“Yes, you’re right. Sorry, it’s been a stressful few days here.”

“So has Antrinell found any genetic variance?”

“No. He’s starting to think this is a waste of time, too.”

“Neither of the other two forward camps have found anything either.”

“How long have we got?”

“Vermekia wasn’t going to commit himself. But unless something happens, you’ll probably be getting your withdrawal orders in a week or so.”

“Okay, thanks, Ralph.”

“Sure. Take care out there.”

Vance sighed and sank back in the cramped chair. It was vanity, of course, but back in January when the case was fresh and new he’d believed this expedition to be supremely important. Now he was beginning to acknowledge that the evidence to launch it had been flimsy at best. Images from a dazed, drugged girl’s brain. Her pathetic protestations of innocence.

Angela was the key, he knew she was. If he could just find out what she was doing in Bartram’s mansion … “Call Tramelo,” he told his e-i.

Angela didn’t bother knocking on Elston’s door. The Qwik-Kabin was small; he’d have heard her come in. She barged into his office and found him behind his tiny desk staring into a display pane. The purple-and-green data was unreadable from where she stood. She sat without being asked, enjoying the relative cool blown out by the struggling aircon.

“I’d already gotten my tray,” she complained. “I haven’t eaten anything reasonable for days.”

“Yeah, that’s a real tragedy,” Elston snapped back.

Angela blinked and gave him a closer look. He was usually so well mannered and polite, in that creepy way all religious obsessives were. At any other time she would have enjoyed seeing the doubt and worry on his stiff face. Not now, though, not with the multiplying number of “accidents.” “So what’s the problem?”

“Gunzman’s not going to be walking again.”

“Yeah,” she said gloomily. “We heard. There are treatments. Nerve regeneration. The kind of thing the Norths are developing at their Institute in Abellia—”

“That not even the HDA can afford for its wounded. Sort of like one-in-ten treatments.”

“You asked me in here so you can spew your spite all over me?”

“No, sorry. Angela, what were you doing at Bartram’s mansion? Telling the truth now can’t possibly cause any harm.”

Once again she was pleased with the way she kept her emotions in check.
Daddy would be proud
. “I was a whore. Does that make you feel better?”

“You’re many things, but whore isn’t one of them.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“I wish you’d trust me.”

“I don’t suffer from Stockholm syndrome, thanks. Not with my torturer.”

He let out an exasperated sigh. “I’m sorry about that. Okay?”

“That just makes it a whole lot better.”

“Angela … damnit.”

She was genuinely curious now. This was an Elston she hadn’t seen before. “What’s happened?”

“The police found out an unknown North came through the gateway just before the Newcastle murder. Everyone is starting to think the murder is corporate-related, or at least some kind of family power struggle.”

“Son-of-a-bitch! What about you? What do you think?”

“We haven’t found any genetic variance. It’s starting to look like you might have been mistaken.”

“Mistaken! Are you fucking kidding me? If there wasn’t a monster, then that implies I killed them. You motherfucking bastard. If you think I’m going back to jail, you’re wrong.”

“Nobody’s saying that. We’re interested in Zebediah North.”

Angela frowned. “Who?”

“You’d know him as Barclay North. He had a breakdown after his father was killed. Changed his name and started campaigning for St. Libra to sever all ties with Earth, including closing the gateway. Did you ever meet him?”

Angela sat perfectly still, the chill of the aircon banished by the blood heat pounding through her skin. Keeping hold of her anger was becoming very difficult.
How could I have been so stupid? Letting him lull me into lowering my guard. I’d almost started thinking of him as human.
“Fuck you!” she screamed. “Piece-of-shit torturer. I hope you catch cancer and die rotting. If your God exists, I’ll have the satisfaction She’ll be sending you right down into your medieval hell. And even that’s too good for you.”

“Whaaat th—”

“Nice try. Get friendly. Earn your victim’s sympathy. Then mindfuck them. Well, all that means is that we can add rape to your list of crimes now.” She got to her feet, too angry to say anything else.

“Wait! I don’t understand. Please, what what …,” he spluttered.

“You don’t understand,” she snarled back in savage mockery. “Read that straight out of the torturer’s manual, did you?”

“Will you calm down and tell me what just happened.”

Angela paused. Still uncertain and hating herself for giving him the benefit of the doubt. “Barclay North, yes? That’s who you’re talking about? Asking me oh-so-innocently if I knew him?”

“Yes. It might be important.”

“Just after you want to know what I was doing at the mansion—” She stopped herself, alarmed she might be giving too much away.

“Angela, I swear on the Bible itself I don’t know what you’re so upset about.”

“Barclay North started calling himself Zebediah North and broke with the family? Is that it?”

“Yes. They don’t know why. He disappeared a couple of days after the murders. They didn’t see him again for months until he reappeared in the Independencies.”

“That was amazingly clever of him,” she snapped.

“How is it clever?”

“You’re still pretending this isn’t some softening-up process?”

“Goddamnit!” He abruptly looked shocked at the blasphemy he’d uttered. “What happened with you and Barclay?”

Angela took a calming breath. “We had a fling, is all.”

“What?”

“You heard. Contrary to popular belief, there are differences among the Norths. He was—” She chose her words carefully. “—nicer than the others, especially his father.”

“I didn’t know. How different?”

“Not crazy different, if that’s what you’re implying—oh fuck, why am I even talking to you about this?”

“Every little piece of information helps.”

Angela gave him a hard, disapproving stare. “That information cannot possibly help you.”

“Why not?”

“Because Barclay 2North is
dead
. He was slaughtered that night along with all the others the monster massacred. I found … I saw his butchered body in that motherfucking mansion. Get it? I. Saw. His. Corpse. And I truly know it was him. Whoever Zebediah is, it’s not Barclay.”

It was ballsy sneaking into the seventh-floor study that night of all nights, but Angela considered it worth the risk. A double bluff; nobody would be attempting anything illicit with people around. Not that there were many people, just some of Bartram’s sons. Barclay had turned up that evening, along with Benson and Blake and Barrett. A family dinner to discuss business. She’d been in attendance in the dining room, of course, along with Coi and Mariangela and Suski (Olivia-Jay’s replacement). Loanna and Marc-Anthony had styled the girlfriends in short, expensive cocktail dresses so they could sit flanking Bartram to form hot enticing adornments. It had been difficult for her not to pay undue attention to Barclay during the meal. But she’d refrained. He had been equally scrupulous, chatting with all the girlfriends, just as flirtatious with each one.

The brothers had gone on into the seventh-floor lounge to continue talk about deals and companies and finance. Bartram had told Suski to go with them, allowing her to showcase her pianist skills and the range of her voice. Angela didn’t think she was anything like as good as Olivia-Jay, but acknowledged that was a biased opinion.

So it was Angela, Mariangela, and Coi who went back down to the sixth floor to be costumed up by Loanna and Marc-Anthony, ready for a night in Bartram’s bedroom. Mariangela was in a long lace-and-silk robe, imperious and spectacular with her hair flowing free; while Coi was in simple white PJs, all innocent and eager. Angela, they put in the white shorts and a gauzy black halter, congratulating themselves on their choice—except it was what she suggested. And that was the essential part.

At two o’clock in the morning, with the rain clouds sliding in from the sea to obscure St. Libra’s glowing rings, she wore those shorts as she walked confidently along the seventh floor’s gallery. The lights were on low, and some of the brothers were still up in the lounge. Suski was playing the piano, singing with a throaty gusto.

Angela slipped into the retro-Egyptian study. At least nobody had been using oil in bed tonight; she didn’t have to worry about smears and towels. The waistband of the shorts concealed the little interceptor needles. She plucked them out and wiggled beneath the desk.

It was all ready. The money for the Delgado Valley contract had been transferred to Abellia’s main civic account yesterday. GiulioTrans-Stellar’s bid was still logged and pending, along with all the rival bids. Once again she used Barclay’s codes, awarding the bid to GiulioTrans-Stellar. One hundred and eight million eurofrancs vanished into the transnet banking sector.

Angela let out a little whimper of relief. For once not angry at herself for the display of emotion, the way her eyes watered up. It was done. Over. Nothing else mattered.

But it would be nice to get out of here.

She withdrew methodically, forcing herself not to rush. Fold the civic account back up using Barclay’s authorization. Close down the infiltration, extract the interceptor needles and slip them back into her shorts. Shut down the console.

Heart pounding, she opened the study door a fraction to peer out. The brothers must have finally gone to bed. The lights were out all along the gallery. It was perfectly silent, and unusually dark. With the rings veiled by thickening cloud, there was very little light filtering through the big windows at the far end of the gallery.

Angela shut the study door and started creeping back to Bartram’s bedroom. Halfway there, she put her foot into some kind of puddle. She was directly outside the lounge, and she realized that one of the big double doors was open. It was completely black inside.

The liquid wasn’t water. She knew that: too thick, too sticky. And curiously, too warm. She frowned, not understanding what she’d trodden in. It was irritating, because she’d have to clean it off before she sneaked back into bed.

She went into the lounge, and there was liquid all over the floor. Her feet slipped, and she went flailing down onto her knees, landing hard. “Ow! Son-of-a-bitch. House: Lounge lights on minimum.”

The mansion’s AI didn’t respond. “Oh come on!” Angela struggled upright. The smell in the lounge was strange, unpleasant. She couldn’t quite place it, though there was a definite scent of mint mixed in there. Somehow it triggered a deep unease. This was getting ridiculous. She could feel the liquid all over her skin now. Some kind of pipe must have burst. Aircon coolant? But at least she now had a reason to be walking about at this time of the morning:
I heard something
.

The manual switches were behind the door. She slithered about like a sugared-up toddler on an ice rink, trying to get to them. Five tiny green LEDs glowed on the panel, guiding her. One more slip and she reached them, slapping her hand against the buttons.

The lounge lights came on. For a moment her mind rejected the sight of her own body. The liquid coating her was bright scarlet. The color slammed a warning straight into the most primitive section of her brain. Blood!

Angela gasped in shock. It was everywhere, pooling all over the marble floor. And her feet were still in it. She cried out again, louder this time, her fear and disgust echoing around the big room. Spun around, a motion that sent her flailing about as yet again she lost her balance. Crashing down painfully on all fours. And looking directly at Barclay’s corpse, two meters away.

Something had punctured his chest, slicing through his blue-and-gray-striped silk shirt, skin, and rib cage to rip his heart apart. Blood had gushed out of the ragged multiple wound, spilling across the floor. Angela stared helplessly into his face with its strangely endearing death-mask expression of peaceful surprise. She knew it was him. He was wearing her banana cuff links. But there was too much blood to have come from just one person. She raised her head.

Suski was lying beside the piano, her throat slashed so brutally she’d almost been decapitated. Two more Norths were sprawled on the floor. One with the same bizarre heart wound as Barclay; the other had been split open from crotch to thorax, his organs and intestines slopping out amid the blood.

Angela fought against the hysterical scream that was trying to force itself up her windpipe. Self-preservation alone kept her silent; one tiny spark of remaining rationality knew the maniac had to be close by—she mustn’t alert him. She glanced up at the ribbon-like lightstrips curling artistically around the ceiling, knowing that switching them on had been a terrible mistake—that and the noise she’d made earlier.