Catskinner's Book (The Book Of Lost Doors) (19 page)

“After that, I started shooting.”

He got up. Got a soda. Sat back down. Took a long drink. Looked over at me.

“Then the other things showed up. Things that weren't human anymore. Scales and webbed hands and claws like the Creature from the Black Lagoon. They died hard. It took a lot of shots to drop one of them.

“Anyway, when the smoke cleared me and Tom and those damned pillars were the only things left standing.”

“Tom?” I asked. “Tom White?”

“Yeah. He was Bureau then. A marine and a combat veteran like me. One thing about jarheads—we know how to hit the deck in a firefight.”

“So that's when you became partners?”

“More or less.” He shook his head. “After we . . . after we got back to the choppers we had to deal with the fallout. Two dozen federal agents and God knows how many civilians dead on US soil. The damage control started before we landed at the airport. I told my story so many times to so many people. I was sure I was going to be put in a rubber room in Area 51 or something.

“And then it was over. I was put on indefinite administrative furlough—at full pay, mind you—and told not to talk about what happened. It wouldn't have made any difference if I did—the whole thing was erased from the official record. I have no idea what they told those agents’ families.”

“It was covered up?” I asked.

“Covered up? It was dropped down a bottomless pit. Everything disappeared. Every file, every memo, every e-mail. Travel vouchers, time cards, expense reports, lab results, court documents, anything relating to the case simply ceased to exist.

“A couple of weeks after I was released Tom walked into the coffee shop where I was getting breakfast. He'd been watching me and decided it was safe to talk. We compared notes and, well, we've been working together ever since.”

“
thank you for telling me this.
”

That came as a shock. I hadn't noticed him paying attention.

Russwin looked at me for a long moment. “You're welcome,” he said at last.

Then he stretched out on the bed again. “I'm going to get some sleep. If you want to watch TV, go ahead. It won't bother me.”

He closed his eyes. As far as I could tell he went straight to sleep.

It wasn't that easy for me. I was thinking about Russwin's story. Thinking about Catskinner's reaction to it. I couldn't think of a single time he had ever said thank you to anyone. And now twice in one night.

Why did you say that to Russwin?

you said we need people.

I did. And I still think it's true. Are you trying to make friends?

cobb russwin is a good man.

A good man?  That was another phrase I couldn't ever remember Catskinner using. Was he, after all these years, changing?  

Or was it me that was changing? Catskinner saw the world through my eyes, both figuratively and literally. Could it be that it was never really him who had kept the rest of humanity at arms length, that I was the anti-social one, and he was just taking his cues from me?

That was an uncomfortable thought. Instead I thought about what Russwin said at the end, about the operation being erased from official records. How would somebody do that? Why would somebody do that? The Why part was easier—obviously the Outsiders didn't want their existence known. But then, why do they care? What could people do if they knew?

Judging from what I'd managed to accomplish, not much.

So why the secrecy?  Maybe how was an easier question after all. Did that mean that the US government was controlled by Outsiders? Not all of it, certainly. Maybe not even most of it—just a few key people in the right places.

Still, though, it seemed like a lot of work for no good reason. Alice had said that the Outsiders had been influencing human events for centuries—why the big charade?

What did they want?  

That was the real question.

And why does Keith Morgan want me dead?  

I had a feeling the two questions were connected.

Something Russwin had said earlier in the evening came back to me, something about threat assessment being based on potential. I had the potential to be a threat to Morgan, even if I didn't understand how.

In the same way, the Outsiders were threatened by exposure. There was something that would make them vulnerable, if human beings knew what it was.

So maybe they weren't so invincible after all.

What did we actually know about them?  Easier to list what we didn't know about them. We don't know where they came from, or how they communicate with humans, or how they do any of the things they could do.

We know that they lie. What did Alice say? They claim to be whatever people will listen to; angels, demons, aliens, dead relatives, spirit guides. . . .

They don't want most of the human race to know they exist. They used people, but they lied to them. Whatever they were, they kept it secret.

Which meant they lied to Keith Morgan, too. That was something to keep in mind.

Russwin's phone woke me, which made me realize that I had fallen asleep.

He was awake in an instant, opening his eyes and rolling over and answering the phone all in one motion while I was still struggling with figuring out where I was.

I had the feeling that I had thought of something important, something that I should remember, but I lost it. Russwin was slipping into his shoes while he talked.

“Yes, I know Tom White. He's my partner.”

A long sigh.

“What's his condition?”

“I understand. I'm on my way.”

“Wait—you do understand that he's a federal agent involved in an ongoing investigation, right? Is there any way you can get some security on his room?”

“Perfect. Thank you so much. Also, be advised that his only living relative is his mother, and she's in a nursing home in San Diego. If anyone claims to be a relative, stall them, okay?”

He looked around the room, looked at me. “I dunno, maybe a half hour? As quick as I can.”

“Thank you again.”

He hung up the phone, slid his gun into his holster.

I'd found one of my shoes by then.

“Was that about White?” I asked, just to show I'd been paying attention.

“He is Christian Northeast. ICU.”

“Give me a second.” There was my other shoe.

Russwin grabbed a soda. I could feel his impatience.

Once I had my shoes on Catskinner took my arms and grabbed his knives, then moved me to the door.

“
you drive.
” he told Russwin.

Russwin paused to grab the twelve pack of soda and stuff the wrapped sandwiches in it. He handed it to me, Catskinner took it.

On the way out the door Russwin asked, “Can you eat?  Or does James have to do that?”

Catskinner seemed to be confused by the question. I answered for him, and took my body back at the same time.

“He doesn't understand how food works. It's tough to explain.” I swung up into the passenger seat of the van, put the soda and sandwiches at my feet.

Russwin got in the driver's seat, looking thoughtful.

The streets were empty and Russwin took them just a little faster than he should have, then put his foot to the floor once we got on the highway. Of course, we were in a Water Company van, top speed wasn't much over the speed limit. Still, we were at the hospital in less than the half hour he'd estimated.

It took us another twenty minutes to get to White's room. Russwin went over the security arrangements with the front desk, showing his ID and introducing himself to the staff. I trailed along behind him, he introduced me as a confidential informant to anyone who asked, but most people didn't.

He
was
a good man, I realized. Confident and controlled. He understood how things worked, the bureaucracy of the hospital and how to talk to the uniformed officers in front of White's door. He would be a good ally.

They let us go into the room by ourselves. Tom White lay in the bed with the usual tubes and wires and machines. He wasn't on a respirator, which I figured was a good sign. The side of his head was wrapped up, but other than that he looked like he was just asleep.

Chapter Eighteen

“the night is the day's winter.”

Russwin went and sat beside the hospital bed. I stood by the door.

“How are you doing, buddy?” Russwin said quietly. “You don't look so good. I don't know if you can hear me, but I got the son of a bitch that did this. I put a pair of county cops on the door, too. You just rest up and get better, you hear me? You'll be okay.”

He reached out and touched White's hand. “I got a message for you, too. We saw Ace, picked up some stuff. She said—and I quote—tell him that I want to live in his heart forever, but I'll settle for getting in his pants tonight.”

Russwin laughed. “I don't know how you do it, buddy. She's got it bad for you.”

He sat quietly for a while. I stood by the door and looked at my feet.

“You get better now, you hear me?” Russwin was almost whispering. “This shit's getting ugly. This is not the time to be lying down on the job.”

He scrubbed his face with his hand. “What the hell time is it, anyway?”

I found a clock on one of the machines. “Almost four,” I said.

“See if you can find a doctor, okay?”

I nodded and went out. One of the uniformed officers was sitting on a folding chair by the door, the other one was empty.

The cop looked up at me. “What's the story, anyway?”

I shrugged. “I don't know much. I'm . . . uh, DEA. On loan from the Tucson office.”  I used to live in Tucson so I figured the DEA had an office there, and if they didn't they should.

“Drugs, huh.” The cop nodded just as if I'd explained something. “Bad news, a cop getting hurt like that.”

“Yeah. Say, do you know where I could find a doctor?”

He pointed down the hall. “Try the nurses station.”

“Thanks.” It took me a good half hour of aimless wandering before I found a middle-aged man who was willing to admit that he was the doctor assigned to Tom White. Hospitals in the middle of the night have a unique emptiness, they seemed to be designed to be empty like some airless city on the moon where anything living is unwelcome.

Then again, I'm prejudiced. I spent my childhood in locked wards. I still have nightmares in which I hear the sound of footsteps echoing on tile.

Anyway, I got back to the room with the doctor. Russwin was sitting by White's bed. He got up, introduced himself, and shook hands with the doctor.

“What can you tell me?” Russwin asked.

The doctor looked at the chart. “Agent White was brought in about nine last evening. An anonymous 911 call reported a man unresponsive in the parking lot of the QT gas station about a mile from here. Paramedics found him lying on the ground beside the pay phone where the call was made. His wounds were dressed, a very good field dressing, actually, looks like it was made from the victim's shirt.

“He suffered a severe skull fracture. We were able to remove the skull fragments and relieve the pressure on his brain, but at this point there is no way to tell what long-term effects he may face. Six months from now he may be completely recovered—”

“—or he might never wake up,” Russwin finished for him.

The doctor frowned. “There's still too much we simply don't know about brain injuries. I will say that he is breathing on his own, uh,” he looked at his watch, “about five hours after surgery. In my experience that's a positive sign.”

“Thank you, doctor.” Russwin looked over at White. “Two tours in the Gulf without a scratch on him, and then this happens in the States.”

“The wound has a very unusual shape—is there anything you can tell me about how it happened?”

“No, I wasn't there. Did he have anything with him when he was picked up?”

The doctor paged through the chart. “Just his clothing. No personal effects. It evidently took a while to ID him through fingerprints. At first the FBI said he wasn't on file, then they called back and gave you as the point of contact.”

“He's detached from the Bureau. We're on special assignment through the State department.”

“The admissions desk said you had some information regarding Agent White's next of kin?”

“Yes, his mother's name is Joan White, and she lives in San Diego, she's in a nursing home—I can't remember the specifics, but I can get that information to you over the next couple of days. She's, uh, pretty confused these days. A couple of years ago Tom set up a trust fund for her care, when he moved her into the home. To be honest, I don't know if she's responsible enough to make, uh, any decisions regarding . . . you know.”

The doctor nodded gravely. “Well, we'll keep you informed of his status.”

Russwin gave him a card. “Please do. That's my cell phone, and also an office in DC where you can leave messages if I don't pick up.”

The doctor glanced at me. During the whole exchange I had been trying to pretend I wasn't there, so I just nodded. He turned back to Russwin.

“I'm sorry, but I really can't give you anything more at this time. We've done what we can. Now it's just a matter of waiting to see how things develop. How he weathers the next few days will tell us more. Right now there are just too many unknown factors to make any predictions.”

“I understand.” Russwin took a last look at the still figure on the bed, then headed for the door. “Please, call me when there's something to report.”

I opened the door for him and we headed out. Both cops were at the door now, he paused and said,   “I don't think you men are going to have any trouble, but I'm glad you're here just in case. Some of these Ukrainians are just flat out psycho.”

The cops nodded their agreement. The one I'd spoken to before said, “We'll keep our eyes open.”

We didn't talk on our way back out of the ICU. There didn't seem to be anything to say.  Aside from a thin woman in a white uniform slow dancing with a floor buffer, we didn't see a living thing on the way out.

There was a blue sheet of paper stuck under the van's windshield wiper. I pulled it free. A flier, advertising something called the Seventh Midwestern SETI/Encounter Convention. A UFO convention, it looked like. I started to pitch it.