Bone Song Read online

  “Sure.” Donal pulled the nearby clipboard toward him. “Six targets, please.”

  A howl echoed from the corridor outside.

  “What's going on?”

  “Little combat-shooting competition.” Brian slid out flat drawers from the wall behind the counter. “The boys from the Seventy-third are up against our guys. You weren't thinking of making an illegal bet now, were you, Lieutenant?”

  “Wouldn't dream of it. If, hypothetically speaking, someone were taking bets, what odds would they be offering on our boys winning?”

  “Evens, is all. Woulda been three-to-one against, but them Seventy-thirds had a lotta gang trouble last year. Sharpened 'em up.”

  Donal shook his head.

  “Some other time.”

  “Your loss, boss.” Brian pulled out several sheets from the drawers. “Awright, we got yer basic roundel—one of those?—and some outlines. One ghoul-with-human-hostage. One human-with-ghoul-hostage. One—”

  “I'll take two of those.”

  “Okay. And for the last . . .” Brian slid the two-foot-by-four-foot sheets of paper across the counter. “I heard someone's been sketching well-known figures on big pieces of paper, y'know? Like various aldermen, including Finross and O'Connell. Maybe even the comm—”

  Donal reached across the counter and clapped a hand on Brian's shoulder. He smiled, keeping it friendly, as his grip tightened and his fingers dug in.

  “Now, Brian, you know why we don't just shoot round targets anymore?”

  “Um. . . no, boss. Listen—”

  “It's because it makes it easier for us to shoot real people. Or real . . . whatever. They call it operant conditioning, and it helps keep cops alive. Because we don't freeze on the street when it goes down hard.”

  “Ugh, sure. But you're hurting—”

  “So we don't ever make a joke of it, or use individual people on the pictures. Do we?” Donal released his grip. “Do we, Brian?”

  “No, Lieutenant. I mean, no, for Hades's sake. Wouldn't dream of—”

  “Good. Because when the inspection comes tomorrow, this place will be shipshape. And if I hear rumors of anything else . . . But I won't, will I?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Good man.” Donal gathered together the four sheets of paper. “I'll need two more targets, please.”

  In silence, Brian took two more standard targets from a drawer and laid them down.

  “Thank you very much, Brian.”

  It took fifteen minutes to unload sixty rounds into the targets: the magazine clip plus the fifty rounds he'd gotten from Brian. That was a long time, but the ceiling cables used to carry the targets out to varying distances in the subterranean range were slow.

  Silver sea, gentle breakers on a pink beach, while transparent birds sing overhead . . .

  Donal was right-handed but with a dominant left eye, which meant he had to tilt his head down to his right shoulder when he aimed. It looked odd—when he was a rookie, fellow officers called him Cockeye Riordan—but it stabilized the head and made him a better marksman.

  That, and the daily training.

  On the last magazine, Donal sent the target right back, turned away, then squeezed his eyes shut before swiveling around to fire ten rounds in even succession.

  When he opened his eyes, the target was in tatters.

  “Good enough.”

  You didn't always get good lighting on the street. Sometimes the bastards came at you from darkness.

  A series of loud percussive bangs echoed down the range. Donal had thought he was the only person here. Whatever the load the other guy was using, it was heavy-duty. Donal felt curious, but . . . He checked his watch. He still wanted to visit the Exemplar Hotel tonight and check out the floor where the diva would be staying.

  Another sequence of bangs sounded.

  “Just a peek,” Donal told himself.

  Walking slowly, not wanting to startle the officer with sudden movement at the edge of his vision, Donal passed seven empty lanes on the gun range until he could see the shooter.

  The man was huge, nearly seven feet tall, with massive shoulders stretching his dark-burgundy leather jacket. Round blue glasses perched on his long nose.

  He fired a heavy silver gun single-handed. The weapon was designed for a two-handed grip: an abbreviated machine gun.

  “Ha.” The big man put the emptied weapon down and pulled out his earplugs. Donal did likewise.

  “What kind of . . . Hades. Look at that.” Donal peered down the range, then placed his hand on the green retrieve button beside him. “Can I?”

  “Go ahead, Lieutenant.”

  So the man knew who Donal was. Well, that happened. A drawback of rank: they knew you, and you didn't know them. Donal pressed the button and held it in as the target holder whined its way back along the ceiling.

  But there was little target left. By the time it reached Donal's position, he had verified that only a few flapping ribbons of paper remained.

  “Not bad. What kind of beast is that?”

  “Oh, her?” The big man ran a finger along the weapon, which lay flat on the shelf. “I call her Betsie. She's a Howler-Fifty.”

  “I thought it—she—might be. I've read about them. Not bad.”

  “You want to give her a try, Lieutenant?”

  “Er . . . damn it, I'd love to. But not tonight. I've still got stuff to do.”

  “But you made time to come down to the range? Understood, sir.”

  The man was unshaven, and his face was tanned and ugly. Donal had already decided to like him.

  “What's your name, Detective?”

  “Viktor Harman, sir. I work out of the, uh, Seventy-seventh. They call me Big Viktor.”

  “I'm not surprised. You'll be around here again?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. You can count on it.”

  “See you then.”

  “Lieutenant.”

  * * *

  Out on the street, Donal had no trouble in flagging down a purple cab. Earlier, after leaving the Energy Authority complex, he'd walked over a mile before finding a phone booth that worked so he could call a taxi. It had come surprisingly quickly.

  Now the driver pulled into the heavy flow of traffic and halted. Donal regretted not having chosen the subway. On the other side of the street, farther down, he could see two prospective customers—a couple of tourists from Kaltrin Province, judging by their blue coats—talking to a cab driver.

  The driver was shaking his head: they weren't going far enough to make it worth his while.

  Welcome to Tristopolis.

  The driver of Donal's cab stared impassively ahead. He hadn't asked where Donal was going until Donal was inside the vehicle. That was one advantage of picking up a ride directly in front of police HQ.

  Donal crossed his arms and leaned back, settling for a moment's calm. He thought about the big officer—Viktor . . . what was it? Harman—and the way he'd handled the .50-caliber weapon with ease.

  “I work out of the, uh, Seventy-seventh.”

  That's what Big Viktor had said, but Donal wondered now at the precinct number. Had he meant to say “Seventy-third,” implying he was with the team competing against the local cops? It would have furnished an excuse for an uptown-precinct officer to be here in the mid-Tristopolitan district.

  Brian, on the desk, was competent enough on security. And Eagle Dawkins, the range safety officer, was always around, observing. An impostor could never make it into the practice range.

  Donal came back into the moment. The taxi had moved less than a block before traffic congealed once more.

  Digging into his wallet, Donal said, “I'll walk. But here's the fare.” He handed over two florins.

  “Aw, man, how am I—”

  Donal leaned over, eyes hardening. “You hook a U at the end of the block and go back. There was a couple in blue coats standing there.”

  “Um, I saw them.”

  “Take them wherever they want to go, Mister
”—Donal's eyes flickered toward the municipal license tag on the dash—“Boudreaux, driver number fourteen-oh-three. You got that, right?”

  “Yes, sir. My pleasure.”

  “I thought so.” Donal reached inside his pocket and found a seven-sided half-florin coin. He reached through the partition and dropped the coin on the seat. “You're a good man, Boudreaux.”

  The driver swallowed.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Donal slid out of the cab.

  His first stop was the Exemplar Hotel on 99th and 201st. It was a grand old dark-gray building that rose fifty stories before reaching over and staring down in the form of a massive granite eagle's head. The east and west walls represented furled wings.

  At street level, the originally plain talons were now decorated with upturned brass bowls in which eternal orange flames flickered and danced. Moving patterns swirled across marble steps leading up to the foyer.

  Donal had never been inside.

  Entering the polished reception hall, he passed gothic bronze dragons gleaming with reflected dancing flames. Slender women in fur stoles, brandishing long cigarette holders, were waiting for their portly, rich husbands.

  A bellwraith, almost corporeal, said, *Can I help you, sir?*

  Donal stared into the darkness where its eyes would have been. “You got a house detective here?”

  *Um...why would you—*

  Donal flashed his badge, replaced it. “I'd like to chat with him, if that's all right with you.”

  *Right away, sir.* The wraith began to float away, its cap maintaining a constant height above the brass floor. *This way.*

  Behind the reception desk, one of the people in dark-green suits had exceptionally white skin. He looked up at the wraith's approach.

  The wraith bent close, leaning inward until its face partly melded with the pale man's head. It was the most private way to whisper.

  As the white-faced man nodded, the wraith drifted back. The man approached Donal.

  “I'm Shaunovan. Sounds like you want to talk to me.”

  “Can we do it on the move?” said Donal. “While you show me around?”

  “No problem.” Shaunovan led the way to the rear. “The restaurant and kitchens first?”

  “Sure.”

  “So I'm guessing it's the diva. She's the highest-profile guest checking in soon.”

  “You keep an eye on bookings?”

  “Part of my job, Officer. Um, Fred didn't say what your name was.”

  “Riordan. Donal Riordan.”

  “Oh, Lieutenant. Of course.”

  They walked through the bar area. Two glasses floated past, twisting and shivering: airborne cocktails, heading for one of the secluded booths at the rear.

  “Who else works as detective here?” asked Donal. “Got a replacement for other shifts?”

  “Just me.” An odd look passed through Shaunovan's eyes. “I'm here twenty-five/nine.”

  “Never sleep, huh?”

  “No.” Shaunovan's voice went cold. “I never do.”

  Donal was impressed with the building's layout, which combined safety—easy access to fire exits and emergency-evacuation wraiths—with security. But the management had drawn the line at the use of in-house seers: the Exemplar's guests expected privacy.

  “Come back tomorrow afternoon,” said Shaunovan, “and Whitrose will sort out the bookings for your people. He's the senior manager, and he's got more . . . discretion . . . on rates than he'll admit to.”

  “Claims to have no leeway when he's negotiating?”

  “Right. But Whitrose can reduce the rates all the way—if you can persuade him.”

  “You're a good man, Shaunovan.”

  “Are you sure of that?”

  “Well . . . you're good, anyway.” Donal held out his hand. “Nice meeting you.”

  “Likewise, Lieutenant.” Shaunovan's grip was like frozen steel. “Likewise.”

  It wasn't a long walk to 92nd Street. Close to the Hoardway intersection loomed the massive construction that was the Théâtre du Loup Mort. From across the street, Donal watched a party of schoolgirls gathered outside the main entrance: a school outing.

  The play was one that Donal had studied in school, a study of warriors who were facing their last battle, and he remembered the spears flying across the stage in the final scene and the howling as the heroes died.

  It had been shocking then and still seemed dreadful all these years later, despite the real terrors he'd experienced on the street.

  Through a window up top, Donal caught a glimpse of a woman's outline and her perfect, bouncing breast, strawberry nipple against pale skin, and then it was gone. Hades . . .

  One of the high windows opened onto the actresses' changing rooms, and the evening's performance was less than an hour away. Donal blew out a breath, watched the window for a moment longer, then forced himself to turn away.

  Side alley. A lane at the back and a loading bay for trucks large enough to transport scenery. Fire escapes. This was going to be hard. There were so many opportunities for a trained hitman to—

  Another actress walked past the window high up, pulling her blouse over her head as she walked. If Donal didn't move on, a beat officer would arrest him for peeping.

  He walked to the corner of 205th, stopped in a small café–bar, and ordered an espresso. It came thick and dark in the tiny cup, and he shuddered as he drank it.

  Then he walked to the glowing amber P-shaped sign that surmounted the iron steps leading below. Donal descended into the Pneumetro station, along with hundreds of other commuters forcing their way down to the platforms.

  He looked for the red signs indicating the Z line—he didn't usually travel from 205th—and made his way there just as seven big slugs arrived, one after the other.

  Donal wondered how often the guests at the Exemplar traveled by hypoway.

  The tube was convex and sort of transparent against the platform, though the hexiglass was scratched and stained and maybe five years overdue for replacement. Each red slug held two hundred people, and Donal made his way to the third opening—Z3 was his branch line.

  He was one of the last people to squeeze inside before the door wheezed shut. Everyone waited, crushed together and sweating. Then there was an explosive cough, and all seven slugs shot out of the station together.

  It was a twenty-minute ride back toward Donal's neighborhood, but at least he didn't have to change trains. The slug flicked onto the third branch of the Z line without incident, and it only took seven more stops, and seven more explosive bursts of acceleration, to reach Halls.

  No one greeted him as he walked down the street amid bluestones and converted temples, until he reached the apartment block. He opened the outer doors just as old Mrs. MacZoran was leaving, laundry bag in hand.

  “I'll pop by the washeteria in a while,” Donal told her. “Check everything's all right.”

  “Don't worry about me.”

  “Then I won't. I'll just—”

  But Mrs. MacZoran was already gone, head bent and hearing only the voices in her head, memories of days long lost.

  “—go out for a run.”

  Donal climbed upstairs, let himself into his fifth-floor apartment, and locked the door behind him. Moving quickly—because to pause and sit down would be to make the discipline more difficult—he used the tiny bathroom, then stripped and pulled on a long one-piece black running suit and his old black shoes.

  He performed stretches and lunges on the bare floorboards and used the exposed ceiling pipes to haul himself up through a series of chin-ups, interspersed with push-ups performed with his feet up on the bed. Sit-ups and leg raises on the hard floor followed.

  Donal rose to his feet, picking two splinters from his clothes.

  The gun had always been problematic, and tonight he decided to run without it. Leaving the shoulder holster slung over the bedpost, Donal went out and locked the front door: all three locks. Keys and badge clutched in his left
fist, he went downstairs.

  Out on the sidewalk he jogged slowly to the corner.

  Darkness was starting to close in, the purple sky deepening. The washeteria, known as Fozzy's Rags, shone its lights hard and white. Mrs. MacZoran was in there, sitting side by side with another of the neighborhood's old biddies. Wicker baskets, for transferring clean wash into the big dryers, waited at their feet.

  None of the neighborhood derelicts appeared to be lurking around the place. Not this evening.

  Good.

  Donal jogged on to the next corner, where a dank stone pedestal stood, slightly wider than a man and about eight feet high. A stone door's outline was scarcely visible on its side, but the hand-size opening beside it was clear of obstruction.

  Donal inserted his police badge, waited a long moment, then pulled the badge back out. This was what you might call a perk of the job.

  The heavy door ground its way open.

  Inside, the pedestal was hollow, revealing the beginning of a stone staircase that spiraled deep underground. Donal went down the first five steps and waited. The door groaned shut behind him.

  Nodding slightly, he continued downward. Phosphorescent runes cast enough ghostly light for him to make out the steps. In any case, he had been down this way thousands of times before.

  It took maybe ten minutes to descend to the tunnel and step onto squelching gray ground: fine particles of stone, wet, on top of worn flagstones. Donal's foot splashed in a black puddle.

  No automobiles moved down here, polluting the air or taking over the streets. Generally speaking, no people moved in this place.

  There might be guards, but the newer mausoleums were farther downtown. Everything here was ancient: relics of once-powerful families, now forgotten.

  These were the catacombs, cold and quiet.

  End of another day.

  Donal began to run.

  Pounding now, ten minutes into the run and warmed up, Donal raced along a winding tunnel that dipped and widened out into a low cavern where half a dozen stone sarcophagi were interred. Each sarcophagus had melded with the stone floor and wall, like some kind of cocoon.

  Donal ran past, feeling the faintest of whispers like a spider's web slide across his skin.

  Then he was out of the chamber, into an unmarked tunnel, and the sensation was gone. He followed one of his three usual routes, looping back until he was eventually at the stone steps once more: chest heaving, body slick with sweat, ready to ascend.