When Graveyards Yawn, G. Wells Taylor [a court of thorns and roses ebook free .TXT] 📗
- Author: G. Wells Taylor
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“Thanks,” I said walking to the wall files. “I prefer something I can get my hands on.” I tested the bottom button—the trays moved up.
“And what hands!” Ms. Redding stepped forward and kissed me lightly on the cheek. She came away with whitened nose, chin and lips. “I’ll never get used to that,” she said as she wiped at it with her hands.
“You may not have to,” I said cryptically as she winked and left the room. I watched her go. There was nothing like wide hips on a woman who was built for them.
I turned my attention to the files and found that if I rotated the trays too quickly, my head would start to swim. I soon located the file on the phantom baby calls. The Gazette, going along with the Authority edict, had adopted a new dating system. Some lobby group for historical respect and perspective finally got the A.D. officially changed to N.A. for New Age. It was positive, vague and friendly—exactly what a race of responsibility dodgers and public relations men would feel comfortable with.
I noticed that phantom baby calls had started roughly six months after the Change. Strange days they were, too. An entire generation had just been stillborn. Regardless, everybody claimed they had a live one. Nothing could be proven. There were hoaxes, where one of the forever children—a toddler at the time of the Change—would pretend to be a newborn. But that type of thing died out over time, as the forever children’s minds grew to middle age and despair—before they disappeared in Authority education camps, illegal prostitution and porn rings or into the wilds. I dug through the files. There was quite a pile of stories. They seemed to taper off around 35 N.A.. Authority studies were under way at the time. Artificial everything was attempted. Between 40 and 45 N.A., Authority pronounced the human race dead, though they encouraged people to keep trying. 50 N.A. and the Gazette continued to get an average of twenty calls a year—a dwindling side effect of the growing hopelessness that gripped the world.
I picked up the thick bundle of clippings and staggered over to the desk beside the computer. I dumped them on it with a bang. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a flash of white flit off the table and behind the computer. I wanted to disregard it, but tried to remember the detective rules. Don’t throw away evidence unless it can be held against you.
I yanked the computer away from the wall—damned paperweight anyway—then blindly scrabbled around behind it with one arm. Bent over in that position my temples throbbed—I overcame an urge to fall into a coma. My hand came up fuzzy with dust clenching a page torn from a notebook. On it was written:
Special to Harker. Grey Owen, called May 9, 48. Wanted info on baby. Said on case. No Authority connection. Kidnapping.
I walked quickly over to Mary’s desk—showed her the paper. “Know any of these names?”
“Hmm,” she mumbled as she scanned it, looked up at me quizzically. “I’ll ask around.” She left her desk, walked toward some offices with doors. I spent a minute peeking at an eye that had appeared at a crack in the office dividers. “Boo!” I said. It disappeared. Mary returned.
“James Harker. He used to work here about two years back. Quit though, joined a band I think.”
“You don’t know a Grey, or an Owen.”
“No.” She hesitated, her eyes looking deeply into mine. “You?”
“No. Do you know where Harker works?”
“No, but payroll must have a record of where they sent his severance.” She looked worried. “Besides, old reporters tend to keep in touch.”
“Thanks,” I said and returned to the files. I found an article from 45 NA about the Worshippers of the Twelve Stars. They were fundamentalists who felt the Second Coming was coming. As Brother Godin leader of the Greasetown congregation said, “It was written in Revelations. We shall all come ‘before his throne and from Jesus Christ, the faithful witness, the firstborn from the dead and the ruler of the kings of the earth.’” Brother Godin carried on for some time. He sounded like he needed a vacation. He must have said, “We must arm ourselves,” thirty times. I looked at his picture and felt fairly certain I wouldn’t want my daughter dating him. His shtick was nothing new.
There were about fifty churches with similar outlooks. But the Twelve Stars was the biggest of that breed. I had heard of them before but instinctively stayed clear. I had too much to think about to stay alive. I’d deal with death when it came for me. There was a sinister twist to their Twelve Stars’ message though, when they spoke of an Eternal Reich. They had somehow managed to mix Nazism with Christian fundamentalism, and it blended together surprisingly well. My eyes were drawn back to Brother Godin’s picture. A charm hung around his neck on a chain. A steel swastika was gently cupped in the oval part of an Egyptian Ankh.
Acting on impulse, I returned to the file drawers and searched for homicide stories. Sure enough, I found four complete drawers dedicated to murder. They were chronologically ordered, but the sheer volume of it kept me searching thirty minutes before I located the file on Alan Cotton. I found copies of Ms. Redding’s notes and other specifics.
I found a photostat of a driver’s license that was blackened at the edges and badly damaged. I also found a faded photograph of Mr. Cotton from the 1970s—slick comb over and pop bottle lenses. Mary must have been working on the case and dug it up from somewhere before the gag order came down.
As I looked at an Authority photo of the crime scene, and the red hamburger that was Mr. Cotton, I realized someone must have provided Cotton’s picture. No one would be able to identify the body. I looked at the driver’s license again. 333 Sea Heights, Vicetown. I thought back. Mrs. Cotton claimed she had not spoken to anyone but Authority. So someone in Authority must have delivered the outdated photo to the newspaper. That meant someone was in favor of unearthing the truth. Ms. Redding’s friend again? The copy of the license could be easily obtained from the licensing bureau.
I pocketed my notes, and the memo to Harker, put the baby file to bed and returned to Ms. Redding’s desk. I looked down at her over the cubicle wall. “You’re beautiful when your nostrils flare like that,” I said. It was true. Such sensual twitching held an irresistible carnal attraction for me.
“You romantic.” She could tell I was about to leave. “Can I come by later?”
“I’ll be out,” I said harshly. “I’ll call you though.”
She looked crestfallen.
“Sorry, but I’m a very busy little clown. Thanks for the use of the records.” I looked around at Mary’s co-worker’s gaping mouths. I couldn’t resist. “It’s an old story, clown meets girl, girl meets clown.”
I left, not really feeling bad about Ms. Redding. She was almost a hundred years old, after all. I caught the little owl fellow waiting for the elevator. I clomped up and leaned over him. He shrank from me.
“Excuse me, I wonder if you could answer a question?” I said this with only the slightest trace of rancor.
“Yes.” He gulped down a big lump of air.
“What does Morris do in the Morgue?”
“Oh.” The fellow’s bulging eyes blinked wide. “He’s the librarian. He keeps our records straight.”
“How long’s he worked at the paper?”
He gave me the owl’s eyes. “Since the Change.”
“Thanks,” I said, turned away, and then braced myself for the Muzak assault I was about to undergo.
It was Thursday evening and getting dark. I had eaten a sandwich, and then left Elmo at the office to play secretary. I took the Chrysler, though my destination wasn’t far. That’s how people get big asses. It’s not that I have, or Tommy has one, but that’s how it happens. Suddenly we can’t go anywhere without our cars. I walked into a dark room. There was a dim gleam of brass horns on a stage across from me. The music they played was sultry and rhythmic, it reminded me of sex. Tommy’s psyche responded typically. I felt flushed and momentarily appreciated the makeup. I sauntered up to the bar—I’m good at sauntering—past dim tables and dark guests. I could feel their glances as I passed. Leaning heavily on the counter I ordered a scotch from a woman with rusty hair who wore a quadruple string of pearls that would give an ox back problems.
When she set my glass on the bar, she gave me a ‘why don’t you grow up look,’ which was rare in Greasetown. Most people just look dazed or frightened. Then she grinned like a hungry grizzly bear and returned to her cigarette where it smoked beside the ale spigots.
The drink was a little too warm for me. I downed half of it before my stomach jumped like I had sword-swallowed a cattle prod. I set the glass down, and peered through the gloom at the band. I had been told by accounting at the Gazette that Jimmy Harker musician, alias James Harker journalist, had given up the search for truth for a life of late nights, women, and applause. Looking around the place, I realized Jimmy would need infrared vision to see any women here.
He was playing with a band called the Swing Dogs. I had called a few bars and asked the managers about them. On my fourth call, I was directed to a place named Crisco’s. So far, Crisco’s was little more than a big collection of dark. They must have saved millions on cleaning staff. My boots glided like hockey skates over the damp floorboards. There was something on them that slid like oil, but stuck like glue when you stopped moving.
Harker had a moustache and a ponytail—the woman in accounting had said—played trumpet, and very well, by the sound of it. I realized that in the darkness, I’d have as much chance of seeing a moustache as I would of seeing heaven. For once, I didn’t have a cigarette. I opted instead to repetitively clear my throat—it was scorched. I listened to the music and tried to imagine what had brought me here. The band stopped in the middle of a song. I heard them confer in muffled tones, then someone laughed. They picked up where they left off. They were warming up. Their first set probably wasn’t until nine or nine-thirty. I glanced at a bar clock set in a huge replica of a popular beer—there was frost on the bottle and everything. It was eight-thirty. The band stopped again, a drummer let his frustration out through a snare drum. I shared his angst. Why was I at Crisco’s watching the Swing Dogs looking for Jimmy Harker to ask him about babies and strange names like Owen, and Grey? A cold finger of fear had its way with me.
What was driving me now? I was supposed to find out who had killed Cotton. I guess all the baby talk, the Regenerics, and the phantom baby stories were beginning to work on me. For a moment, I began to wonder who was in control. Tommy had been acting strangely. It had started during the Billings’ case. For two years we worked well together. I took over and I didn’t hear a peep out of him, now…he seemed to
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