Every Last Drop (7 page)

So while its an interesting turn of events to be in Predos presence without someone nearby stirring a pot of molten lead to be poured in my nostrils, I know the ultimate outcome to a scenario like this likely allows him to scratch my name off that list when all is said and done.

He opens a drawer and takes out a slim automatic with polished wood grips. One of those guns that looks designed by the same kind of people who dream up the hardwood and leather interiors of luxury sedans with obscure Italian names.

He sets it on the desk. —In hopes I might make you a bit more attentive, Pitt.

I look at the floor around my chair.

Predo edges up a bit to peek over the front of his desk. —Lose something?

I look up.

—No. Just checking to see if your flunkies left any other lethal weapons lying around. Seems I'm out of luck.

I fold my arms. —Guess I may as well listen to you.

He flips open one of the folders on his desk.

—Gracious as ever. But just so we can be certain you don't grow bored with what I have to say, why don't I make it more interesting for you by including some visual aids?

He draws a photograph from the folder and slides it to the edge of the desk. —Like a picture book. So that you may follow along more easily. —I prefer a pop-up book.

He rotates the photo so that it faces me. —I'm certain this will grab your attention.

Light gleams off the glossy finish, hiding the image from me. I scoot my chair forward, the feet grinding on the floor. I take the photo from the desk. I look at it.

I look at Predo.

He nods. —We can dispense with wit now and speak of things concrete?

I look again at the photo.

A very young woman. Younger than you'd imagine a person has a right to be. And beautiful. The photo is tinted in a manner that hides the color of her hair, but it looks like she's not dyeing it anymore. The natural color would be a complex shade of blond, much like her mothers was. She is exiting one of those cars suggested by Predo's gun, the door held for her by another woman, older, black, muscled in a way that promises the clean and abrupt snapping of a neck. The tint is greenish. The photo taken through a night filter. The only thing missing is a crosshairs painted across the young woman's face.

I set the photo down. —Yeah, tell me something concrete.

—She has gone quite out of control.

—Interesting. I never knew she was ever under control. Last I checked that

was how I got involved in the first place.

Predo taps the end of a pen against a thumbnail. —I am not talking about the delinquencies, teenage drinking and underage sex

her parents fretted about. Her actions are on a new order of magnitude.

The hole where my eye was is throbbing. I knuckle it.

—Guess the new scale of troublemaking goes hand in hand with becoming filthy fucking rich at a young age.

He drops the pen.

—Do not pretend nonchalance, Pitt. If I was not certain you cared, we would not be having this conversation. Whether you would feel some responsibility for the girl had you not killed her parents, I cannot say. But you did. And I trust your year here among the uncivilized masses has not changed your nature so much that you can shrug off such things. However sentimental.

I look at my bare foot, rub the stump that used to be my big toe, flaking away scab. —I only killed her mom.

He squints. —So you've claimed before.

He leans back, his chair giving a little squeak. —A persistent little lie, that. —I only killed her mom.

—A lie I have some trouble penetrating. Why you should be reluctant to take

credit for her fathers death. Repugnant man.

—What can I say, I take credit where its due. I only killed her mom.

I look out of the light, into the darkness, back into the light. —The other thing got her dad.

He picks his pen back up.

—Other thing. Gullible as you are in so many things,  I am still somehow disappointed that you embrace that particular bit of superstition.

Nothing else to say. Seeing as I'm not superstitious.

He puts the end of the pen to his chin. —Another time then.

I peel an especially long and stringy bit of dead skin loose from my foot, look at it and drop it on the floor. —The girl is out of control?

He grips the pen in both hands, flexes the shaft. —Yes.

He bends it just to the breaking point, holds it there, relaxes, looks at it as it springs back into shape, and sets it aside.

—Yes. She is out of control. —In what way?

He aligns the pen with the right-hand edge of the desk. —She has declared a new Clan.

He shifts the angle of the gun, bringing the length of the barrel true with the top edge of the desk.

—Using her wealth to disseminate word through the community. Bribing otherwise loyal members of the Clans to help spread word of this new “Clan.” She has made it clear that any and all are welcome in her...

He looks through the gloom to the ceiling. —Her new organization.

He looks back at the desk, tapping the stack of folders flush with one another.

—Uninfected herself, she is enlisting other uninfecteds to carry word off the Island. Daylight travelers. Renfields and Lucys.

He brushes some unseen fleck of matter from the corner of the desk. —She is, in all these dealings, loud and highly visible. We do not exist within a vacuum. The uninfected world is the medium in which we are forced to live.

Vibrations cannot reach us without first traveling through that medium. Yes, those vibrations must be decoded, but that does not mean that others cannot learn the code. She is putting us all at risk. This is not solely a matter of Coalition doctrine being controverted, this is a case in which the concerns of all the Clans are being drawn under fire by the willful hand of a child who is not even of our ilk.

I stop fiddling with my toe and give him a look. —Of our ilk? Christ, Predo, is that a little racism I hear?

His fist shatters the desktop, pen and papers flying, gun dropping to the floor. —She is trying to find a cure!

His foot lashes and the desk skitters down the ballroom trailing splinters and kindling. —A cure!

His fists ball, knuckles whiten.

I point. —Your ties a bit askew there, Mr. Predo.

He closes his eyes and his mouth twists slightly.

His eyes open. —Word will spread.

I nod. —Yeah, I know.

He lets a breath drop in, lets it out.

—Infecteds that know no better will flock to her. There will be desertions from the Clans. Refugees from off the Island. —I know.

He opens his fists, flexing his fingers back, relaxing them. —Our careful balance will be undone. —I know.

He shrugs the collar of his jacket back into place. —And when she fails, there will be chaos and discord.

He runs fingers through his hair, brushing his bangs back into place. —And finally.

He touches the knot of his tie, pulls it straight. —We will have war.

He tugs at the French cuffs of his shirt. —And we will all die.

The throbbing where my eye was comes from the nerves regenerating. Id be better off if the Vyrus left them dead. Not like they're gonna have anything to plug in to. Without that eye, they'll just be raw and disjoined. Something that can cause pain while serving no real purpose.

I look at him. —You say that like It's a bad thing.

He waits.

I look at the floor, see the picture. Amanda Horde. Changeling child living somehow in the infected world. Genius. Mad. Not as in angry, but as a hatter. I look at the designer gun that's come to rest next to the photo. Wonder how many shots I could get off if I got to it before him. Wonder if I could get any of the bullets into his head with my one eye. Figure he did Mrs. Vandewater easy. Figure I've felt what its like when his fist hits my jaw. Figure he can take me anytime and anyplace. But I look at the gun for a bit longer anyway.

Then I look at him. —I won't kill her for you, Predo.

He smiles.

—I don't want you to kill her, Pitt.

He bends, picks up the photo, looks at it, looks at me. —I want you to join up.

The Andrew Freedman Home was finished in 1924. Endowed by an eponymous millionaire with ties to Tammany Hall and subway financing. And if that doesn't suggest something about the nature of his fortune and how dirty his dollars likely were, nothing else will. But pretty much everything you need to know about this guy you can tell by the house. A massive limestone palazzo on the corner of One Sixty-six and the Concourse, he left pretty much all of his fortune in trust for the thing to be built as a home for the elderly.

Exclusively for the elderly who had at one time been rich, but who had lost their fortunes.

Luxurious in the manner of a Gilded Age private club for rail barons, the Home kept the busted rich in a manner to which they had become accustomed.

Good old Andrew Freedman, looking out for the little people.

Whatever, it was his money. Man should spend it how he wants. Especially after he's dead. Besides, whatever Andy's wishes may have been at one time, the place ended up a broken-down community center for run-of-the-mill poor

old folks.

Proving again that time gives fuck all about who you are or what you want.

I manage to glean this knowledge from a plaque as Predo leads me from the subsiding   ballroom   on   the   third   floor   through   several   corridors   artfully decorated with sagging plaster and rat droppings. —Dregs.

He points ahead and one of the enforcers flanking us moves to a door and opens it. —That's what she's collecting.

We pass through the door into an echoing stairwell, climbing. —Rogues. Off-1 slanders. The dross clinging to the fringes of the Clans. All those who lack the wherewithal and fortitude to understand that the Vyrus has made us different.

He pauses on a landing, waits as I negotiate around some broken glass with my bare, mangled foot. —That there is no going back.

He starts up the next half flight. —Traditionally, that kind of offal weeds itself from the community. Viewed as

an engine of evolution, the Vyrus is a most powerful instrument for defining the fittest of the species. One can argue at length as to whether we are human any longer. Coalition precepts hold that we are. Regardless, the Vyrus insists on extreme levels of fitness, resilience, adaptability. Without those qualities, the runts die out quite rapidly. Our primary concern is not how best to steel them to this life, to aid in their adaptation, but how to make their deaths as rapid and as invisible as possible.

He stops at the top of the stairs, waiting while one of the enforcers opens the door and sweeps the area beyond with the barrel of his weapon.

I point at him. —He making sure no sleeping pigeons are waiting to get the drop on us?

Predo waits for a nod from the enforcer and goes through the door ahead of me.

—Our intelligence on the Bronx is far from extensive. But we have heard about the Mungiki.

I step out onto the roof, a river breeze in the tops of the high trees that grow from the grounds below, a few hazy stars above. —Mungiki are in Queens.

He stops next to one of the half-dozen TV aerials that sprout from the roof.

—We heard some were still left.

—I hear they're all out. Whole crazy pack of them in Queens.

—Is that what the drums tell you, Pitt?

—No, that's what being exiled up here for a year tells me.

He studies a spray-painted tag on the back of a cement urn decorating the edge of the roof. —A year.

He looks at me. —A year in the Bronx.

He looks me up and down. —And, until the last few hours, very little worse for wear.

He resumes his walk, skirting a sag in the tar paper where rainwater has pooled in the shade of one of the trees, greened with scum. —But you have always shown the resilience I was speaking of. I doubted it for some time, thought your sentimentality would get the best of you. Labeled you overly reckless. But I was wrong. Your natural ruthlessness serves you well. A particularly useful adaptation for this neighborhood, I imagine.

I think about what I learned growing up in the Bronx, who taught me the

nature of ruthlessness. I wonder if Predo knows this is home turf for me. Wonder if it matters what he knows.

He looks back at me. —No comment?

He's right, no comment.