Bleak History Read online

  “Tell me what, Gabe?”

  “That...I had a dream about Isaac. He said to tell you he was okay.” A long silence. “Ja. Well. A dream is a dream.” “Not all dreams are just dreams,” Bleak said gently. “Well. Maybe. I got to...You're sure? That it was him?” “I really am. I'm sure.”

  “You don't try to make a fool of an old man?” “You think I would?”

  “No. Maybe it was a dream, maybe not. But, Gabe—thank you. I know, you maybe don't feel i sure you should tell me this. But it's a mitzvah, what you try to do. It's a mitzvah that you try.”

  “I'll let you go. Give Muddy a hug for me.” Bleak cut the connection—and hoped he'd done the right thing.

  He got the paper from his pocket and called the bail bonds company. And wondered if calling them was the stupidest thing he'd done all year.

  Somewhere overhead, a chopper drummed on the sky.

  ***

  SAME DAY. NOT MUCH LATER. Sitting in a police station.

  “What I get for doing you this favor?” Detective Roseland asked, leaning back in a chair, looking across his desk at Bleak.

  “Get?” Bleak mugged surprise. “You owe me!”

  “I do? Then maybe I'll buy you a bottle of scotch, or a call girl. Might be safer than doing informational favors for a fucking bounty hunter.” Detective Nathan “Rosie” Roseland was about six inches taller than Bleak, a freckled, red-haired plainclothes cop with a prominent nose and small blue eyes and a quirky little mouth. And with big hands that could knock a man flat or exert a precise pressure on a trigger.

  “Booze or a call girl? What if I want both?”

  “It's either-or, you greedy bastard.”

  “Why is it cops always want to make everything right with a bottle of booze or a hooker?” “Tends to work. A lot of guys like that superexpensive single malt now. Also we drop charges and fix tickets if you can get us a good seat at the Super Bowl.”

  “I don't need to get you tickets to any-fucking-thing. You owe me.”

  “Don't keep saying that. What do I owe you for?” A small smile flickered on Roseland's face, as they went through all this. He was enjoying himself.

  Bleak found that little smile reassuring. CCA didn't usually work through the cops—and he didn't think an APB was out on him. Not yet. He could tell that Roseland wasn't worried about maybe having to arrest an old friend.

  Roseland went on, “I'm supposed to be grateful because you gave me that lunatic from Tonga? He almost killed me, taking him in. Shot me right above the groin, under my fucking vest. Missed the important bits but still...it was a major drag.”

  “That was a big collar for you, Rosie.”

  “You couldn't get the money from the bondsman on that Tongan guy anyway, be honest.” ° “Sure I could. Eventually.”

  They were sitting in Sergeant Roseland's mostly glass booth, a paper-strewn corner office, in a busy Midtown precinct. There was barely enough room for the two of them and the desk between them. Roseland had closed the door because he never knew what Bleak might say and because they'd

  made some borderline shady deals before. They knew each other from the army; from boot camp, and Rangers school, and then from the VA hospital, after. Roseland had been in Kurdistan; he'd lost a foot to an IED. His new right foot was a pretty efficient microchipped prosthetic. Bleak's wounds had been light—wounds hadn't got Bleak out of the Army. Punching out a second lieutenant had done that. The son of a bitch had held back on the intel that might've saved them from that ambush. Maybe at the behest of a certain Drake Zweig.

  “So is it in the backpack, there?” Roseland asked.

  Bleak nodded, taking out Coster's empty rum bottle, lifting it out with an index finger inside the opening so he wouldn't smear the outside. He held it up to a table lamp. “See the print, on the rum bottle there? I think that's from the last person to handle it. Guy said his name was Coster. A skid-row lush, currently. Might have a more impressive resume somewhere in his background.”

  “Could get me in trouble. And don't say 'you owe me' again. How's Preiss's dad doing?” They'd met Preiss in Rangers' training, after boot camp.

  “He's not bad, Rosie. He went through Belsen in the war, as a kid. What's Brooklyn gonna do to him?”

  “You'd be surprised. Okay, I'll run this.... You want to wait? Might be able to get it lifted quick if my girl Bethany's in the lab.”

  Bleak waited, alone in Roseland's office. Trying not to wonder if the CCA knew about his connection to Roseland. Yeah, I got him right here. I'll stall him till you come.

  Paranoia. He'd known Roseland a long time. He didn't think Rosie would play ball with the feds, not on this. Unless he'd been secretly briefed, Roseland didn't know about the CCA nor about Bleak's special abilities—even if he did, Roseland wouldn't hold it against him. He figured Rosie would give him a heads-up, some way. And the detective wasn't keeping anything from him. Bleak usually knew when someone was lying to him. He had the Hidden on his side, an all-pervasive lie detector.

  He'd had mixed feelings about Coster, though. Like, the rummy was lying and he wasn't...all at once.

  “I didn't kill none of them women. “ A man's voice, speaking to Bleak, coming right out of the air.

  Bleak grimaced, recognizing the feeling that came with hearing a ghost. He didn't even turn around. “It's too late to do anything about it,” Bleak said, not looking. “You should move on. Head right for the big tunnel, don't pass Go, don't collect two hundred dollars, just go right into the light. It's way too late for anything else.”

  “Oh, I know it's too late, pretty much, to save me in this world,” the ghost said. “Seeing as I'm dead now.”

  Surprised at hearing common sense from a ghost, Bleak turned around. He could see a man standing in the glass of the office window-wall—it bisected him right down the middle. As if the front half of him were pasted to the glass. He was a chunky, balding white man with a heavy forehead, a crooked nose, a slightly disfigured jaw. U.S. army tattoo on the back of his left hand. He was wearing gray repairman's coveralls, with GREG and ALL BOROUGHS APPLIANCE REPAIRS sewn on the left breast pocket.

  “Glad you can hear me,” the ghost said. His voice had lost enough of that odd, distant resonance that ghosts usually have that he sounded as if he were just another person talking. “I thought maybe you might. You have the aura of one of those talented people. Hard to find. I went to a bunch of mediums, but they were all fakes. When I find the real deal, they're always too busy to talk to me. So I was trying to get right into it, see. Get you to listen. And here we are, havin' a chin-wag.”

  “Greg, is it?” Bleak knew he shouldn't be having this conversation. Someone could see him through the windows of the office, talking to no one visible. For a while he'd worn a Bluetooth earpiece, one that didn't actually work, so if he spoke to “no one” in public it looked as if he were talking on a phone. Lots of people around nowadays looked as if they were talking to imaginary people. But he'd left the Bluetooth on his boat. Still, Bleak was bored with waiting and curious about the cogency of this ghost.

  “Yeah, Greg Berne,” the ghost said. “Spelled B-e-r-n-e. You see what they did to my face? Sergeant Chancel beat me up with a nightstick, busted my nose and jaw. Said I tried to jump him in the interrogation room. But it was to get me to confess. Then he bandaged me up and called in the steno lady and said, “What do you have to say now?” and he was playing with that club, kind of tossing it hand to hand, so what was I gonna do? I figured I could confess and take it back later. But it got in the papers and my wife left me, and my kids wouldn't come to see me on visitors' day. And I got real depressed—always had a hard time with depression anyway—and I hung myself in my cell. Seemed to take forever to strangle with that sheet. Thought I was going to hell, when it was over. But it was just a precinct in Midtown.”

  “Sergeant Chancel, you said? I've met him,” Bleak murmured, thinking. “He's still with NYPD. Why would he do that? They're not usually like that. They're no saints,
but—” Bleak shook his head. “They don't pull that rubber-hose stuff much.”

  “Someone was paying him, is why. I think it was the old man of the guy who killed them ladies. See, I wasn't the only one who went to those houses where they died—there was another suspect, this kid that was doing one of those Mormon walk-around things. Out in Queens, where I had those two assignments. Should never have gone out to Queens. Should know better. Anyway, I figure he'd be going on this Mormon door-to-door, and he'd see these ladies and come back later alone. They placed him at one of the houses. So the cops questioned him. But...they focused on me.”

  “How'd you get picked up?”

  “See, I was in two of those houses. Where the women were killed. The company sent me to do warranty repairs on dishwashers in that neighborhood, right? I was seen out there fixin' dishwashers not that long before them ladies were strangled. Tied up and raped. The guy used a condom and they found one, but it never got to evidence. Nobody never tested my DNA or his. I had an idiot for a lawyer. Anyway I didn't know about the condom till after I was dead, I heard somebody asking abouti” it in evidence. Making ajoke or something about this thing that coulda saved my life.”

  Bleak snorted. “You are one glib goddamn ghost. Mostly they're like broken records. You know, if a ghost can think for himself, it means his soul's been reincarnated in the right direction a few times. He's got some good spirit stuff going on. You'd do well in the next world. You should just move on, man.”

  “But my family still thinks I murdered two women! They think I'm a pervert! I don't want my kids thinking that...1 keep trying to get someone to listen.”

  “I can't help you,” Bleak said, hoping he sounded firm about it. “Not my wheelhouse, pardner. But, uh...” He shrugged. “What was the name of the other suspect?”

  “Kyle Braithwaite. College student. His dad is a rich guy, big shot at some Mormon temple out in the boroughs. One of those deals got the angel with the trumpet on the roof.”

  “I see you got the tattoo.”

  “Infantry, late in the 'Nam. Just a kid then.”

  Bleak growled to himself. Oh, hell. “I was army too. Sergeant. If I ever hear of anything that could restart the case, I'll pass it on, but honestly, man, it's not very likely, and you'd be better off if you'djust move on, outside time, and—”

  He broke off when the door opened and Roseland came in, looking at him curiously. The ghost backed through the wall, waving good-bye, and was gone.

  Bleak was sitting sideways to the door so he put a hand to the ear Roseland couldn't see and said, “Gotta go, talk to you soon, man.” He pretended to take a Bluetooth out and put it in his pocket.

  “Sitting in my office, chattering away, doing business, probably getting into my booze,” Roseland said, sitting down and dropping a folder on the desk.

  “I didn't know there was booze in here or I would've. You do the search already?”

  “She was between print searches. I got her to lift it and run it right away.” He grinned. “I may not look like much but the ladies—they like me.” “Yeah? I bet you said, 'You owe me.'“

  “Nah, now I owe her. And she's gonna take it outta my hide too. I know that woman.” Roseland opened the folder. “She'll drain me dry. Here's your man, name's Coster all right. Emmerich Coster. He's got clearance for all kinds of things. Seems like he was a former spook because he's got clearance for CIA and...some agency they say is so classified they don't even give its name.” He shrugged and tossed over the folder.

  CCA, Bleak thought, looking over the papers, frowning. A little military service, military intelligence early on. “Marines? Guy drinks like ajarhead, all right.”

  Roseland laughed. “Don't let my captain hear you say that. You notice there isn't much there about him.. just the bare essentials. Not much use to you.”

  “Actually—it's what I wanted to know.”

  So Coster really did have clearance. Really did have major intel background. So maybe he had been inside at CCA. And maybe Sean was really there.

  “Are we even?” Roseland asked, as Bleak took the papers, folded them, stuck them in his little backpack, and stood up.

  “Almost.” Bleak slung the pack over one shoulder. “I still want the scotch.”

  “You fuck!”

  “Hey—you know a sarge in the department named Chancel?”

  The amusement dropped out of Roseland's face. He sighed. “Yeah. A real piece of work. One of those guys who likes to stick broomsticks up people. Probably on the take too. Why?”

  “You remember a case about an accused named Greg Berne? Hung himself in your holding?”

  Roseland winced. “Too fucking well. What a mess. I guess he saved the state some money though.” “Any thought he might not have been guilty?”

  Roseland leaned back in his chair, looked carefully expressionless. “Maybe. Some.” “There a condom with the evidence? A used one, with semen...that was never tested?” “Not that I heard.”

  “I heard there was. And it wasn't DNA-tested against the other suspect. Kid named Braithwaite.”

  “You heard that? Where?”

  “Uhhhh...rumor?”

  “Bullshit. Who told you this?”

  “I already said, Rosie. Rumor.”

  “Yeah? Well, it's a cold case. And I don't need enemies. And he's dead anyway.” “It's not that cold. And if the guy that hung himself was innocent—the real asshole is still out there. Anybody been strangled lately?”

  “Nah. Come on, Gabe—what's this about?”

  “Just heard something. A ghostly little rumor, pard. Talk to you later. And, Rosie—I'll buy the iss scotch.”

  Bleak waved good-bye and left before Roseland could ask anymore questions. Outside, the day was getting hot. Bleak flagged down a yellow cab, took it to the Brooklyn Bridge.

  Breezier there, as he walked out on the bridge. He looked down at the water, listened to children laughing as they ran past on the walkway. A cooling wind sang in the steel beams, drew sweat from his forehead.

  The cell phone in his pants pocket chimed and shivered against him. He felt a sympathetic shiver —he shouldn't be getting any calls on it, right now. He answered the phone, out of sheer curiosity. “Yeah?”

  “Hello?” A boy's voice, maybe a teenager, Hispanic accent. “Is Lupe there?”

  “No, this is the guy who bought Lupe's phone. Probably from the guy who stole it.” “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah—I'm gonna use it a couple times real quick, and then toss it, so when you see Lupe, tell her to have it switched off. Surprising she didn't get to it yet.” “She probably thinks it's in her school locker.”

  Bleak hung up, and called Shoella. She answered after one ring. “I feel that's our man Bleak calling.”

  “Shoella—Coster was from the feds, all right, at least in the past.”

  “You found out? I tried to find out my way, but the ancestors, everyone is blocked out on him—”

  “I don't trust him. I'm gonna get out of town but I need some money. I've got ajob lined up. When I bring in the skip, I want to send the money to your account, so I can do this without the CCA being all over me. I'll get the money later. You can keep twenty percent.”

  “I will handle the money for you, and I don't need your twenty percent. You sure your phone is okay?”

  “Unless they've identified you.”

  “No. I have used much power to keep me safe from their eyes. They cannot see me, cher darlin . You do your job, have them send the money to me—and come to me, I will give you your money. They don't know who I am.”

  Bleak wasn't so sure. But he needed money. He'd take the risk.

  He made his other call, to Vince at Second Chance Bail Bonds, then he dropped the phone off the Brooklyn Bridge, into the dark green water far below.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Early evening, the same day. On a military transport plane flying over Maine, heading to Long Island.

  The big C-l 19D was noisy and uncomfortable, not eve
n designed for passengers. I'm freight, Loraine mused, looking up from her laptop. The plane was mostly used to move armored hydrogen Humvees and small artillery pieces, but the metal floor had grooves where seat supports could be inserted, and seats had been fixed in place, in the echoing whale's belly of the transport; Loraine sat in the front, with a view of the cockpit, the open door showing the two AF pilots, the cloud-mist streaming over the windshield.

  She was tired. The plane was drafty and smelled of jet fuel; the trip to the Arctic had tired her out; the revelations on the trip too were a kind of burden to carry. Information that changed the world had a weight of its own. She kept seeing the artifact, in her mind's eye. Dr. Helman had claimed it was all that stood between humanity and chaos.

  Helman was sitting on her right, frowningly tapping at a laptop, now and then bobbling his head to himself. On her own laptop she was reviewing the personnel file of a female agent just transferred in, Teresa Caffee; she was supposed to check Caffee out and sign off on her. Any woman was welcome on the team, as far as Loraine was concerned. Only one other woman agent in CCA, in the Washington offices.

  She had another window open on the laptop, and she restlessly went back to that page now, to reread a passage from Newton's Cryptojournal that Helman had copied to her. The journal had been written in code, which decrypted into Latin, a language Newton sometimes used for scientific treatises; the cryptographer had rendered the Latin into modern English:

  Those of us who twine the cross with the rose have long kept accounts, books of the damned, where is written what could not happen and yet did. Much is mere fancy, and superstition. Witches said to be witches are rarely witches. But in the secret corners of the Hidden Earth, magic bloats like a Plague blister, and many of the legends of the past were not legend. Visitors from the Farther Place now penetrate freely; fairies and the less fair are nightly upon us. Now we see events conspire to an increase, and swarms will rise from the darkness. Powers come upon those with the Blood; some diabolic, some angelic, but none have a place in the new world of men. If God did not want us to contain this chaos, He would not have given us the means: the artifact of the ancients, which Solomon knew, and to which he added his Seals. But it is older than Solomon; it is older than the pyramids. And the [diagrams?] on the Sarmunna [or, Sarmoung] sheepskin tell us how to set about repairing, recommencing its Wall of Force, so that the world is the world of the mind and not of the heart's darkest impulses.