Beating Heart Cadavers (18 page)

Ch. 24

There were too many bodies for the number of gurneys in the operating room, and they had had to resort to putting the extras on the floor. The cadavers were mottled and ashen where they lay, their lifeless forms made colder by the metal floors, and several of them still had their eyes open. They stared at Ratsel as he observed them.

“How many does that make?”

“Forty-seven, sir.”

“That's it?” He clicked his tongue at the Spöke who had answered him, clearly not pleased. “There should be more by now.”

“You had said that some don't need the charges as frequently, High Officer – I'm sure that there will be more dead in time.”

“More dead, and more alive,” Ratsel replied. “Preventing them from charging their hearts is one thing, but we can't prevent them from being born.”

He strode forward towards the bodies, observing them with a cold stare. Putting one foot forward, he toed a lifeless body. It was stiff and heavy beneath his captoed shoe, like the metal that was trapped inside it, and his mouth turned downwards in distaste.

“Look around you, Breiner. What do you see?”

The Spöke hesitated, uncertain of how to answer.

“I – I see Mare-people, High Officer.”

“Do you?” Ratsel looked over at him, his eyebrows tilted in disagreement. “How do you know they're Mare-folk?”

“Well – their hearts, sir. They stopped working as a result of the charging facilities being shut down –”

“But how can you tell that they have metal hearts? For all you know, these are Onerian citizens who've collected in a heap in the middle of our headquarters.”

Breiner shifted.

“Well … that's implausible, sir.”

“Just because it's difficult to believe doesn't mean it's untrue,” Ratsel said. “So I'll ask you again: how can you be sure that they're Mare-folks?”

“I – well, I suppose I can't be sure, sir.”

“Exactly.”

He pulled the chair out from the medical examiner's desk and took a seat in it, crossing one leg over the other as he leaned into his hand, seemingly lost in thought. Beside him laid a bag with colorful letters on the outside, but a dark stain of blood had seeped through the fabric and obscured the name. The distinct smell of rotting flesh was coming from it, and though Breiner had to hold his breath to keep from inhaling the fumes, Ratsel seemed unaffected by it.

“Tell me, Breiner: how do you suppose you kill someone who looks and sounds exactly like you or me?”

“I – well – in training we learn to recognize the signs of sterilization in Onerian citizens that alerts us to the Mare-folk who are posing as prostitutes –”

“But I'm not asking you about prostitutes, Breiner. I'm asking you about the rest of the Mare-folk among us still feigning normalcy: the ones who might be teaching our school children, or handling our food, or caring for our elderly. How do we tell them apart from the rest?”

Breiner shook his head. He neither knew nor dared to venture a guess.

“You took time off last year, didn't you, Breiner?”

“I – I did, sir. A few weeks.”

“Your leave of absence was for personal reasons, correct?”

“My – my wife had died, sir. I needed the time to look after my children before their grandparents could make arrangements to be there full time.” He shifted his weight from foot to foot as though hoping the unease would exit through the soles of his shoes. “If this is about my dedication to the Spöken, I assure you, High Officer, I'm completely –”

“What did your wife die of? Cancer?”

Breiner swallowed.

“Yes, sir.”

“What kind? Breast?”

“Ovarian.”

“Was it a long battle, I wonder?”

“No, sir. By the time they had caught it, it was too late.”

“But she did the treatments, I assume? Radiation, chemotherapy?”

Breiner looked at the High Officer carefully. He could feel his neck swelling in anticipation inside his collar, and the heavy Spöken uniform was beginning to feel like a cage.

“We did everything we could, sir. It just – wasn't enough.”

Ratsel hummed to himself.

“Do you know how radiation and chemotherapy work, Breiner?”

“Excuse me?” He was too surprised to provide a proper answer, and so he shook his head in alarm. “I – no, sir. Not – not exactly. I – science was never really my strong point in school.”

“They work by discontinuing the growth of cancer cells – preventing them from growing or dividing any more than they already have. Of course, it doesn't always work, because even if you think you've terminated all of them, there can still be some hiding somewhere else in the body, undetected.”

“Yes, well … that might have been what happened to Anna.”

“You would think that doctors – knowing that more cancer might be hiding elsewhere – would just radiate the entire body to ensure that they got it all, wouldn't you? That way even the ones hiding in the most unlikely of places wouldn't have a chance of surviving.”

“Well, it … it's certainly an idea, High Officer –”

“Only they can't,” Ratsel cut in, ignoring the stammering Spöke's comment, “because the radiation and chemotherapy don't just target cancer cells, they prey on healthy cells, as well, and when that happens, the side effects can be unsightly.”

Ratsel uncrossed his legs and leaned forward so that his forearms were resting on either thigh. He looked at Breiner carefully, his eyes squinted as he sought to make his point.

“But what if there was a way to eradicate cancer cells without damaging the good ones, as well? Some sort of cure that would poison the bad, but leave the good?”

“That – that would be wonderful, High Officer.”

“The Mare-folk are cancer, Breiner,” Ratsel said. “They're damaging to the rest of us, they're causing good Onerians unsightly side effects, and even though some of them are visible by trafficking their movements to the charging facilities, others are hidden. Right now, the Spöken are the chemotherapy and radiation treatments. We can find some of them and take care of them, but it's impossible to get them all without doing significant damage to our other citizens. But the cure that would poison the bad and leave the good is in Andor Sawyer's notebook, just waiting for us to use it.”

Breiner nodded, well aware that he was shaking as he did so, and the reason that Ratsel had invited him to partake in the conversation was finally clear.

“I know that you're disappointed in me, High Officer,” he began uncertainly. “Because I – I haven't been able to find the notebook.”

“Do you know why you've been unable to find it, Breiner?” Ratsel asked.

“It's not in the house, sir. I've checked everywhere –”

“You haven't been able to find it for the same reason that your wife didn't survive her cancer treatments: because you're ineffective. Now, do you know why I'm the head of the Spöken, and not you?”

“Because you have experience, sir. And knowledge, and skill –”

“Because when I want something to happen, it happens,” Ratsel hissed. “If I wanted my wife to survive ovarian cancer, the surgeon would have removed her ovaries and combed her insides for any trace of remaining cancer to get rid of it. And if I want Andor Sawyer's notebook, then I should be holding it in my office, not sitting in an operating room breathing in the stench of dead Mare-folk chiding you about your failures.”

“I apologize, sir. I understand that I haven't done what you've asked –”

“You may tell your parents to return to their home, Breiner: your children no longer need them to look after them.”

“S-sir?”

“As of tomorrow, you'll be a full-time stay at home father, Breiner. Turn in your gun and uniform after work, and leave the headquarters immediately. Your identification number will be revoked as soon as you're gone.”

“No, High Officer Ratsel – please. The notebook isn't in Caine's house – I'm not mistaken –”

“It is in his house, Breiner. And the only mistake was that I sent you to find it – but never mind it all now. I've realized my mistake, and I'll have the notebook soon.” He reached down and took the handles of the bloodied bag, lifting it to carry with him. “It's a shame, of course, that I didn't realize your ineptitude earlier. It might have prevented a lot of … pain.”

He stood and brushed past the lifeless bodies as he went to the door.

“Now follow me. You're not officially fired until tonight, and I'd like you to accompany me on a little outing. I believe there are a few lessons that can be learned there.”

Ch. 25

“Matthieu, your hand is bleeding.”

Caine groggily rolled his head to the side, his form slumped on the floor up against the kitchen counter where he had sunken to sometime after the argument with Fields. In his languor, he imagined that he could hear his wife speaking to him, as though she might have heard the fight and come down the stairs to check on him. But she wasn't there, Caine reminded himself, nor would any amount of wishing she would be make her.

He pulled down the kitchen towel hanging from the stove handle and wrapped his bleeding hand in it.

“Fuck,” he said, thinking that hearing the word aloud might make him feel better. When it didn't, he ran through the list of things that possibly would. He could drink himself to death, he supposed idly, though he hadn't restocked the bread bin much less the liquor cabinet in the last few weeks, and he had no energy to go to the store. The stove had been replaced with an electric one decades before, as well, because his mother hadn't felt that it was safe to have a gas one when he was a child. Or maybe she had known that her son was weak enough to turn it on and breathe the fumes in, Caine considered. She had always known him best.

It was a shame that he didn't still work at the bank: then he could have just thrown himself from his office window. Splat on the pavement, like a giant watermelon wearing his clothes. He nearly smiled at the image. His father had always told him that only cowards committed suicide, but, sitting on the floor with a flower-patterned dishtowel around his hand, Caine rather felt that it was the opposite: courageous men killed themselves, and the rest simply waited to die.

Or waited for someone to save them from death, really, he considered. He heaved himself up and struggled towards the sink in order to wash the blood from his skin. As the cold water hit the knuckles, he grimaced and shook his hand in the hopes that the extra pieces of glass might work their way out. He didn't want to go digging in there with Mari's tweezers, nor was he going to explain to a doctor what he had done. He tried to think of an excuse that sounded reasonable, but
I beat my coffee pot to death because I miss my wife
was the only thing that entered his brain. He could imagine the snickering now.

He turned to go upstairs, thinking that there might be a bandage of sorts and some ointment in the medicine cabinet, when something on the counter caught his eye and stopped him. The metal notebook that Fields had left with him. He reached forward and picked it up, uncertain of what to think of it. It was rather ridiculous looking, like an overly guarded diary that belonged to a young girl in fear of sharing her secrets, and for a moment he wondered if Fields was simply teasing him by leaving it in his possession. But no, he realized, turning the metal object over in his hands: Fields wouldn't tease him – not anymore. The time when the two of them could banter good-naturedly at one another had long since passed, and he couldn't even draw up an image of her not scowling at him let alone smiling in a lighthearted way.

But she had given it to him all the same.

He knew that it was a test. It was just like Fields to do something of the sort: to pretend to hand him a decision when in fact she was still dictating his actions by manipulating him with guilt or good conscience. But he didn't harbor any guilt – not over the Mare-folk, at least – and his good conscience told him to let the metal-hearted people die and save his son. He wondered how it was possible that he still knew her so well when she, in turn, obviously didn't know him. Perhaps he had changed since she had last seen him, he considered, but then quickly dispelled the idea. No, he hadn't changed. She had just never known him to begin with.

He dropped the notebook back down heaved himself over to the stove, clutching at the handle to keep himself upright. He had cut his hand worse than he had thought, and the loss of blood was rendering him light-headed. It wasn't unlike the time that he had punched the wall upstairs and broken several knuckles, he recalled. He had fretted over the damage to his father's property more than he had his injury, but Fields had sent him off to the hospital while she fixed it for him. Maybe that was why she had given him the notebook, he considered as he climbed the stairs to the second landing. She felt compelled to fix things. It wasn't so much that she was empathetic or regretful about what had happened, she just couldn't stand to leave the situation with Simon unresolved just as she couldn't stand to look at a hole in the wall. Fixing things was a fix of sorts to her: just like the way the charging facilities were one to the Mare-folk. Without it, she couldn't go on.

Caine reached the upstairs bathroom and turned the faucet on to soak a washcloth. Taking a seat on the side of the tub, he leaned his head against the metal tiles and breathed out a sigh. He wished that he could call Mason and ask his advice on what to do, but even though the realization that he was dead had not fully sunk in, the knowledge that the professor wouldn't answer his phone again had.

“He would side with the Mare-folk,” Mari's voice said from the door.

Caine rolled his eyes.

“Only because he was a Mare-doctor,” he returned, pressing the damp washcloth to his bleeding knuckles. “He has to like them.”

“You are knowing this, Matthieu?”

Caine sighed.

“It's like therapists,” he said. “They like their patients even though they know they're crazy. And parents who love their children even if they're brats. It's not a choice – not consciously, anyway. They just have to like them.”

“But you would not love me if I had a metal heart?” Mari asked. She cocked her head at him, already knowing the answer. Caine fell quiet.

“It wouldn't have been you, Mari,” he said after a long moment. “It would have been … You might have looked the same on the outside, but on the inside you'd be someone else.”

“But you would not have loved me,” she repeated, and by the time that he had started to shake his head, she was gone, and he didn't think that she would return to him again.

A noise sounded from the downstairs, and Caine pushed himself from the tub to return to the hallway, wondering with a vague sense of hope whether Fields had returned. As the doorbell rang throughout the house, however, the idea vanished. Fields had never bothered to ask permission before entering anywhere.

He descended the stairs and looked out of the panes of glass on the front door, and his breathing momentarily hitched when he caught sight of who was there. Even though only the top of his head showed, there was no mistaking the dark, greasy hair that was combed back against the slightly pointed skull, and Caine hurried forward to let the Spöke inside.

“Matthew – I hope that this isn't a bad time.”

Ratsel was as polished as ever in his uniform, though the cloth was shifting as though different lights were shining on it from afar, making it difficult to see him standing there at all. He stepped through the doorway without waiting to be invited in, and as he brushed past Caine, a familiar duffel bag tapped the ambassador in the leg. Another Spöke followed him.

“Breiner,” Ratsel said, “don't be rude. You're in the presence of the ambassador.”

The Spöke threw his shoulders back, straightening as he addressed Caine with a nod.

“Ambassador Caine,” he said stiffly.

Caine returned the nod, but was distracted from answering properly as Ratsel cut into the conversation.

“Would you mind if I set this down, Matthew? It's a bit heavy.”

“Oh – of course –”

Ratsel lowered the bag down and a soft thud came as it hit the hardwood. As Caine leaned back on the door to shut it behind him, he tried to remember if there were more documents that he had to sign in relation to the Mare-folk. Giving the stained bag on the floor another look, though, he rather felt that it didn't contain paperwork.

Ratsel glanced down at Caine's injured hand.

“Have you hurt yourself?”

“What? No – yes,” Caine said, stammering for an answer that might be seen as correct. “I had a bit of an accident.”

“That's a shame. You should get it looked at.”

Caine nodded, though he knew very well that he would not. In several days the cuts would scab over, and over time they would reduce to scars whether or not a doctor looked at it.

“I wasn't expecting you,” Caine told the Spöke, hoping that that was reason enough for his current state. Even without the mess he had made of his hand and kitchen, it occurred to him that he hadn't showered or changed his clothes since the beginning of the weekend, and his uniform was even more wrinkled than usual. But it was no matter, Caine reminded himself. Once he gave Ratsel the notebook, he wouldn't care if Caine was standing there in the nude. “Though I'm glad that you stopped by – I have something for you.”

“Do you?” Ratsel smiled, his yellowed teeth pointed behind his thin lips. “I have something for you, as well.”

Ratsel turned back to the lesser Spöke and addressed him in a lower tone of voice.

“Breiner, show the other men in, will you?”

Breiner nodded and briefly stepped back outside. No sooner had he waved his hand than a dozen or so more Spökes came into the house and circled around where Caine stood, each breaking off and going into separate rooms.

“Is there a problem, Mr. Ratsel?” Caine asked, warily glancing at where the uninvited guests had gone.

“I think you would know the answer to that better than I would, Matthew.”

“If this is about what my father said was in his possession, there's no need –”

“This is about a lot of things, Matthew,” Ratsel said coldly. “It's about your aversion to letting us into your home, withholding evidence about how your son's condition came about, and your inability to cooperate with us –”

A Spöke returned to the hallway. The silver notebook was in his hand.

“I have it, High Officer. It was in the kitchen.”

Ratsel held out a hand and the Spöke placed it into his palm. As his fingers wrapped around the cold metal, his eyes turned to Breiner.

“Well, well,” he said, his tone reflecting his obvious distaste. “It looks like it was here, after all.”

Breiner shut his eyes, his mouth slightly agape as though preparing to be sick.

“I assure you, High Officer –” he began, but Ratsel cut him off.

“That wasn't really so difficult, was it now?” he asked, half turning back to Caine as he spoke. “And to think of how much simpler this would have been had it happened weeks ago.”

“I was going to give that to you,” Caine said. “I only just got it –”

“Yes, I'm sure that you were, Matthew. You must have just gotten distracted by that little cut on your hand.”

“I wasn't withholding it,” Caine snapped. “I was going to give it to you immediately – why wouldn't I? I care more about my son than I do about whatever's written in that book –”

Ratsel was no longer paying attention. He had turned to the Spöke who had found the notebook and was speaking to him in a low tone, and the Spöke, in turn, was rounding up his associates to leave.

“Mr. – Mr. Ratsel,” Caine stammered, his anger dispelling as fear sank into his chest. “You – you'll still release my son from the institution, won't you?”

Ratsel turned back to him coldly.

“I think the time for that to occur has … passed, Matthew.”

Caine's hands went cold.

“But you've gotten what you wanted,” he said. “I shut down the charging facilities, and I've given you the notebook –”

“And?”

“And what else is there?” Caine said. “I've done everything that you've asked –”

“Except for telling me how your son got infected with Hilitum in the first place,” Ratsel said calmly. “And I have to admit, I'm still very curious about the whole thing.”

“I don't know how he got infected,” Caine said, but his shaking voice was betraying his lie. “And that was – that was never part of the agreement. You said if I shut down the facilities –”

“I said that it was a first step. I never claimed that it was an indenture.”

“You tricked me,” Caine hissed, his chest rising and falling rapidly as the realization that Fields had been correct sank in. “You've been playing me all this time –”

“On the contrary, it's you who's been playing me, Matthew. This little charade of yours has been quite a hassle. I've had to let go of one of my top Spökes over it.”

“I don't care what you've had to let go of,” Caine snapped. “I care about my son, and I want to see him – now!”

Ratsel smiled in a slow, patronizing sort of way, the corners of his mouth barely tilting upwards. He nodded to his men to leave the house, and the line of Spökes filed out through the front door. When they had gone, Ratsel took a step towards him.

“You want to see your son, Matthew?”

He reached down and wrapped his hand around the handles of the duffel bag and lifted it slightly from the ground. Now that Caine stared at it, it was obvious where he had seen it before, but he hadn't recognized it due to the thick red print that had stained the fabric.

“Here you go.”

The High Officer threw the back towards him. It thumped against the floor and slid a foot or two over the hardwood with an awful noise, and as it came to a stop at Caine's feet, he saw that it had left a streak of blood behind it between him and Ratsel.