Beating Heart Cadavers (5 page)

“He'll get used to it,” Caine said. “And the yard's bigger. He'll have more room to run around.”

“But will he have time to?”

Caine suppressed a sigh.

“I'll get him home, Mari. I said I would, and I will,” he said, but he doubted that she believed him anymore. “I'll think of something.”

“Maybe Fields will have an idea,” she said. “You can ask her.”

“Lad's not here.”

Mari refused to use the nickname that he had given his friend over fifteen years ago, just as she refused to use the one that everyone else had for him. She thought the latter,
Matt
, sounded vulgar – as though the idea that he was being called something that was used for stepping and wiping one's feet off on was highly inappropriate. Though he had never thought about it, Caine could certainly see her point, but it didn't stop him from using the shortened version of his name. On the contrary, he found it rather fitting.

Mari disliked the name
Lad
for a separate reason, one which he suspected was in great deal due to the fact that she had assumed he was referring to his childhood dog when he had first mentioned his friend. Caine couldn't quite see the confusion, as he was very certain that the only similarity Fields shared with dogs was an increased inclination to attack those who got too close; though he could admit, at least, that the nickname did imply that Fields was something akin to a quiet, friendly schoolboy, which couldn't have been farther from the truth.

“Maybe you should find her,” Mari said. “She has more sense than you.”

Caine shut his eyes at the jab and ran his hand over the wall. It had been covered over with a layer of plaster and fresh paint some ten years beforehand after he had punched his hand through it. Fields had painstakingly filled it in and smoothed it over for him, leaving the surface with no signs of imperfection to keep him from getting into trouble. She had always kept him from getting into trouble, really, and while he didn't doubt that she would do the same now, even if they were no longer on the best of terms, he still wasn't appeased. Because this time, he realized, he didn't need help avoiding a mess: he needed help getting out of the one he had already caused.

Ch. 6

Fields took a seat in the large armchair behind the desk, reclining comfortably as she pawed through Raban Merdow's belongings. His office was comprised of smooth, dark mahogany paneling and a patterned carpet that she had made sure to drag her feet across to rid her boots of excess mud. As she waited for him to return from his lunch break, she turned his nameplate around to face her.
Associate Strategy Specialist
. What an appropriate title.

“Yes, and have him call me about the details, but not before two, because I need to go over a few things first –”

Merdow's voiced resonated through the room as he called out instructions to his secretary, but halted quite suddenly as he took sight of the person seated at his desk. Fields watched the way his Adam's apple dipped down in his throat upon recognizing her, but then he stepped into the room fully and shut the door regardless of his evident alarm.

“Fields.” He leaned back against the door to ensure that it had clicked closed properly, undoubtedly not keen on the idea of turning his back to her to do so. He eyed her for a good few moments, the light on his pupils flickering in the glow from the lamps, and his mouth twitched into one of his uneasy smiles. “You're … here.”

He cocked his head to the side as he said it, seeming not to believe it despite seeing her there. He had the stiff, broken movements of a doll, which was befitting enough given that he rather looked like one: his porcelain skin was too smooth, his dark hair too shiny, and his features too symmetrical. He looked like a portrait that had been made by cutting the best parts of other people's characteristics from a magazine and then sticking them together: there was nothing that could be found to be wrong with him, and yet he wasn't pleasant to look at even so. Or, Fields considered, there was nothing outwardly wrong with him.

“Surprise,” she said blandly, tossing the nameplate in her hand back down to the desk. The gold clattered upon the surface.

“And … how did you get here, exactly?” Merdow asked, glancing behind him as though fearing she had put a hole in the wall and tunneled her way in like a mole.

“Into Oneris?”

“Into my office,” Merdow said. “And into … my chair.”

“It's very comfortable,” Fields said, sliding her hands along the leather arms. “You always had impeccable taste for the things that matter least in life.”

“At least I have good taste in something,” he replied. He consented to come further into the room and took a seat in one of the chairs opposite her, which was notably less comfortable. Grimacing at the way it hit his back, he folded his hands in front of him delicately. “Did Martha let you in?”

“Not unless Martha is the name of your window,” Fields said. “Maybe you should get an office on a higher floor. Or does that only come with a different title?”

She indicated to the nameplate lying between them, trying to guess what type of job Merdow really had. He had never played well by the rules, and his hobbies – at least what she had seen of them in their childhood – were less than appealing if they were an indicator of what type of work he would grow into.

“So you're an … Associate Strategy Specialist?” she asked. “What's that a front for – illegal trade?”

Merdow only smiled. He had no reason to tell her anything.

“No? Embezzling, then? At least tell me where you got the title – did you think of it yourself, or is that the standard one the company gives to all their employees?”

“They gave it to me, Fields, and it's a perfectly acceptable title.”

“The acronym certainly is,” Fields replied. “I guess you never became a Spöke, then.”

Merdow scowled.

“No thanks to you.”

“Oh, Raban,” Fields mocked, “you’re not still upset over that, are you?”

“I would have had your brother’s job if you hadn't broken my back.”

Fields' derisive smile twitched.

“You’re lucky that breaking your back was all I did to you.”

“That’s
not
all you did to me,” he fumed, but then he smoothed out the front of his jacket along with his expression. “And what are you up to these days? I thought you'd crossed the border. I'd
hoped
you'd died, of course.”

“I'll delight in your disappointment.”

“So were you in the north, then? That's a funny place for an Onerian to be – especially one who's such good friends with the ambassador.”

“Is it?” Fields asked with as much innocence as her voice could allow. “I thought the job of the ambassador was to form relationships with the Mare-folk.”

Merdow gave her a dark look.

“Not in their hiding-hole Hasenkamp,” he said. “I can't even imagine what you do up there – what there
is
to do, really. There's a reason they call them the Wastelands.”

“Luckily I've always been more resourceful than you, Merdow.”

“Yes, lucky you. So what do you do all day up there, apart from basking in the glory of being the least inhospitable person around for once?”

“The same thing I did here.”

“Which was what – ruin people's lives? Noble of you, Fields. At least you're torturing the Mare-folk now instead of Onerians.” Merdow smirked and leaned back in his seat. “So why come back to East Oneris at all? Does the new ambassador need a shoulder to cry on? Or are you just tired of the Wastelands?”

“Neither.”

“Really?” Merdow almost looked intrigued. Perhaps he was, Fields considered, but his face was simply too stiff to convey his emotions properly. “Are you here for the good Doctor Mason, then? I always thought you two would make an excellent couple. Just think of how morally unrighteous and anarchistic your children will be.”

“Better than thinking of how our children would have turned out,” Fields said sourly. Back when she had been being raised by the Sawyers, hers and Merdow's parents had felt that it would be socially convenient for the two of them to marry, resulting in an unprecedented number of play-dates and after-school time that otherwise would not have been spent together. And that, Fields recalled joyfully, had resulted in Merdow's current issue with his back from being pushed over the banister on the front stairs. Fields gave a sigh. She almost missed those days.

Merdow undoubtedly felt differently.

“I'm surprised that you're welcome back in Oneris,” he said. “I thought they'd banished you.”

“Hardly. I chose to leave.”

“Really? The government figured simply being you was punishment enough for murdering your father?”

“
Allegedly
murdering my father,” Fields corrected, entirely unfazed. “If I admit to it, they might feel differently.”

“They might act differently, you mean. I doubt they could possibly feel any more animosity towards you than they already do.”

Fields gave a short smile.

“But they
could
feel more animosity towards you, Raban. Don't forget that.”

Merdow's porcelain features melded into a look of disgust, and he leaned forward towards her so that his bony shoulders were nearly touching the edge of the desk.

“Why are you here, Fields? In East Oneris, in my office, and in my chair?”

Fields gave a careless shrug.

“I thought that you could help me with something.”

“Me?” Merdow leaned back, not seeming to know whether to be more insulted or worried. “I don't think you and I have the same priorities anymore, Ladeline. Not that we ever did.”

“I don't think that that's necessary for you to do something for me.” She gave him a calculating look. “I'm looking for Jasper.”

“And why would I know where he is? It's not like I keep tabs on the albino – he's no use to me.”

“Tell me, Merdow.”

“I said that I don't know, Fields,” Merdow continued silkily. “Maybe he's found a hole to crawl into where he can die privately of his embarrassment from you.”

“Then I'll take the address of the hole.”

“Come now, Fields – you're being overly touchy about this, even for you. If you don't know where Jasper is, then he obviously doesn't want you to find him – and no one would blame him. Can't you just let it go and move on with your life and allow him to do the same?”

Fields set her feet down and hunched against the seat, readying to stand. She couldn't move on with anything until she found Jasper, and he wouldn't have a life to move on with if he wasn't soon found.

“You know where he is, Merdow, and you're going to tell me.”

“I know nothing other than the fact that you've broken into my office and ruined my carpet, Fields. If anything, I should have you arrested.”

He reached for the phone on his desk just as Fields reached for the gun that was tucked into her coat pocket, and she was notably faster. As Merdow stared at the dark circle of the front sight, his hand backed away from the desk and his plaster-like face finally cracked into an expression of fright.

“Where is he, Merdow?”

She had the gun aimed directly at the smooth, porcelain skin stretching over his forehead where tiny beads of sweat were beginning to assemble, and her finger was a bit too firmly placed on the trigger guard to think that she would pull away.

“You're going to shoot me, Ladeline?” Merdow said, his voice low but relatively calm. “And then what? Bury my body in the Sawyers' yard with your father's?”

“They exhumed the Sawyers' yard already,” Fields replied. “They didn't find his body. They
did
find the bodies of a dozens of neighborhood pets that you'd buried over the years, though.”

She moved around the desk and approached him so that the gun was resting comfortably between his eyes. His eyelids fluttered a bit as the cold touched his skin, but the quick, unconcerned smile returned to his lips all the same.

“Well, I had to find some way to pass the time,” he commented. “It's not like you were ever any much fun.”

“No, not compared with stringing up rabbits and cats, I suppose,” Fields drawled. “Tell me, are you still torturing animals for fun, Merdow?”

“I grew out of that, Fields.”

She pressed the barrel more firmly against his skull, and he backtracked with a low, nervous chuckle.

“Well, I've moved on to … a different sort of animal, you could say,” he told her.

“And you taught Jasper to do the same?”

“Your father was the one who put the idea of being a Spöke in his head.”

“And you encouraged it.”

“If anything, you encouraged it, Fields, with your blatant disregard for doing what you should. You can't blame little Jasper for wanting to make Daddy proud enough for the both of you.” Merdow licked his lips. “Besides, Ladeline … you know why he really became a Spöke.”

Fields pressed the gun more firmly into his skull. His eyes crossed as he attempted to keep his vision focused on her trigger finger.

“I can't tell you where he is,” Merdow said through gritted teeth, the pressure and cold from the gun lessening his ability to feign calm. “But maybe I could help you in some other way –”

“I doubt it. Not unless you can help me decide what to do with your body after I shoot you.”

“No one sees the Spöken, Ladeline. I can't just conjure him up –”

“Then I suppose you're no use to me,” she replied, and the gun clicked sharply in the still air.

“Wait!” Merdow hissed, flinching at the sound. His eyes were closed and his mouth was drawn, making him look even more like an overturned doll with too long lashes that had been abandoned on a child's bedroom floor. A quiver pulled at his lips for a moment before he was able to speak again. “Just – wait.”

Fields blinked indifferently, her patience so thinned that it was nearly non-existent.

“The headquarters for the Spöken are located in Avelinn,” Merdow said. “But that's all I know.”

“How do I get in?”

“You don't. You can't just walk inside – or climb through the window. The whole place is locked down. Only Spökes can get in – you need a pass-code.”

“And where can you get me one?”

“Get you one? Come, now, Fields – we're not talking about forging commerce documents or copying papers to sneak over the border. Spöken headquarters have more security than the government building.”

“Then I suppose you'll have to be extra resourceful when you go about it,” she replied. “I'll give you four days.”