After Dark Page 4

A torn, badly stained shirt with a round colonial-style collar was displayed in one of the glass-topped counters. Next to it was a pair of boots that looked as old as the shirt. Neither the shirt nor the boots bore any traces of artistic adornment. The colonists had tended to be an austere lot. They’d become even more focused on the basics of survival after the Curtain had closed.

  She took a step closer to the case that held the shirt and boots, widening her eyes at the neatly penned description and price.

  “You’re selling these as genuine first-generation apparel?” she asked politely.

  “Both the shirt and the boots have been authenticated,” Bartholomew said smoothly. “Excellent examples of early colonial-era work. There is every reason to believe that they were crafted within the first decade after the closing of the Curtain.”

  “I’d say it’s a lot more likely that they were made last year by a forger who didn’t do enough research.”

  Bartholomew scowled. “No offense, Lydia, but you’re an expert in Harmonic antiquities, not colonial antiques.”

  “Give me some credit, Bart.” Lydia eyed him. “Just because I specialize in ruin work doesn’t mean I don’t know a fake human antique when I see one. I was trained to recognize all kinds of frauds.”

  Bartholomew’s wide face reddened in outrage. “What makes you think that shirt is not first generation?”

  “The color. That particular shade of green wasn’t used in the early colonial era. It appeared about forty years after the Curtain closed.”

  Bartholomew sighed. “Thank you for your opinion.”

  Lydia chuckled. “Hey, don’t go changing the price on my account. Like you said, I’m no colonial-antiques expert.”

  “Quite true,” Bartholomew said a little too readily. “And I won’t be changing the price.”

  She took another look at her watch. Fifteen minutes left until she had to be back at Shrimpton’s House of Ancient Horrors. There had been time for visits to only two antique galleries on her lunch hour today. She had deliberately chosen to start with Greeley’s Antiques and Hickman’s Colonial Artifacts because both proprietors dealt in Old Earth and first-generation artifacts and because neither gallery owner was overburdened with scruples.

  “I’ve got to get back to the office,” Lydia said. “We’ve been swamped at Shrimpton’s today. You will let me know right away if you hear anything, won’t you?”

  “You have my word on it, my dear.” Bartholomew looked at her. “Speaking of your job at Shrimpton’s little museum, mind if I ask a question?”

  “I didn’t murder poor Chester.”

  Bartholomew gave her a limpid glance. “Good heavens, Lydia, I wasn’t about to suggest that you did.”

  “Why not? Everyone else has felt free to suggest exactly that.”

  Bartholomew leaned forward and rested his elbows on the counter. “The thing is, why was he found in that tacky little establishment where you work?”

  “Haven’t got a clue.” Lydia turned to walk toward the front door. “But I’ll tell you one thing. If I had killed Chester, I wouldn’t have left his body just down the hall from my own office. A little too obvious.”

  Bartholomew looked thoughtful. “I suppose that’s true. But it does raise another interesting question.”

  “I know.” Lydia opened the door. “What was Chester doing in Shrimpton’s in the first place?”

  “What do the cops think?”

  “They think he went there to steal something. Granted, we’re not a front-rank museum, but we do have some interesting items in the collection, especially in the Tomb Gallery. I wouldn’t put it past Chester to lift a couple of vases or some tomb mirrors.”

  “I wouldn’t put anything past Chester. But why was he murdered, do you think?”

  Lydia shook her head. “Who knows? Detective Martinez believes that one of his truly annoyed clients followed him and killed him in the museum.”

  “Poor Chester. He never got that big break he was always looking for, did he?”

  “No,” Lydia said quietly, “he didn’t.”

  She stepped out onto the sidewalk and closed the door behind herself. She was satisfied with what she had accomplished. Both Greeley and Hickman operated in the gray area between the world of respectable galleries and the illegal underground of the antiques business. By tonight, the news that she was looking for the cabinet of curiosities would have reached every dealer in Cadence.

  She shot another glance at her watch and smiled to herself. So what if she was a suspect in a murder investigation? Things were looking up. Counting travel time to and from Ruin Row, she was about to post her first billable hour to Emmett London’s account.

  Her first job as a private consultant was off to a nice start. She could only hope that she wasn’t successful too soon. The less time it took to track down the London family heirloom, the less she could charge Emmett for her services. She pursed her lips. Maybe she should have done a fixed-price contract.

  Emmett emerged from the crowded bar and walked down the cracked sidewalk. The weak streetlamps in this section of the Old Quarter made only small inroads in the dark valleys of the night, and the light fog didn’t help. It created impenetrable pockets of shadow in the unlit doorways of the looming buildings. It was a little like moving through a Dead City catacomb, Emmett thought, but without the green glow and the eerie, alien quality.

  He crossed the silent street, automatically adjusting his balance so that his boot heels did not echo on the pavement.

  He walked deliberately back to where he had parked the Slider, but he did not hurry. He was in no great rush to return to his hotel. He needed to think, and it was easier to do that out here in the shadows.

  Things were becoming complicated, he reflected. Hiring Lydia Smith had not been part of the original plan. But with Brady dead, the only thing he could do was improvise.

  The prickle of awareness at the top of his spine interrupted his thoughts. It got his immediate and complete attention.

  The telltale whiff of synch-smoke told him that the watcher was somewhere in the shadows to his left. He continued along the sidewalk without pause, but he took his hands out of his pockets.

  A figure stirred in an unlit doorway.

  “Mr. Emmett London?”

  Well, that was a first, Emmett thought. Small-time thugs who preyed on late-night bar crawlers rarely addressed their intended victims by name, let alone in a polite, damn near deferential tone.

  Which meant that the young man in the shadows of the doorway was probably not a garden-variety street thief.

  Emmett came to a halt and waited.

  The man stepped out of the shadows into the pale glow of the streetlamp. He was thin and lanky, and he had the trademark ghost-hunter slouch down cold. He also had the wardrobe. He was dressed in khakis, boots, and a supple black leather jacket with the collar pulled up around his ears in a rakish manner. His long hair was tied back at his nape with a black leather thong. He wore his amber in a belt buckle the size of a car.

  The size of one’s amber wasn’t important. It took only a small chunk of the stuff to focus psi power and convert it into a usable energy field. But try telling that to the flashy dressers.

  “Didn’t mean to alarm you, sir. My name is Renny. I’m just the messenger.”

  “That can be a high-risk profession.”

  “That sounds like something the boss would say,” Renny replied.

  “Who’s your boss?”

  Renny scowled. “I’m a guildman. My boss is Mercer Wyatt.”

  “Really?” Emmett smiled slightly. “You take orders from Wyatt?”

  Renny flushed. “Well, not directly, of course. Not yet, at any rate. But I’m movin’ up fast in the Guild. One of these days I’m gonna take orders from the big man himself. Meanwhile, I get ’em through Bonner.”

  “And what exactly did Bonner tell you to tell me?”

  Renny drew himself up as if preparing to recite from memory. “Mr. Wyatt requests your pr
esence at dinner. His place.”

  “Let me be sure I’ve got this straight. This is an invitation.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “So why didn’t Wyatt just pick up the phone and call me at my hotel?”

  Renny looked slightly taken aback by that suggestion. “With all due respect, sir, Mr. Wyatt is real big on tradition, y’know? He likes to do things in the old ways.”

  “You mean he likes to run things the way they were run in the days following the Era of Discord. Somebody ought to tell him that times have changed.”

  Renny’s brow furrowed deeply. “Just because the Resonance City Guild decided to turn itself into some kinda wimpy business corporation doesn’t mean the other Guilds got to do things that way. Here in Cadence, we’re into tradition.”

  “Well, Benny—”

  “Renny.”

  “Excuse me. Renny. Tell you what. Go ahead and honor your traditions. In the meantime, not only is the Resonance Guild making money hand over fist, but one of the vice presidents is getting ready to run for a seat on the Federation Council.”

  Renny’s mouth dropped open. “The Council? Are you serious? A guildman is running for public office?”

  “He’s mounting a campaign, and the latest polls show he’s probably going to get elected. You know why? The voters think he’s had a lot of good, solid business experience because of his executive position in the Guild.”

  “Well, shit.” Renny shook his head. “If that don’t beat all. How the hell did they do it?”

  Emmett shrugged. “Let’s just say that the last boss of the Resonance Guild decided he didn’t like being regarded as the CEO of a racketeering mob. He decided to upgrade the Guild image. You know, mainstream the organization.”

  Renny’s face scrunched up into a puzzled frown. “Mainstream?”

  “Never mind. Look, it’s getting late. You’ve delivered your message, so why don’t we just say good night?”

  “Wait—you haven’t accepted Mr. Wyatt’s invitation.”

  “I’ll go back to my hotel and think about it. If I decide I can fit it into my busy social schedule, I’ll give him a call.” Emmett started to move on. “You know, on the phone?”

  Renny looked alarmed. “Mr. Wyatt will be real disappointed if you don’t have dinner with him, sir.”

  “Good old Mercer. He always was the sentimental type.”

  Renny cleared his throat. “One more thing. I’m supposed to tell you that if you accept Mr. Wyatt’s invitation, he might be able to help you out with your business here in Cadence.”

  Emmitt stopped and looked back over his shoulder. “Is that a fact?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Emmett considered that for a moment while Renny twitched uneasily. Striking a bargain with Mercer Wyatt definitely came under the heading of risky business. But if he got some assistance from the Guild out of the deal, it just might be worth it.

  “Tell Wyatt I’ll call him in the morning,” Emmett said.

  Renny blinked a couple of times. “You mean you ain’t gonna accept right now?”

  “No. I want to think about this for a while.” Emmett turned away again.

  “Mr. Wyatt’s not gonna like being told he’s gotta wait,” Renny called out behind him.

  “I warned you that being a messenger was a high-risk job,” Emmett said. He walked off into the fog.

  5

  LYDIA WAS NOT sure what it was that awakened her. It could have been Fuzz shifting his weight at the foot of the bed. She lay unmoving and opened all of her senses.

  The unmistakable aura of psi energy vibrated in the air around her.

  “Damn.”

  She knew this prickling sensation all too well.

  “Fuzz. Don’t move.”

  The dust-bunny made a low rumbling sound, not a purr but a hissing growl. Lydia sat up cautiously, searching the shadows swiftly for what she knew had to be there.

  The bedroom was not very dark. After the Lost Weekend incident, she had altered more than one routine. These days she left the light on in the adjoining bathroom all night long. In addition, she slept with the curtains open to allow the reflected glow of the streetlamps and some moonlight into the bedroom. There had been other changes, too. She wore one of her personalized amber bracelets to bed and kept half a dozen others scattered around the apartment.

  Forty-eight hours in the catacombs had left their mark.

  She saw Fuzz’s eyes first—his second pair, the ones he used for hunting. They glowed a fiery gold in the dimly lit room. Fuzz was seriously concerned. That meant that she was not overreacting.

  She swept the rest of the bedroom, seeking the telltale glow.

  Nothing.

  The whisper of energy shimmered again in the air. Lydia concentrated. No doubt about it, a ghost had invaded her bedroom. But it had not yet materialized.

  “Just a tingle. A small one, Fuzz.”

  Of course it was a small ghost, she thought, desperately trying to reassure herself and the dust-bunny at the same time. Here in the Old Quarter, psi energy leaked freely out of unseen cracks in the Dead City. Nevertheless, even a strong ghost-hunter could summon only a small manifestation of dissonance energy outside the catacombs.

  But the conclusion was obvious. If there was a ghost in the vicinity, there was a ghost-hunter somewhere nearby. Unstable Dissonance Energy Manifestations did not appear on their own outside the catacombs. And the only folks who could manipulate energy ghosts were ghost-hunters.

  A shadow moved on the balcony outside her window. Lydia turned her head quickly, but she caught only a fleeting glimpse of a figure.

  “Pervert!” she shouted.

  The shadow disappeared from sight.

  She longed to give chase, but she had to deal with the ghost first. Even small UDEMs could do a considerable amount of damage.

  She eased aside the bedclothes, got to her feet, and scooped Fuzz off the quilt. The dust-bunny did not relax in her arms. His hunting eyes were twin flames in the shadows. His small body trembled. Lydia caught a glimpse of fang. He was staring at the space above her pillow.

  The ghost began to materialize. Acid-green energy pulsed erratically. Lydia edged back toward the door. Fuzz hissed.

  “Take it easy. There’s nothing either of us can do except stay out of its way until it vaporizes. It really is pretty small. I doubt it will last more than a few minutes.”

  She did not turn her back on the ghost as she retreated into the hall. The green glow of the coalescing form grew steadily more intense.

  “That bastard out on my balcony probably thinks this is very funny. If I find out who it is, I’m going to turn him in to the cops. Summoning ghosts outside the Dead City is illegal, and everyone knows it.”

  But the vow was a waste of breath. Even if she managed to discover which of the neighborhood toughs had pulled this vicious trick on her tonight, the police were unlikely to get involved. At most, someone would contact the Guild authorities and report the incident. The Guild might or might not take action.

  Fuzz growled again. His hunting eyes gleamed more fiercely.

  In the air above her bed, the green ball of energy started to move. There was an audible crackle as it floated closer to the wall. Lydia grew more uneasy. There was no sign that the ghost was weakening. More disturbing was the fact that it did not seem to be moving randomly now.

  Fuzz stared, unblinking, at the pulsating energy ball over the bed. Lydia knew that there was nothing either of them could do about the ghost except stay out of its way and hope that it did no serious damage. Only a dissonance-energy para-resonator—a ghost-hunter—could summon one; only a hunter could de-rez it.

  The small, pulsing green specter was almost touching the wall over the bed now. Lydia watched in frustration.

  Then she smelled scorched paint.

  “My wall!” Lydia whirled and ran down the hall, barely avoiding a collision with the small end table she had put there because there was no other space for it.
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br />   She dashed into the kitchen, tossed Fuzz onto the counter, flung open the door under the sink, and grabbed the household fire extinguisher, then raced back toward her bedroom.

  Fuzz gamely tumbled down from the counter and scampered after her.

  “It can’t last much longer,” she told him. “It just can’t. Not here, outside the wall.”

  The smell of burning paint reached her before she got back to the bedroom doorway. She rounded the corner just in time to see the eerie green glow wink out of existence.

  “It’s gone.” She breathed a sigh of relief. “Told you it couldn’t last, Fuzz.”

  The odor of charred paint was unpleasantly strong. Lydia groped for the light switch, flipped it. And then groaned when she saw the scorch marks the ghost had left on the formerly pristine white surface of the wall.

  With the immediate danger past, she whirled and went to the window. She was just in time to see a figure garbed in dark clothing vanish up a rope ladder that dangled from the roof. As she watched, outraged, the ladder was pulled up and out of sight. She yanked open the window and leaned out.

  “Little punk! If I ever get my hands on you—”

  But the jerk was gone, and she knew the odds of learning his identity were virtually zip.

  That was when the full implications of the situation hit her. She had given her landlord so much trouble lately that he would probably seize upon any excuse to terminate her lease. Fire and smoke damage no doubt came under the heading of “willful destruction of property by tenant” or some other vague clause in the contract.

  “If Driffield finds out about this, we’re fried, Fuzz.”

  Emmett glanced at the amber face of his watch as he got out of the Slider. It was barely seven o’clock. The morning sun had not yet penetrated the blanket of fog that had crawled in from the river late last night.

  He walked across the small, cramped parking lot of the Dead City View Apartments, let himself in through the broken security gate, and started up the stairwell.

  He had called twice before leaving the hotel, but Lydia had not answered her phone. Probably in the shower, he thought. He had considered waiting until she got to work before he talked to her, but in the end he’d decided it would be better if he spoke to her outside Shrimpton’s museum.