One

He could have been carved from stone. Crouched on the narrow ledge circling the rooftop, arms crossed, he hadn’t moved for nearly an hour. Soft, dark hair moving gently in a night breeze was the only indication that this was something living.

Before, below, and above him, Winter City had blossomed with the sun’s disappearance. Sparks and twinkles of light defined a growing sweep of windows, streams of white and red along the streets pointing out head- and tail-lights moving in fits and starts dictated by traffic signals. Daytime life giving way to the night-shift.

As he observed the transformation, one he’d watched with ritual regularity, his enthusiasm no less than those who worshipped the sunrise, evidence of a soul was manifested by a slow smile. He turned his head – nothing else – and looked to his right. Then back to the front, but upward at the taller structures in this man-made valley of the kings of industry. Finally, a glance to his left where the high-rises weren’t quite as high.

Nothing else that happened in the course of any day could diminish the joy of these moments. Sighing, he uncrossed his arms and rose to his feet, stared over the edge at the roadway directly below, twelve stories down. Only someone standing beside him and taking in the same view would recognize his extraordinary lack of fear. He turned on the five-inch-wide foothold with the same confidence and solidity of stance as someone else turning around on a sidewalk. Reluctance in the twist of his mouth, he hopped down – time to go back in.

Before him, the details and obstacles of the rooftop were obscured by night, but he could see everything as if it were midday. The only detail that mattered was the door leading down to his loft apartment; he strode toward it, skirting small protruding vents that another would have tripped over in the dark. Normally, he wouldn’t be going inside this soon, but he had a few chores to do – securing the door downstairs on the bottom floor, checking his mail, things he had neglected to take care of earlier because of some necessary distractions.

Located on the east end of the building next to a small metal door, his mailbox was never full, almost never held anything except junk and useless notices for the building’s previous owners. The address was known as his by very few, the same small number, in fact, aware of his real name. This day he found a postcard written to someone named Florrie. Petey, the one who had signed and sent it, was letting Florrie know the weather was gorgeous in Aruba. Poor Florrie – she’d never get that weather report.

He shoved the postcard into the front pocket of his black leather jacket, planning to add it to the pile of interesting mail he kept in a box – not that he could have said why he did this – and opened the door, ducking to enter. Being six-foot-seven had its good points, but an equal number of bad ones. He didn’t care a whole lot, though, since there was nothing he could do about it either way.

Back in the loft, he glanced out one of the windows. Still early. A quick meal, a half-pot of coffee, and he was ready to head back to the roof. Taking a steaming mugful of caffeine with him, he chose a different spot – a corner this time – to settle into his comfortable, familiar crouch, dark green eyes absorbing the cityscape. Wrapped in a unique solitude that filled him with contentment, he waited out the night.

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

Thursday nights marked the beginning of Officer Jeremy Lanza’s weekends. This Thursday, his happy anticipation of the scheduled break had been marred by death blocking the entrance to one of the city’s many alleys.

“Figures.” Lanza sighed and reached for his shoulder-com, his expression somewhere between sad and disgusted.

Cracks of static, a voice acknowledging his call, words indistinguishable but sufficient.

“Yeah, this is J. Lanza. Got a stiff.”

The response could have been someone crumpling a sheet of cellophane, but the word “location” was clear enough.

“Uh, yeah. Fourth Street, about halfway down the block between Martine and Cranston.” He peered left and up at a faded number over the doorway of the nearest apartment building. “Closest address is Number 7904.”

More cellophane, a confirmation of sorts.

Lanza took his finger off the button and lowered his hand, cupping it over the butt of his gun. “You had to buy it at the end of my shift? Thanks, buddy.”

The corpse to which he was speaking had once housed the heart and soul of a street-dweller named Bricks. Once. That his soul was no longer present was made obvious by the fact that his heart wasn’t there, either. Someone had cut right through the rib cage and carved it out, leaving a wet, horrifying hole. Had Lanza not seen so much of this kind of thing before, he would have been retching.

Red, white, and blue brilliance sparked against the night and off the sides of the buildings with the arrival of police cruisers. No sirens – not necessary. Car doors slamming, followed by approaching footsteps.

“What the hell, Jer. Another one?”

“I will refrain from exercising my right to wax sarcastic, Phil.” Lanza smirked at Officer Phil Meeks, a long-time friend and colleague, waiting for recognition of the body.

Meeks took out his flashlight, stepped closer, and peered at the face. “Crap. Bricks. Wonder what he did to piss off our serial killer?”

“So it’s official?”

“What – that these are serial murders?” Meeks straightened. “This is what – the fourth one with the same MO? Yeah, I’d say we’re safe in assuming that.”

Lanza glanced at his watch. “I’m off in another ten minutes. You need me to hang around while you guys clean this up?” Say “no” and let me leave – please?

“Not unless you know something that will help.”

“Nope.” Relief.

“Fine. I’ll tell the Captain your report will be filed tomorrow. See ya.”

Lanza smiled. “Yep. Have fun.”

“Right. God, I hate these things.” Nodding toward the corpse, Meeks scratched his nose and stepped aside for the other officers who had begun to surround the body. “See you in the morning, Jer.”

“In the morning.” Lanza smiled at his friend’s back and continued down the street toward the Precinct House, his destination before being halted by the sight of a dirty foot sticking out of the alley’s deep shadow. His plan had been to return to the Precinct, change into street clothes, check his message box, and then go to Arnie’s Pub for a quick beer. Or two. So now, maybe it would be three or four. He had no current commitments – he wasn’t married, had no girlfriend, no pets. He only hoped the Captain wouldn’t intercept him before he finished changing, and make him do his report tonight. That, he decided, would suck. A lot.

As he hurried into the locker room, he pondered the options in getting the matter solved. These murders had been committed by someone who had managed so far to leave not a single iota of evidence, nor any patterns that might suggest motive. They were clean killings, too, with no residual blood around the bodies. Who could do that? How? Most important – why? The Detective Division would be working overtime on it, now that the killings had been given serial status.

Lanza opened his locker and unbuttoned his uniform jacket. From the corner of his eye, he caught his grin reflected in the small mirror attached to the inside of the locker door. If this case turned out to be as enigmatic as he suspected it would be, they’d have to call in help – the other option. As much as the higher-ups despised going outside the Department, occasional situations made such antipathy irrelevant. This could well be one of those cases, too. Which meant calling in the only P.I. who seemed capable of solving the impossible in very short order – and the only person Lanza had ever met who could make the job entertaining.

Gargoyle.

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

Mornings were meant to be ignored. They were invented purely to give the night a running start. The space between the two had its own purpose – sleep. Anything that intruded during that space was aggravating. Anything that intruded during the time before, specifically, the morning, was an outrage.

Xavion Raphael G’Argyle was outraged. Glaring with one open eye at the blue light glaring back at him from the face of his phone, he sat up, pushing himself back against the headboard of his narrow bed, and jabbed the “Answer” button. “Yes?”

“Is this Gargoyle?”

No, it’s his pet rat. “What do you need?”

Throat-clearing sounds. “Yes. This is Police Captain Faragon of the 89th Precinct here in Winter City. We have an enigma, and since you’ve helped us before with this sort of thing, and since we’re completely – ”

“I’ll be there in an hour.” He ended the call and closed his eye. “Not on my agenda today, but whatever.” Both eyes opened, he flung the covers away hard enough to cause them to slide off the end of the bed, and got up.

His apartment was a converted loft in an otherwise abandoned factory. He owned the building, but never asked about its original purpose. The size and layout suited his needs, and that was all that mattered. What little equipment remained told no story – something that looked like a generic conveyor belt, useful for any number of purposes; a few large vat-like things; and a great deal of metal, wood, and paper debris. Since he rarely spoke with people, and never gave out his address, no one had said, “Oh, so you live in the old Whatever Factory!” With some thought, he probably could have figured it out, and with a little research, could have easily learned what kind of place it had been, but he simply didn’t care enough to do either.

The mirror over the bathroom sink was new, as was everything else in use, with the exception of his desk. New and pricey, but tasteful. Even the mirror cost more than a bathroom version normally would, framed in hand-wrought iron fleur-de-lis medallions. He stared at himself, not sure if he should bother shaving. The stubble was more shadow than beard. Still…he hated facial hair most of the time, and since his mood was anything but jovial at the moment, he went for hate.

Twenty minutes later, clean-shaven, dressed in black jeans, dark red t-shirt, and a black leather coat, he locked up and went out. Behind a pile of old, broken wooden boxes in a far corner of the lower floor was his red and black Harley Softail Fat Boy, custom-built to accommodate his size. At that point, it was the only thing that could elicit a smile. After rolling it through the path he’d made to one of the side doors, he donned the helmet and got on. The machine started smoothly with its distinctive Harley sound, making his smile widen.

The day suited the city’s name – cold, damp, the sky like the dull side of rolled aluminum. Through the tint of the helmet’s visor, everything was cast in yellow. Not an improvement. But the bike roared smoothly along the streets, and he didn’t mind the jaundice effect.

Several officers were outside when he pulled into a space near the front doors. One of them began to approach as Xavion turned off the bike, but then he got off and the officer backed away. The startled-looking policeman must have realized he had something more important to do…

After removing his helmet, the man who was known in the Precinct only as Gargoyle trotted up the steps and entered the building. A few minutes later he was being shown into the office of Captain Faragon.

“Thanks for coming in so quickly.” Faragon stood and extended a hand.

Why do you want to shake my hand? Did I do something wonderful? “Sure.” Deciding rudeness was childish, Xavion gave the other man’s hand a firm shake and sat.

“Well.” Faragon sat also and took a sip from his coffee mug. “We seem to have a situation. Someone is going around murdering homeless men by cutting out their hearts.”

Silence.

“He’s left no evidence whatsoever, or at least none that we’ve been able to find,” Faragon went on quickly. “There’s nothing at the scene we can work with. Hell, there isn’t even a whole lot of blood. Ever see anything like this before?”

Yeah, because it’s such a common occurrence. “Have you?”

“W-no. I mean, of course not. That’s why we’re stumped.”

“Where would you suggest I start?”

Faragon took a folder from a drawer on the left side of his desk and handed it over. “The photo on top is our most recent victim.”

Xavion opened the folder, stared for a few seconds, nodded. “Bricks. Wonder why.” He frowned. The street-dweller had wandered into the factory on an exceptionally cold night a few years before and had been frightened nearly out of whatever wits he had by the owner. It had taken a lot of calm talking, but eventually, Xavion had convinced the man he was in no danger, had given him a blanket and pillow, and instructions never to come back after that night.

Bricks had kept his promise, but it was obvious he’d probably die of exposure at some point, so Xavion had sought him out on the streets a few nights later and provided him with a heavy coat, hat, gloves and a scarf. Not that any of that could protect a human being from whatever implement had been used to surgically remove the man’s most vital organ.

And it had, in fact, been surgical. Even in the murky photo, Xavion could see that. “You say there was very little blood – where? In the wound or around the body?”

“Both.”

“Great. Your murderer is a surgeon, probably a cardiologist.” He closed the folder and stood. “I’ll call you when I have something worth discussing.”

Faragon nodded, also rising. “I’m curious. You – a gargoyle is this ugly, relatively small, misshapen thing, but hell, you’re what – six-five? Six-six or so? And God knows you’re anything but ugly. Your physique is practically perfect. Why the name?”

“Seriously? Do you know anything about me at all?”

“Only that you’re a freaking Sherlock Holmes when it comes to solving really tough cases.”

“He was fiction. His methods as described by Doyle wouldn’t all work the way the story claims they did. Nothing I do is based on fiction. And my real last name is G’Argyle.” He spelled it. “Figure it out.” He gave a short laugh. “I’m surprised you didn’t know that.”

“Why? You aren’t exactly Mr. Small-Talk. How old are you, anyway?”

“Old enough.”

Faragon narrowed his gaze. “That’s not what I asked.”

“That’s exactly what you asked.” He shrugged, raised the folder in salute, and left the office.

After tucking the folder into the leather saddlebag on the back of his bike, Xavion put the helmet on again, mounted his bike, kicked it to life, and took off. Why the hell would anyone murder Bricks? He shook his head, feeling sad for the derelict. Needed the guy’s heart, I’d say, but for what?

A splatter of rain began its tattoo against the helmet, and he picked up speed. Riding through the rain on a summer night was glorious. Winter days not so much. By the time he reached the factory, he was chilled blue. Cold weather didn’t bother him that much, but coupled with the damp, the low temperature seeped deep inside his being. An unpleasant feeling, indeed.

After wiping down the bike and securing it behind the crates, he went upstairs. The jacket had been water-proofed, but couldn’t hold warmth that well. He put it on a hanger, which he hung on the outside of the closet door near the top of the stairs. A thick, pullover cable-knit sweater took its place over his t-shirt, and he started a fire in the brick hearth at one end of the loft. For some reason, this bit of architecture had been part of the original space, although he had thus far been too lazy to establish its purpose. His best guess was that one of the employees – maybe a maintenance person required to be on-site twenty-four/seven – had live up here. Not worth investigating, really.

He made a pot of coffee, then settled in front of the fire with a cup and opened the file. Fifteen minutes or so later, a slow smile it his eyes. He got up, grabbed his jacket, and went out again.

Two

Perspective was everything. With the wrong perspective, nothing worked right. Conclusions were invalid. From the top of a twelve-story building, the perspective was unique, covering a greater space, and thus affording an accurate view not possible from the ground.

The factory was located more or less in the center of the City. Compared to many of the surrounding structures, it wasn’t very tall, but still taller than the majority of the ones closest. And what the roof lacked in altitude, the chimneys made up for to a degree. Perched on top of the tallest of these, Xavion stared around at the darkening urban landscape. He’d spent most of the day looking at maps in the City Clerk’s office, seeking confirmation of a suspicion the folder’s contents had sparked. Now he needed to see if it worked in reality. Over the years, a number of streets had been blocked off or changed from two-way to one. The maps were supposed to be up-to-date, but he knew some of the most recent changes might not be reflected, especially the ones near the hospital.

The first conundrum on which he’d concentrated was the lack of blood. Common sense told him it had to be because the victims had been murdered elsewhere. Why the police hadn’t thought of that was anybody’s guess. But it would also explain why no witnesses had been found. After all, carving out a person’s heart took a bit of time, and surely someone would have passed nearby while it was happening, even if that someone couldn’t tell what was being done.

That meant the murderer had to be strong or clever enough to knock out his victim, and have a vehicle in which to transport the poor guy to wherever it was he was removing the heart. The most logical location, based on the obvious fact that this killer knew how to remove a human heart with such great precision, was the hospital. Xavion had heard about the latest advances in laser surgery, and it made sense.

Slowly, he rose to his full height and turned to consider the set of streets on the other side of his factory. These didn’t lead to the hospital, but might provide a low-traffic route. The width of the chimney’s top was only about a foot and a half square, but this didn’t faze him at all. His balance was so perfect, only a hard shove could have caused him to fall.

Pulling from a back pocket the copy he’d made of one of the maps, he unfolded it, holding it up to the dying light of the day. He glanced over the top of it a few times to compare its lines with the streets below, finally shaking his head and folding it up again. “Nothing.” He shoved it back into his pocket and hopped lightly down, landing in an easy crouch on the rooftop. Not too many people could have accomplished this without injury – the chimney was well over fifteen feet high. But in fact, Xavion could jump from the roof of a two-story building and land safely with the same ease. Something about his genetics…

He straightened, decided he was hungry, and went inside. Halfway to the refrigerator, he remembered there wasn’t much in it, that he’d been planning to do some shopping when he woke up. Only, he’d been awakened way too early, had gotten his mind tangled up in this latest mystery, and had remained awake. So now his schedule was in disarray, and he’d never gotten to the store.

The nearest supermarket was five blocks away. He didn’t think it necessary to drag out his bike for such a short distance, so trotted there, enjoying the feeling of movement.

No one looked at him when he entered, even though most of the patrons had seen him many times over the past few years. He’d found this amusing at one time, but now he didn’t think about it. Didn’t care.

What do I want? Steak? Hmm. Need some bread…veggies…As he pushed his cart up and down the aisles, he grabbed things from the shelves, forcing himself to concentrate on his shopping instead of the serial killings.

“Excuse me, could you move your cart for a second?”

He looked away from the assortment of soup at which he’d been staring. A young lady stood there, eyebrows raised, and nodded at the shelf. He raised one of his own. “Sure – you need something from here?”

“Yeah – just a can of chowder?”

He pulled his cart back and waited for her to remove the can.

She dropped it in her cart, smiling. “Thanks. Sorry about that.”

“Why?” And why did people always apologize for such things?

She shrugged. “Don’t know. Seemed like the right thing to say.” Another smile, and she continued on her way.

Pretty. Probably married. He went back to studying the soup.

When he was satisfied with his choices, he headed for the check-out, getting in line behind four other people. He realized most of the customers had gotten off work not long before, explaining why every cashier was busy. The line he was on was the shortest; even the Express lane snaked out farther than he was used to seeing.

The cashier didn’t look up as she scanned his purchases, staring at the screen while she asked him if he wanted to donate a dollar to some children’s fund. He agreed and she thanked him, but still didn’t try to make eye contact. Her nametag said “Rae” so he you’re-welcomed her, using it.

That got her attention, perhaps because she thought he might be someone she knew, but when her gaze finished making its way to the top of his six-foot-seven height, she only seemed surprised for a second, then looked away again. “One hundred twenty-two and sixty-seven cents,” she told him, focused once more on the screen.

He handed her a hundred-dollar bill and a fifty. Credit cards were not, in his opinion, a smart thing to have. “You can use the change for the charity.”

This time when she looked up, she frowned but didn’t move her eyes away. “Sir, that’s more than twenty dollars. Are you sure?”

He nodded. “Twenty-seven, thirty-three. And yes, I’m sure.” Now he smiled and started transferring the plastic bags with his groceries to the cart. The woman had been packing them as she went, instead of making him do it the way many of the younger clerks did. “Have a good evening,” he said, finished.

“Thank you! You, too, sir.” She smiled, but her eyes had been drawn back to the screen.

When he got to the doors, he scooped up the bags by their handles, and with four or five in each hand, he left the store. Glad that chore was done, he headed home, alert this time to his surroundings. It was fully dark, and he had plenty of reasons for caution, especially in this part of the City. Not that too many criminals would target a man of his size, but one never knew. Someone with a gun could certainly pose a problem.

Xavion reached home without interruption, made himself a satisfying meal of steak, rice, spinach, and salad, then finished the coffee he’d made earlier and took out the file again. Everything he read confirmed his notion that the murders had been committed somewhere other than the place where the bodies had been found. A number of other conclusions to which the police had also come were noted in the reports. He was sitting at the small table in what he’d made into an open kitchen, the papers spread out on its wooden surface.

“I ought to make a few notes of my own,” he muttered, getting up. In another section of the loft was an antique rolltop desk. From this he took a legal pad and a fountain pen, and returned to the table. “Okay. What do we have here?” He began making a list. “All victims – male. That’s first. All homeless. Okay. All from…huh. All from the same part of town.” He frowned. Every one of them had lived on the streets in a six-square-block area not far from his factory. He began to wonder if this was mere coincidence, although he wouldn’t have said why he thought so even if he did tell the police about that particular suspicion.

He shook his head, dismissing the idea for the time being. Too many other things to pull together first. Like how a doctor could do something like this without getting caught. Because if he was, in fact, using laser technology to “operate” on his victims, he’d have to do it without anyone realizing he’d been operating that equipment. Xavion knew for certain that expensive machines like that were carefully monitored and under security surveillance.

He also wrote down that the murderer was most likely male, if for no other reason than the logistics of lifting and transporting the dead weight of the derelicts, none of whom had been small men by any means. No doubt there were some women strong enough, but none that he knew of who were heart surgeons. And Xavion was all too familiar with the medical staff of Winter City General Hospital.

Before he could write anything else, a crash sounded from somewhere in the guts of the building. He dropped the pen and stood, scowling. “Better be a damned cat,” he growled. The last thing he felt like dealing with was an intruder – or a group of them.

After turning off all but one light, he slipped silently out the door. This opened on a long metal staircase that zig-zagged down the twelve floors between a series of catwalks. Made of good quality steel, these had remained intact despite the years of neglect between the place being abandoned and Xavion’s purchase of it.

From the top floor, he could make out little of what was at the bottom, despite an unusual ability to see clearly in near-darkness. As he went down the first set of stairs, he peered around, looking for the cause of the crash. From inside the loft it had been impossible to tell the direction from which the sound had come. What he needed was for it to be repeated.

By the time he was halfway down, he still hadn’t seen anything suspicious. Crepe soles made his progress silent, the darkness giving him invisibility, masking his presence from who or whatever had made the noise.

Almost at the end of the final staircase, he paused, doing a 360-degree scan of the vast floor space. Silence. No movement. He took the last few steps to the bottom. Stopped, listening…there. Something was breathing. Like he, she or it had been panting, and was regaining control. He began walking, cautious and slow, toward the pile of debris from behind which the controlled gasping came.

Wedged between metal containers and some splintered crates, a figure huddled, knees drawn up, head down, unaware of Xavion’s presence. A person, not a cat.

Damn. “Are you all right?”

The person began rocking back and forth, huddling even tighter. “Don’t hurt me.”

A girl. “Why would I hurt you? What are you doing here?”

She shuddered but wouldn’t look up. “Please leave me alone.”

“I can’t. You’re on my property.”

“Let me stay here?”

“Can you look at me, at least?”

“Why? I won’t be able to see you.”

“No, but I can see you.”

She stopped rocking, unclenching her arms from around her shins and sitting straighter. She didn’t raise her head very far, but he could see she was looking at the floor and containers closest to her. “How? I – you don’t have a flashlight or anything.”

“No, I don’t. I have extremely good eyesight.”

“Oh. What are you going to do to me?” Her voice trembled a bit on the last three words.

“Nothing. Help you, maybe. But I can’t do a damn thing if you stay all scrunched up like that.”

She nodded and took a long, deep, and very shaky breath. “Promise you won’t hurt me?”

“I promise.” Why is she so convinced that people want to hurt her?

“Okay.” Her movements somewhat stiff, she got to her feet and straightened.

“Huh. You’re, uh, very tall for a girl.”

“Six-foot-two. I wanted to be a gymnast, but, well, yeah. I didn’t stop growing in time.” She gave a bitter-sounding laugh and raised her head. “Geez, how tall are you?”

“Six-foot-seven.” My god, she’s gorgeous!

“Not many people make me feel short. Congratulations.” She gave a small grin.

“So what are you doing here?”

The grin went away. “Hiding. In case my being ‘all scrunched up’ behind a bunch of garbage wasn’t enough to make that obvious. And before you ask, some guys were chasing me. I noticed one of the windows was open, and I climbed through. I thought for sure they’d follow me in here, but I guess I was wrong.”

“No one comes in here. Everyone knows better who lives in this area. So where are you from?”

“The upper West side. I’m a model. We were doing a shoot and the location got changed. Stupid me got the address mixed up somehow and when the taxi dropped me off a few blocks from here, I made the mistake of asking these guys if the studio I was looking for was in the building they were…anyway, they said they’d never heard of it, but would be glad to give me something else to do instead. Then they got really graphic about what that involved, one of them tried to grab me, and I ran.” She looked away, terror surfacing in her eyes and expression for a moment.

“I’m sorry that happened to you. Why didn’t you call the police?”

“When? While I was running? Or maybe while I was hauling myself through that window? Or perhaps while I was hiding, trying to not make noise that would alert the bastards to where I was?” Remembered terror had turned to angry sarcasm.

“Well, you did crash into something, which is how I knew someone was here. What did you knock over?”

She waved a hand toward something behind him. “A metal barrel thing, I think. It cut my ankle.”

He looked down and saw what he’d missed before, perhaps because he wasn’t looking for an injury. In addition to a short, fleece-lined denim jacket over a coral-colored tight crew-neck sweater, she was wearing light-colored denim leggings that ended at her ankles, one of which was releasing a slow stream of blood that had already begun to form a puddle under her shoe. “Hell. Look, at the risk of scaring you again, I’d like to suggest that you come upstairs to my apartment and let me bandage that for you. Then you can make whatever phone calls you need to. Would that be okay?”

She put her head to one side, staring up at him, uncertain. “I wish I could see your eyes.”

“You would trust what you saw there?”

“No, but at least I’d have a better idea about your intentions.”

He laughed. “You know, if I’d wanted to do anything nasty to you, I would have already done it. I sure as heck wouldn’t bother to help you up twelve flights of stairs first.”

“Twelve – where is your apartment?”

He pointed toward the ceiling, which was too far up to see. “There. I have a loft on the twelfth floor. Most of this is open from top to bottom, but along the sides there were some kind of rooms – offices, maybe. Twelve stories of them. My loft, however, covers the entire top floor.”

She gaped, taking in the massive square footage of the factory. “Why would you need that much space? Do you give dance lessons or something?”

“Er, no. But I do practice martial arts, and it’s nice to have plenty of room to move around in. Of course, a lot of the space is taken up with boxes, furniture, and wardrobes full of stuff.” He shrugged. “It’s all from a house I used to live in.” Why am I telling her all this?

“Why don’t you live there now?”

A pause. “I sold it.” His tone had gone suddenly cold.

She took another deep breath, this one steady. “Okay. How do we get up there?”

“We walk. Can you do that with your ankle messed up?”

“I think so. It doesn’t seem to hurt very much.”

It will – the shock is wearing off. “All right. Let’s go – you must be cold.”

“Huh. I hadn’t noticed, but now that you mention it…crap.”

“Sorry. This way.”

Guiding her toward the stairs, he wondered how long it would take for her to be in too much pain to walk. To his surprise, she made it all the way to the fifth floor before almost collapsing against the rail of the catwalk there.

“Ow! Oh, hell! Damn!” She sucked in air between her teeth, grasping the top rail of the narrow walkway.

“Don’t freak out on me, please.”

“Why – oh!”

He had lifted her easily in his arms, not a little surprised at how light she was, and then headed up the next set of steps. “No way are you going to make it all the way to the top on your own. Hope you don’t mind.”

“I’ll let you know later.” Her voice sounded tight.

“Hurts a lot, I expect.”

“You could say that.”

He decided to distract her as much as possible by asking her about herself – her name, where she was born, a number of other things – as he got her safely to his apartment. To his relief, it seemed to work.

Three

Her name, she told him, was Emma Grant. She was born in California, but had come east several years earlier for a photo shoot, and had decided to stay. Winter City was, in her opinion, much less stressful than San Francisco – at least until earlier that day when everything had gone sour over a mistaken address. At twenty-four, she was a bit old for the kind of modeling she did, she explained, but because she could still pass for a teenager, work had continued to be steady.

As a child, she had, in fact, done gymnastics. But when she topped five feet at the age of ten, she started to struggle with the equipment more than anything else. Her center of balance had still been good, and the floor exercises hadn’t been a problem. However, the uneven bars presented a real problem – eventually there wasn’t enough room between the upper and lower one to accommodate her length when she tried to swing between them. The balance beam was fine, except for the dismount, and doing the vault got, as she expressed it, flat-out weird.

This entire speech about her past helped get her through having the gouge in her ankle cleaned, disinfected, and bandaged. Only after that was accomplished and she’d been given a non-narcotic pain-killer, a bowl of angel-hair pasta with pesto, a plum, and a hot cup of tea, was she able to relax enough to appreciate her surroundings.
“This is a huge place for one person to live,” she said, cupping the steaming beverage in chilled hands.

“Guess I’m used to living in large spaces. Our house was ridiculous. Over thirty rooms, if I remember right.”

“Are you rich or something?”

“My parents were.” Again that cold, almost angry tone.

“Oh. So…um, what do – wait. Do you have a name? I’ve been giving you all this personal info about me, and I don’t even know what to call you.”

They were in the part of the loft that carpeting, a sofa, coffee table, easy-chair and some occasional tables and lamps defined as a living room. The fireplace was blazing with a fresh offering of wood, and he was enjoying the way the warm light enhanced her exquisite features. “Are you warm enough now?”

“Yes, thank you.” She gave him a questioning look.

“My name. Well, people call me Gargoyle.” He waited for her reaction.

After several moments she said, “Right. Because you’re such an ugly little thing. Is that seriously what you want me to call you?”

He allowed himself a smile – he wasn’t sure how close he wanted to get to this girl, or if he wanted her to feel familiar with him even a little. “No. But that’s what people call me.”

“Why?”

“Because of my last name, most likely.”

“Are you going make me ask you what that is?”

He gave in. “My name is Xavion Raphael G’Argyle.”

“Uh…”

He spelled it for her.

“That’s one heck of a name. But why the apostrophe? What does the ‘G’ stand for? And is your first name spelled with a ‘Z’?”

“No, an ‘X’. The spelling of my last name is, well, I can’t really explain it, I’m afraid. It’s a family secret.”

“A family secret. Uh-huh. Fine.” She nodded, pursing her lips, but didn’t pursue it. “And what do you do for a living?”

“I’m a private investigator.” Of sorts.

“Really! You mean like – ”

“No.”

“You don’t know what I was going to say.”

“You were going to compare me with one of those television P.I.s.”

Emma glared. “Fine. So how are you different?”

“For one thing, the police don’t hate me, so we don’t exchange one-liner insults.” Xavion got up, taking her empty tea cup which she’d set on the coffee table, and went to the kitchen.

Behind him, Emma laughed.

He smiled, appreciating the sound – hers was a pleasant, musical laugh. It was also the first sign that she was getting over the worst of her experience. The cup washed and put away, he asked if she was hungry.

“You already fed me.”

“So? You look like you don’t eat enough, and you’ve been through a lot.”

“I’m a model, Xavion. I can’t eat as much as everyone else. And please don’t lecture me about it.”

He turned around and saw that she had bent over to inspect the wrapping on her ankle. “Is that okay? Is the pain getting worse?”

“Nope. You did an amazing job.” She straightened and smiled. “Thanks. I won’t even ask why you’re so good at things like that.” Her slender index finger was pointing at the bandage.

“Looks like you broke a nail.”

“I did. Several, in fact, when I was yanking myself through that window.” Shrug.

Xavion looked at his watch. Normally, he didn’t go to bed until almost dawn, but after being wakened after only two hours sleep that morning, he was feeling an uncustomary exhaustion. “It’s eight-thirty. What do you want to do?”

“What do you mean?”

“Aren’t you going to call someone? I’m sure if you were supposed to be at that studio long before now, someone would be wondering what happened.” And why hasn’t anyone called?

Looking startled, Emma reached into her jacket pocket and took out her phone. “Shit! My ringer was off. Damn it!” She turned it so Xavion could see that she had missed seven calls and about ten texts. “Great. When they find out I’m not dead, they’re going to kill me!”

“Or maybe just fire you?”

“Same thing.”

“You could say you were kidnapped by the taxi driver.”

“I won’t lie.”

“Good.” He nodded, raising her up a notch on his list of possible decent people. “If they fire you for an honest mistake, Emma, you don’t need them.”

“Yes, I do. They’re one of the top agencies, and if they blacklist me, I can forget modeling forever. Besides, I’m almost too old, like I said, for the kind of modeling I do now.”

“Which is?”

“Runway, Paris fashion, trends. In another couple of years I’ll have to settle for catalog work, products targeting a slightly older crowd, stuff like that. And before you ask, it’s not bad work. In fact, it’s easier in a lot of ways. But it doesn’t pay as well, and I’m trying to save up to buy myself a house and a decent car.” She tucked her honey-colored hair behind her ears with one hand and contemplated the list of calls on her phone. “I suppose I should call Sharon first.”

“Your boss?”

“Guess you’d call her that.” Biting her lip, Emma touched the screen, slid her finger across its surface, tapped it, and sat back.

Even from a few feet away, Xavion could hear the loud exclamation of a woman’s voice issue from the phone.

“Yeah, it’s me. And no, I’m not okay, but I sorta am.” Emma closed her eyes and launched into a brief recounting of her afternoon. “It was my fault for getting the address wrong. Temporary dyslexia or something. I don’t know. But that’s what happened. Am I fired?”

More loud exclamations.

“Okay. Thanks, Sharon. You have no idea how much I appreciate that. I’ll see you in the morning.” She ended the call and turned to Xavion who had lowered himself onto the easy-chair adjacent to the sofa. “I still have my job. She said the shoot didn’t go well anyway, because something was wrong with the equipment, so it wouldn’t have mattered if I’d been there.”

He suspected Emma’s employer hadn’t fired her for other reasons, too. “She likes your work, yes?”

Smile. “Yeah. Look, not to be rude or anything, but can we stop talking now?”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t think I’ve ever said this much at one time to one person. I’m not a talker, to be honest. Anyway, give me a few minutes, and then I’ll call a cab. I do know the right address for my apartment.”

Xavion swallowed hard. At various points in his life he had enjoyed brief relationships with young ladies, but none of them had ever worked out. Part of the reason was his reclusive lifestyle. Mostly, it was because he rarely spoke. He didn't like being chattered at and longed for a relationship with someone who understood that, whose silence could communicate more effectively than a spate of words.

There were other, deeper reasons as well, but it all started with this – with needing a woman who appreciated quiet. Ironic, then, that this one had, without trying, coaxed more words out of him than he had ever said at one time to one person…“Of course.” He got up and went back to the table where his notes were still spread out from the file.

Don’t, Xav. Don’t let her in. You can’t afford another mistake. Concentrate on the case for now, and if she’s someone you can honestly consider, you can always find her later. But…why can’t she at least become a friend? I can’t lie to myself – I’m lonely as hell. How amazing would it be to have a person to hang out with who gets at least this much about me? Then again, I would probably fall in love with her after a while, and that means more pain – possibly for both of us. And danger for her. Damn it all! He stopped short of banging his fist on the table in annoyance, instead picking up one of the photographs. An autopsy shot. Lovely.

“What’s the address here?”

He turned to find her holding the phone again, brows raised.

“It’s, just tell them you’ll be on the south end of the abandoned factory on 34th Avenue.”

“Abandoned.” She grinned, sliding a finger across the screen. “Okay.”

He turned back to the table but listened as she told the taxi dispatcher her location and to give her twenty minutes. When the call ended, Xavion stood and went to the sofa, extending a hand. “Ready to try standing on that?”

She nodded and took his hand. When she was on her feet, she looked up at him, her eyes staring directly into his. A slow smile spread across her face.

Noticing how flawless her complexion was, how unusual and beautiful the blue-green of her eyes, he realized he not only hadn’t let go of her hand, but had no desire to do so. He cleared a suddenly tight throat. “How does that feel?” God, I want to kiss you – damn, damn, damn!

She looked down at her ankle, her stance shifting as she put more weight on it.

“I can carry you downstairs, you know. In fact, that might be safer.” Bullshit, Xav. You want to hold her. Cretin.

Emma frowned, taking an experimental step. “Maybe…okay. Sorry.”

“For what?” Making me light up inside?

She shook her head and put her arms around his neck.

Forcing himself not to smile too broadly, he scooped her up and went to the door. “Comfortable?”

“Yup.”

When they were outside, he continued carrying her until they reached the south corner of the large building. Two of the streetlights were out, but Xavion wasn’t worried. He almost wished someone would try something so he could have an outlet for the attack of frustration he was experiencing, and suspected he’d continue to feel long after Emma was gone.

They stood in friendly silence until the taxi rolled up. After helping her into the back seat, he wished her a safe trip home, feeling silly for the remark, and did something he almost couldn’t remember having done before – he blushed.

The taxi drove away. The street grew quiet again. He turned and saw two youths approaching, their eyes shadowed by hoods, their body language threatening. Moving toward them, Xavion glared down at their indistinct faces. “Don’t.”

They faltered, exchanged a glance, and crossed the street.

With perverse regret at their decision, he continued around the corner, up the block, and into the factory. Looks like I won’t be sleeping early after all. He climbed to the top floor, then continued to the end of the catwalk and up the ladder leading to the roof.

Gargoyle, indeed.

 

*******

 

As dangerous as life on the streets may have been, Georgie had nevertheless gotten by well enough. He’d been beaten up two or three times, but never to such a degree that he doubted he’d survive. Black eye, bloody nose, a bad sprain, perhaps a broken rib. Nothing worse. His father’s treatment had been far more severe. So now, having run away from home at fourteen, and managing to live into his mid-twenties, Georgie walked the back alleys and hidden ways with confidence.

The part of the City in which he’d settled, more or less, was the old manufacturing district. All but one of the original factories had been torn down, replaced with apartment buildings that after a few decades were mostly abandoned wrecks. He found food further uptown in restaurant garbage cans, panhandled small change in mid-town, and over the years, became a recognized, accepted member of the homeless community. He slept anywhere convenient – except in the factory, which everyone knew was haunted.

On this icy evening, Georgie was looking for something more sheltered than a doorway, alley, or public bench. Considering the options, he headed into the heart of the district where he knew he could find a relatively safe hallway in one of the vacated tenements – no one called them apartments anymore, a label that was far too respectable to describe what they’d become.

Overhead, the patches of sky visible between buildings had gone from greyish-green to a darker version of the same, threatening some kind of precipitation. Rain, snow, sleet – all of it would be more dirt than water by the time it passed through the smog. He stared up, wishing for stars. He didn’t see the silhouette of a man leaning sideways in the recess of the abandoned storefront he was passing, didn’t sense movement as the figure moved out and into step behind him. Didn’t know what hit him when a moment later what light there was disappeared into eternity.

Georgie gained more fame than he could ever have imagined when, the next morning, a street-cleaning crew found his body slumped against that same storefront, looking like he was asleep except for the blood-rimmed hole where his heart had been.

Four

In a dark corner at the opposite end of the loft was an ancient wooden trunk. Its brass hinges had been kept polished, the ashwood well-preserved with constant, careful treatments of rich oils. Inside were a number of objects from every century between the trunk’s first use until the modern era. Among these, was a small chest containing activated charcoal. Another container, this one glass, held arsenic. Still another – a slightly larger metal box that had the unmistakable lines of something high-tech – contained a number of syringes filled with antidotes for every known treatable poison. Its sister was of red enameled metal, and held needles prepared with something more insidious – substances that could artificially induce convincing, if harmless, versions of various medical states: heart attacks, liver failure, tuberculosis, and several other nice ailments, including death.

In addition to these smaller boxes and chests were glass beakers, dishes, test-tubes, all wrapped with great care and tucked in among some well-worn, leather-covered and hand-bound volumes, separated from the side containing the boxes and chests by a thick glass divider.

A strange thing to own, indeed, was this trunk, but it was part of Xavion’s inheritance, and something about which he’d both known and been involved with since early childhood. Its original owner, he was told, had been an alchemist who had befriended the founder of the G’Argyle family, and who had instructed their ancestor in the skills and science of alchemy. In exchange for this instruction, the first of their line had allowed the alchemist and his colleagues to use him for experiments that had resulted in the genetic anomalies which gave Xavion is unusual abilities.

Right now, he needed to open that trunk and use one of the syringes. After spending a peaceful night on the roof, contemplating the cityscape and the mystery of the murdered homeless men, he had concluded that a trip to the hospital was the next best step. The morning news report about yet another victim made this step urgent. Since going to Winter City General and asking a lot of questions about the identities and behavior of its top heart surgeons would be flat-out stupid, he figured he’d go in as a patient. Asking questions under that circumstance was certain to be viewed as normal.

He knelt beside the trunk, opened it with a large skeleton key, and reached inside. The morning ambience glowing through the windows was more than enough for him to see what he was doing. A good thing, too, since he hadn’t installed any lighting at this end.

The red case had a more intensive lock than the trunk – it called for the raised design on his ring to first be inserted in an oval indentation and turned. This caused a top section to flip open, revealing a complicated series of channels and flat, circular sliders. He moved these around in the proper sequence, and the interior locks released. After reclosing the upper lid, he opened the primary one and read the small labels etched on the metal sleeves holding each syringe. He found what he wanted, removed it, and closed the case. Using his ring again, he redid the outer lock, placed the case back into the trunk, shut and locked this, and stood.

I do not like this stuff. Feels much too real. He went to the other side of the loft and opened what at first looked like a switch plate on the wall. Unlike a standard switch plate, however, it swung open like a small door when he pressed the screws in a pattern. Behind it was a narrow, sponge-lined recess where he would put the syringe after using it. Once he was back home, he could take it out, sterilize the needle, refill it, and put it away in the red case. For now, though, he had to move quickly if he was going to make it to the hospital’s ER before passing out.

“God, I hate this part!” Gritting his teeth with anticipation, he took a bottle of rubbing alcohol out of the cabinet, poured some out on a paper towel, and wiped it on the skin over a large vein in his hand. He put the alcohol back, took a deep breath, and making a fist, slid the needle into the vein. “Really, really hate this,” Xavion muttered, pushing the fluid slowly in.

He removed the needle, massaged the skin over the entry point, and opened the cutlery drawer. He jabbed his hand in a few other placed, dragged it lightly over another to make a line of broken skin, then washed the knife and put it away. Raising his hand and turning it this way and that, he was satisfied that it looked like he’d been attacked by an irate cat, effectively camouflaging the injection.

So far he was feeling none of the effects of the shot. He put the syringe into the lined hiding place and shut the switch plate cover, grabbed his jacket and keys, and went out. He needed to be on the ground floor before the first bout of nausea and light-headedness hit. Maneuvering the steep, metal stairs wasn’t a challenge under normal circumstances, but with that happening, it would be.

Taking his bike wasn’t an option. If any of the symptoms were more severe than expected, he’d be unable to steer – dying for real wasn’t part of the plan. So he walked, taking deep, controlled breaths over the increasing sound in his ears of a slowing heart. By the time he reached the entrance to the ER, he could barely stand. His right shoulder and arm felt like they were on fire, his entire chest felt like it was wrapped in the coils of a giant anaconda, breathing was almost impossible, and he figured he’d be violently ill if he didn’t pass out first.

The emergency personnel, a few of whom knew him from visits for various genuine injuries, helped him to a seat in the Triage section while he told them he thought he was having a heart attack, and within minutes, he was on a stretcher, IV tubes in one arm, respirator tubing clipped into his nose. Had he not been feeling so lousy, he might have found the fact that he was way too tall for the bed amusing. But in fact, the only thing missing from the horrible feeling of serious cardiac arrest was the fear. Xavion knew he wasn’t going to die, that he was fine, and would be symptom-free when the chemical dissipated in a few hours.

In the meantime, though, he was admitted, given a semi-private room, and hooked up to a heart monitor, stationary respirator, and a number of other machines designed to alert the doctors and nurses to any changes in his condition and otherwise keep him alive. An EKG was to be administered within the hour, as well as an MRI, and a sonogram (Xavion couldn’t imagine why that was being done – he wasn’t pregnant). He was glad he had great insurance, because he was beginning to feel like a car that had been brought in for a brake job, and then, mysteriously, was found to have a cracked engine block, a messed-up carburetor, and a bad alternator. Gotta love corporate hospitals…

“How are you feeling, Mr., er, Guh-Argyle?” The nurse who had come to see him had used a glottal stop between the “G” and “Argyle,” and it was all Xavion could do not to snort with laughter.

“G’Argyle,” he whispered, saying it correctly for her. “Terrible. Am I going to die?”

“Well, we hope not, sir. That’s what we’re trying to prevent. Looks like you may have had a heart-attack, but I’ll let the doctor explain all that to you, okay?” She offered a smile, and he concluded it was genuine.

“Thank you.”

The young woman moved away from the bed and picked up a marker attached by a long string to the side of a white-board on the wall. “I’m Tariah,” she said, writing her name on the line next to the pre-printed words, “On-Duty Nurse.” Under this, she put the time, followed by several abbreviations. Then she turned back. “I’ve put the remote by your right hand. The red button on top is your call-button if you need me.”

“Thanks.” He wanted to smile back, but was feeling nauseated again.

She checked his IV, patted his hand, and went out.

Whoever was in the other bed groaned. The voice sounded male; an ugly flowered curtain separated the two beds, so it was a guess. Xavion wondered if the person was okay, but felt that if he tried to speak, to ask, he’d throw up. Not good. Instead, he closed his eyes, bored, and waited for things to get better.

Aside from the steady, contrapuntal beeps of his and his room-mate’s heart monitors, the room was quiet. Between the hypnotic, mechanical sound and whatever medicines were flowing into his body, Xavion was soon lulled into a dream-torn sleep.

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

“I have to say I’m baffled – yesterday you seemed to be suffering from what should have been a fatal cardiac failure. Now, less than fourteen hours later, you’re in the peak of health.” The cardiac surgeon tapped the clipboard holding Xavion’s chart.

After peering at the name, “Dr. Albion Coel, MD, Facc, Facp” on the doctor’s badge, Xavion started to wonder about its obvious ancient Anglo-Saxon origins, but stopped when he realized the man was staring at him as if expecting an explanation. “How odd. Are you sure?” Frown, Xav. Look a little annoyed. That’s it – good.

“Yes, Mr. G’Argyle, I’m sure. I’ve been doing this for decades. Did you take any kind of drug yesterday, or perhaps ate something unusual to which you might have had an unexpected allergic reaction?”

“I don’t do drugs. Of any kind. However, I did have…no, I’ve eaten that before and never…huh. I don’t know what to tell you.”

“All right.” The man sighed, glanced at the chart again, flipped through a few pages, and stood. “Let’s go through your symptoms, shall we? You weren’t exactly able to tell me anything soon after you got here.”

Xavion slid back so his feet were no longer dangling off the end of the bed – he was surprised that a hospital wouldn’t have the foresight to stock beds and stretchers for taller-than-average patients – and gave a description of how the injection had affected him. Of course, he never mentioned the injection itself. When he was done, he shrugged, gave the doctor a look of earnest expectation, and waited.

Pacing was the reaction. Not a reply expressing concern or puzzlement. Pacing. As if he was irritated. But then he sat once more and made a few notes on the final page behind the chart. “I’ll have to see if I can find some precedence for this. Until then, I won’t know how to treat it.”

“Am I all right?”

“It would appear so.”

“Then why can’t I go home?”

“Not an option, I’m afraid. I need to know what took you out like that. It’s almost as if you’d been poisoned.” He raised a brow.

Oh, shit. No…Using all the self-control he had, Xavion gave what he hoped was a casual shrug. “I don’t see how that could have happened. I mean, why would you even think something like that?”

“Because your symptoms shouldn’t have disappeared the way they did, leaving no evidence of cardiac distress. I find this very strange, indeed.”

“Can’t say I don’t agree.” Xavion gave a short, friendly-sounding laugh. It made reasonable sense that if this man was the murderer, he’d recognize poisons and substances that could debilitate someone. And there was another possibility, but he dismissed it as too bizarre. Regardless, he had to be sure the doctor only saw him as a victim of something, not someone hunting a predator. “At least I don’t need surgery, right?”

“Right. Maybe. If I discover something that indicates deeper exploration, and which can’t be detected on a scan of any kind, then yes, I’ll want to operate.”

With a nod and a crooked smile, Xavion leaned his head back against the pillows. “If you absolutely have to, but I won’t lie – the thought of heart surgery terrifies me,” he lied. “The idea of being sliced open – ” He gave a forced shudder. “Not a fan of knives, you know?”

Dr. Coel leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Nowadays, though, the more intricate surgeries are done with a laser, if that’s any comfort.”

“A laser? How does that work?”

“Well, the whole procedure is too complicated to explain in layman’s terms, but we have a special – and very, very expensive – piece of machinery that allows precision at the molecular level. And when it comes to the heart, that’s the kind of precision you want.”

“What about scarring?”

“Not as severe as the kind left by standard surgical procedures. And there’s always cosmetic surgery to fix it.” He looked like he was holding in a smirk.

“I wasn’t talking about the outside – I really don’t care about that. I mean scars on the heart tissue. I watched a program on heart transplants and blockages, and scarring was one of the concerns they mentioned.” Good one, Xav! Sounded pretty legit.

“Hmm. Yes, well, with laser surgery, as I said, it is’t as severe.” He got up once more, his smile inching toward genuine. “We’ll find out what hit you, Mr. G’Argyle, get it fixed, and send you on your way. And with luck and a good diet, we should never have to see you again, okay?”

“Okay! Thanks so much, Dr. Coel.” He purposely mispronounced it, turning the vowel into a dipthong – he knew damn well it was pronounced, “Cole.”

“My pleasure. Rest now, and be sure to let the nurse know if any of the symptoms return, even if they’re slight.”

Xavion nodded, smiling, then let the smile fade into a scowl once the doctor was gone. His biggest concern was that the police would find out he was in the hospital. If this doctor was the killer, he didn’t need to see his patient being visited by the Police Captain from the same precinct as the murders. The door, so to speak, had been left open for surgery; how easy it would be for him to die in the course of one. A slip of that laser and – oops! So sorry, but these things happen…right.

He took the hospital phone from the rolling table next to the bed, called the main number at the station, and was connected with Faragon’s office immediately.

“You solved it already?” The Captain’s eagerness was unreasonable.

“I’m in the hospital.”

“What? Are you sick?”

“No, doing research. If you hear about it, don’t come visit. I may know who is doing this, but need another day.”

“All right. We had another one last night, you know.”

“I didn’t. Who was it?”

“Remember Georgie?”

Xavion clenched his jaw. He knew Georgie. Not well, but he figured the guy had more of a chance than most in his position to get out and off the streets one day. “Yes.”

“Pity. He was lots younger than the others.”

“Hmm. I’ll call you when I’m done here.” He hung up, angry, not wanting to hear more. Freakin’ Georgie. Damn.

His need to solve the case had just turned urgent.

Five

 

“Hey! Mr. G! What happened? You crash your bike again?”

Xavion opened his eyes, his expression lighting with a smile at his visitor – Jake Carter, one of the orderlies who knew him from his many trips to the ER. “Jake. Good to see you, and no, the bike is fine.”

“But you aren’t. I was kidding about the bike – you wouldn’t be in this Unit for that, and I wouldn’t be here to cart you off for a Cardiac Scan.”

Nodding, the P.I. closed his eyes again.

“Huh. Guess they gave you something…”

“They” hadn’t, but Xavion didn’t feel like answering the cascade of questions he was sure Jake was about to ask. So he kept his eyes shut as the orderly put up the sides of the bed, lowered the head a little, took the brakes off, and tugged the bed out of the room. The only I.V. still attached was a hydrating solution, the only machinery a portable heart monitor.

The sound of the elevator door opening with a ding was followed by a brief set of bumps as the wheels went over the gap and into the paneled space. Xavion registered these events automatically, but the greater part of his mind was busy with an imaginary map he’d called up. Radiology was on the same floor as the larger ORs and if he wasn’t mistaken, they’d have to pass a number of them on the way.

He opened his eyes as the elevator dinged again, this time on the Maternity floor where three nurses got on, shuffling sideways to fit alongside his bed. His question would have to wait. Two of the nurses got off at the next floor, a doctor got on who Xavion didn’t recognize, and all of them exited at the first floor.

“Jake.”

“You’re awake again, eh?”

“Nope. Talking in my sleep.”

Jake grinned, but Xavion missed it, the orderly behind the bed now, pushing it on smooth, silent wheels down the hall.

“I may have to have surgery, and the doctor said something about a laser. You know anything about that?”

“What – laser surgery? Sure. Why?”

“I was, well, it’s kinda scary, at least to me, and I might feel better about it if I could see what the thing looked like.”

They turned a corner. “What are you asking me – to show you the laser they use? That’s a tall order, my friend.”

“I’m a tall guy.” And I don’t believe I just said that…

“Funny, Mr. G. Funny.” He chuckled. “Anyway, the room is locked where they keep the thing. Apparently, it cost more than the entire new Leukemia Center they added last year.”

“Is there a window in the door?”

Jake slowed. “You’re really freaked out at the idea, aren’t you!”

“You could say that.” But not for the reason you think.

“All right, look. Can you sit up, or stand? I’ll take the long way so we go right past the room. And yes, there’s a window.”

“I can get up. Thanks, Jake. I appreciate this more than I can say.” Knowing what the machine looked like wasn’t what mattered – he needed to see the details of room access, security, personnel presence, things like that. A daily schedule of the machine’s use, as well as information on who had clearance to even go in there, would be nice to have as well. Not holding out much hope for that list, he nonetheless prepared himself to process as much as he could with his eyes.

They took a series of hallways, each one quieter than the last, it seemed, until they went through a double door that opened only when Jake swiped his i.d. card in a slotted security pad on the wall nearby. This part of the hospital looked deserted, but behind one of the doors, Xavion detected the electronic blips of monitors and a low murmur of one or two voices. They were passing one of the larger operating rooms; three doors beyond this, Jake slowed, bringing the bed to a halt a few feet from a wide, windowed door.

“This it?”

“Yup. Can you get up – oh, guess so. Hey, watch your I.V., dude!”

“Right.” Xavion had slid off the side of the bed after shifting around past the railing, and then stared into the room. The window was set high in the door, but because of his height, this posed no problem. Slipping a hand behind the cloth of his hospital gown, he tried turning the knob, moving a bit to hide what he was doing from Jake.

Locked. As expected.

From this limited vantage, he could see a bank of machines on the wall facing him, at the end of which was a device that looked like it had been imported from another planet. Similar to an MRI in general contour, it had an opening that was larger and had what appeared to be a complex system of lights inside. Turning his gaze left, he took in the corner of a counter with cabinets hung above – a place to keep and set out medications or small surgical equipment, perhaps. Okay. On the right side of the room, or as far to the right as he could see, was a window, the rows of seats on its other side barely visible beyond the reflection on the glass from the room’s bluish lighting. Observation room?

Cameras – he saw one in each corner within his view, and assumed there were two more in the other corners. He also noted that on the surface of the laser machine was a small slot that looked like it would fit a key of some kind. Which meant the machine couldn’t simply be switched on. Whoever was using it had to have clearance and keys to both the door and the machine.

Backing away, he glanced up and saw – no surprise – cameras trained at the door and as he got back onto the bed, more cameras down the hall, all of which were facing him at the moment. Whatever. He had a legitimate excuse for being there, one that would cover Jake as well…he hoped.

“Feel better?”

“No. But thanks.” Xavion smiled and resettled himself in the bed.

“You’ll be fine, Mr. G. I don’t doubt that one bit.”

Grateful for the orderly’s positive attitude and encouragement, Xavion hoped the man would suffer no repercussions for his help. “You’re a good friend.”

“Well, you’re one of the nice ones. Can’t tell you how many ungrateful grouches I have to deal with every day.” He laughed, no bitterness in the sound, and they headed back toward their scheduled destination.

As they reached the Radiology Department, Xavion realized he hadn’t seen the only thing that would have made entry to the room with the laser much easier for the killer – another door. Which told him the doctor had to get past the hall cameras as well as room security with an unconscious body.

Now here was a puzzle he was going to enjoy unraveling.

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

“I think this is the first time I’ve been disturbed by a good report.”

Xavion regarded Dr. Coel with feigned puzzlement. “I don’t get you. My results from the scan were good, and you’re disturbed by them? Why?”

Tapping the clipboard computer with one finger, the cardiologist shook his head. “No, Mr. G’Argyle. Not good. Perfect. You have one of the strongest hearts and best circulatory systems I’ve ever seen. That isn’t possible, considering the condition you were in when you were admitted last night. There are also some other things I noticed when checking through the battery of tests we gave you over the past few hours, things I also doubt I can explain.” He raised his brows, pursuing his lips.

“Ah.” The man’s body language was speaking volumes, the clarity of his behavior something that didn’t track with a person trying to cover a hidden – and deadly – agenda. Xavion frowned, realizing he might very well have the wrong person in his sights as murderer. As for the other – time to test that one out. “Well, I might be able to explain some of that.”

“So you know what I’m talking about, then?”

“I have weird genetics.” He gave the man a twisted smile. “I’m surprised no one noticed it during one of my many visits here in the past.”

The doctor appeared to relax, and pulled over the rolling stool by the wall. “First, why the ‘many’ visits’?” He sat, tapping the screen on the clipboard, making it go dark.

“I ride a Harley. And…sometimes I go too fast. So far, I’ve been lucky – my accidents haven’t been all that bad, but I have needed to be stitched up from time to time.” Or have bullet holes mended, even though I explained them as kickstand punctures.

“Do you use a helmet?”

“Of course.”

“Good. I’ll never understand bikers who don’t. I mean, how can whatever thrill it gives them compare with the possibility of a horrible death? Anyway, tell me about your genetics.” He crossed his legs, the curiosity in his voice in no way sinister.

Relieved at this absence of anything suggestive of menace, and hoping he had his answer to the problem that had prompted him to listen for it, Xavion sat straighter. “One of my ancestors was the victim of a kind of…accident having to do with some obscure chemical thing. Whatever it was, it screwed with his genes, and went deep enough into his cell structure to affect his offspring. Those carrying the mutation passed it down to their own progeny. Seems I’m one of the recipients of this recessive gene, and certain blood tests will show the anomaly, but not what it does.” Nothing in his eyes or expression indicated how closely he was watching the other man’s reaction.

“Sounds like science-fiction.” Despite the skeptical words, the doctor seemed fascinated. “So what does it do? How is it manifested?”

“Turn off the lights and close the door, please. And no, I’m not going to do anything violent or stupid.”

Dr. Coel gave him a crazy look, but said nothing, getting up and going to the door. “Okay. Here you go.” He switched off the light and closed the door, shrouding the room in near-darkness. Only the tiny lights on the heart monitor gave any illumination, and that was minimal; the room’s window was already darkened by thick blinds. “Now what?”

“Do something with your hand, either one, but only one.”

“Okay.”

“You raised your left hand, scratched your nose, and are waving at me, but now your hand is in front of your chest.”

The light went back on. “How the hell did you do that?”

“I can see almost perfectly in the dark.”

The doctor gaped. “Holy…what else can you do?” He gave a short laugh. “As if that isn’t enough!”

“Nothing I can demonstrate here. But I can tell you about it, if you like.”

“Sure.”

“I have perfect balance, dead aim, and can jump from the top of a two-story building, land on my feet, and not be hurt.” Did you already know that, Dr. Coel?

Inhaling, then releasing the air through his nose, the doctor shook his head. “If I hadn’t seen you do that seeing-in-the-dark thing, I’d be furious right now, believing you were purposely telling me crap to waste my time. On the other hand,” he continued, moving away from the door to sit next to the bed again, “the results I saw from the test actually fit with what you’re telling me. Not that there’s anything I can do with this information.” He uttered a low chuckle and turned the clipboard back on. “I’m surprised no one followed up on it when you’ve had blood tests before.”

“I think it freaked people out. That, and the fact that anyone with ideas about turning me into a science experiment might hesitate based on my size and strength.”

“Meaning you wouldn’t go quietly, I take it.” His grin was open now.

“Pretty much. So maybe all of that explains the result of the cardiac scan?”

Nodding, the doctor got up. “Maybe. The density of your muscles must be off the charts if you can jump safely from a height like that. I imagine that would make you very strong.”

For all the good that quality did my family over the years. “It does.”

“Well. I think that after another physical, you should be eligible for release, Mr. G’Argyle.” He put the clipboard into a holder at the foot of the bed. “By the way, don’t let Jake play with this – it’s some very expensive technology.” He pointed to the device.

“What do you mean?” That sounded odd.

“He’s only an orderly, as you know, but I think he has dreams of being an actual doctor. I’ve caught him looking at patients’ charts from time to time, but always when there’s a female nurse somewhere nearby.”

“Sounds more like he’s trying to impress someone.” Okay, not so odd.

“I do believe you’re right. Although he did seem most interested in yours. Stared at it for a long time. Of course, the desk nurses were watching the whole time through the open door.” He laughed. “Guess it was harmless.”

Good one, Jake… “I’m sure it was. Anyway, thanks. Oh, and I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t share what I told you – with anyone.”

Coel gave him a serious look for several seconds before answering. “Hm. I suppose I can understand that. Sure. Not a soul, Mr. G’Argyle. But please – next time you feel chest pain, ask for me first. I’ll know what to look for, maybe.”

Nodding, Xavion thanked him, slid down a bit, and closed his eyes. With any luck, he’d be out and back home before nightfall. His roof was calling to him, and once there, he’d be able to think much, much better.

Impressum

Texte: Judy Colella
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 20.01.2014

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