Authors: Tim Lees

Devil in the Wires (30 page)

T
hey say that time does many things, mostly that it heals, but if so, it wasn't trying to rush the job. Two weeks on, and I still ached. I'd got off lightly, I suppose, all things considered: a Âcouple of broken ribs, a fractured tibia, internal bruising, and the rest. The cuts along my arm had opened up again, for good measure. Apart from that, it really wasn't bad. Not bad at all.

I had come back to the Beach House to see Shailer, for what I hoped would be a final meeting. He was determined to be cheerful about everything; the mask of corporate optimism had descended now and seized him thoroughly. He wore a neat white shirt and a bright floral-Âpattern tie, the point of which he had explained to me: “You have to create a picture of yourself in Âpeople's minds, Chris. Something that stands out. Pattern recognition for the human face is actually surprisingly poor, when it comes to distinguishing one person from another. I know that may seem strange, but .Â .Â .”

I checked my watch. I was due at Angel's in an hour.

“Everything's rolling again. See, Chris? Everything's all right.”

We were standing in the compound. No visitors, as yet, but once more, there was a god in place.

He said, “It's not Assur.”

“I can see that.”

It hung in the air where Assur had been: shadowy, a little vague, like ripples of light reflected off water. It was soft, cool, almost hypnotic in its rhythms. Now and then the movements shifted, changed direction, hinting at some complex, half-Âseen pattern: circles, spirals, waves.

He said, “In view of what we now know, what we found out .Â .Â . we thought Assur needed a more in-Âdepth investigation. There's so much potential, Chris. Astonishing potential. Too much to be used as a .Â .Â . a power supply. I mean, just think of it! While this fellow,” he jerked a thumb at the containment fields, “is pretty run of the mill. You know the kind?”

“They're none of them run of the mill.”

“It's actually a local. One of your colleagues hooked it at a church in Morgan Park. It's smallâÂwon't exactly light the city, like we'd plannedâÂbut it'll keep a few blocks going, till we find something better.”

“Assur .Â .Â .”

“Is well taken care of, Chris. Don't worry.” He grinned, made to clap me on the shoulder, then thought better of it. “Sorry. Still hurts, huh?”

I nodded. I said, “Assur is .Â .Â . in Newark?”

“No, no. He's somewhere nice and safe. Isolated.”

“It's still dangerous.”

“
ÂPeople
are dangerous, Chris. God knows, all your awful injuriesâÂyou should have gotten that idea, all right.” He put his head on one side, watching me. “You're looking a lot better, by the way. How do you feel?”

I said, “The shields weren't strong enough.”

“The system was designed by experts. You checked it out yourself. Gave it a big thumbs-Âup, as I recall. Experts, Chris. Sometimes, these thingsâÂ”

“There's no such thing as experts,” I said. “We only think we know. We don't. And as for your Mr. BenedictâÂ”

“He's back in L.A., and remains in a consultancy role. Like it or not, Chris, and I recognize you have a certain .Â .Â . personal attitude here, but he's the best source of information we could have. And that's that.”

“You know he's got his own agenda.”

“Chris, Chris, Chris.” He clicked his tongue. “Everybody's got their own agenda. That's business, right?” He smiled. He clapped his hands. Then he said, “I suppose you're aware that your friend Angel's put in for Field Ops, aren't you?”

I nodded, suspicious of the non sequitur.

He said, “I expect you'd like some time together? Work a Âcouple of jobs or something?”

He didn't wait for an answer. He shook my hand, promised he'd call me, and headed off towards whatever business he had waiting. L.A., Seattle, VegasÂ .Â .Â .

I wasn't sure if I'd been bribed or threatened.

Knowing Shailer, it was probably both.

I
n those long, solitary days, I worked my way through Angel's CDs, everything from Schoenberg and John Adams to Tuareg thrumming and some weird, Indonesian thing that sounded like birdsong. The more abstract, though, the more I liked it. I could tune it in, or tune it out, depending on my needs.

I took long, slow walks around the neighborhood, letting the sun knit my flesh together, heal my bones, calm my mind.

It gave me time to think.

Gotowski, I knew all about. Too much, in fact. The others were just nobodies. Minor players, petty criminals at best. Not one of them had killed, not till the god arrived, and gave them strength, and will. But I could bet they'd wanted to. Every single one of them. Probably many, many times.

Only twoâÂlonghair and GotowskiâÂhad survived. Woollard asked me for some help in the interrogation, or at least, some help interpreting their answers, but I declined.

Conflict of interest, and all that.

O
ne night Angel came home, and she told me, “I know where they took Assur.”

“Really?”

“Not the location, not exactly. But there's something doing the rounds on YouTube. It caused a big fuss in the office. And then everyone shut up.”

“Nice.”

She got the thing on screen without much trouble. It was a view across a lake, or perhaps a wide river. There were woodlands on the other side, pine woods. A group of deer were drinking at the water's edge. I didn't think much of it till the male looked up, his antlers like sails, bigger than anything I'd ever seen in any zoo.

“It's somewhere in Canada. That's what it says.” She played it through again. It was only a few seconds long. “No one's seen a deer like that inâÂI don't know. A million years.”

“Or just a few weeks back.”

“Yeah. Just a few weeks .Â .Â .”

She poured us a glass of wine each.

Later, I asked her, “Is it good, the thing we do?”

“You can ask that about any job.”

“I know. But I'm asking about mine. I always thought it was. I thought it was a good thing.”

“Then it's a good thing,” she said.

“OK.” I sipped the wine, nodded. “You really think that?”

“Yeah.” She looked at me over her glass. “It's a good thing,” she said again. “Until the time comes when it's not.”

Acknowledgments

T
hanks are due once more to editor extraordinaire Rebecca Lucash, not only for her work on the manuscript but also for her quick response to queries, and tactful handling of the usual authorial breakdowns, panic attacks, and rampant paranoia. Thanks, too, to everyone at HarperVoyager for their continued work and enthusiasm. Thanks to the HV authors' group for support, and for sharing both trials and triumphs. Good luck to you all! And thanks, especially, to my long-Âsuffering wife Charity, for help and support beyond measure, and for still trying valiantly to accept the notion that, when her husband is lounging around, or spending the afternoon in a local cafÃ©, he is actually “working.” Or so he claims.

About the Author

T
IM LEES
is a British author living in Chicago. His short fiction has appeared in
Postscripts, Black Static,
and
Interzone,
among many other publications. He is author of
The God Hunter,
the collection
The Life to Come,
nominated for a British Fantasy Award, and the novel
Frankenstein's Prescription,
described by
Publishers Weekly
as “a philosophically insightful and literary tale of terror.” When not writing, he has held a variety of jobs, including teacher, conference organizer, film extra, and worker in a psychiatric hospital.

His blog is www.timlees.wordpress.com.

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Also by Tim Lees

The God Hunter

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

DEVIL IN THE WIRES. Copyright Â© 2015 by Tim Lees. All rights reserved under International and Pan-ÂAmerican Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-Âbook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-Âengineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperÂCollins e-Âbooks.

EPub Edition May 2015 ISBN: 9780062358837

Print Edition ISBN: 9780062358844

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