Voice of the Whirlwind Read Free Page B

was a short young man, aggressive, who made many sudden, angry gestures. When he gestured, he often bared his teeth. Hikita was older, gray-haired, with a little toothbrush mustache and a weary air. They had tried to run good cop/bad cop on him earlier, but neither of them seemed to have his heart in it, not after he told them where he’d spent the night.
    Hikita was drinking coffee out of a foam cup. “Your alibi checks,” he said.
    “Thank you,” Steward said. “We agree on that.”
    “You seemed an obvious suspect. Being a trained killer. Not being where you were supposed to be.”
    Steward shrugged. He didn’t like cops, whether they agreed with him or not. Call it an old reflex. Lemercier looked at him and sucked in his lips, his mouth becoming a thin, angry line.
    “You have no idea who would want to kill Dr. Ashraf?” he asked. “Just for the record?”
    “I only saw the man between five and ten hours per week, and even then I did all the talking. I don’t know who else he knew. Check his records.”
    “He didn’t die in a nice way, Mr. Steward.” Lemercier was showing his teeth again. “He was tied into his office chair and tortured. First with something very sharp, like a scalpel. Then with pliers. Then they garroted him. Almost took his head off. Would you like to see the pictures?”
    Steward looked at him. “No.”
    Lemercier leaned closer. Steward was thinking about the soundproofing in Ashraf’s office and how no one could have heard anything. The doctor’s screams wouldn’t even have been as loud as the bullet train. Someone knew that.
    “Field interrogation,” Lemercier said. “That’s what they called it, right? When they taught you about how to do things like that. You learn anything about the use of pliers?”
    Steward gazed into Lemercier’s eyes. “Yes,” he said. “I remember the lecture on pliers. They made us take notes.” His eyes moved from one detective to another, then back. “You still trying to make this case, or what? My alibi checks, remember?”
    Hikita and Lemercier exchanged featureless glances. Hikita turned to Steward. “We can’t check Ashraf’s records,” he said, mumbling into his coffee cup. “Somebody broke into the hospital main computer and wiped them. We only have his appointment book.”
    “Did they teach you to wipe computers in the Icehawks, Mr. Steward?” Lemercier, of course.
    “I imagine anything I know is out of date,” Steward said.
    He looked at the graffiti on the pink walls, lounge lizards rule. manx man was here . Dates. écrasez l’infâme.
    The last was his own, drawn two hours ago while he was being observed through the two-way glass set in the wall. It had been the motto of the Canards. He said, “Did he have an appointment scheduled for last night?”
    “No.”
    “Not much help, huh?”
    “ Écrasez l’infâme ,” Hikita said mildly. “I looked it up. What infamous thing do you wish to eradicate?”
    “What infamous thing do you have?”
    Hikita put down his cup of coffee. “You can go,” he said.
    Steward eased himself out of the bunk, opened the soundproofed door, and stepped into a corridor. It was yellow and smelled of fresh paint.
    Outside, the view of the mountains was cut into strips by glass towers. Steward chose one of the long reflective canyons that had a mountain view and walked along it, toward the green on the horizon.
    He decided it was time to find out about Sheol.
    *
    At the hospital they told him it would be several days before he would be assigned his new doctor. They gave him a chit for the pharmacy in case he felt anxiety in the meantime. He cashed the chit, put the capsules in his pocket, and forgot about them. Then he went to the library and looked up the Artifact War.
    There wasn’t much that filtered through the Outward Policorps’ security. There hadn’t been many survivors, and after the breakup of the policorps responsible, those remaining in authority preferred to discourage interest.