Jack Yeovil - Krokodil Tears

Wicking threw up his hands, and slumped in his seat. His jacket opened, and Duroc saw he was carrying a discreet gun. Dr Proctor saw it, too.

Time passed, and everyone in the room looked at each other.

Finally, Dr Proctor broke the deadlock. "M. Duroc, talk to me. Tell me what you can offer. Tell me about Jessamyn Bonney and the Josephites."

Duroc was impressed. The man might be as crazy as a backstreet Bonaparte, but he was sharp, and he had sources of information nobody knew about. He hadn't tested ESP-positive in his medicals, but there were ways round the examination.

"Well?"

Duroc drew in a breath. "Dr Proctor, I do not represent the government. Unlike Mr Wicking and Mr Russell, I have no legal authority here. I am not even an American citizen. I am French by birth, but my current passport lists me as a resident of Deseret—you know what that means?"

"Oh yes, an interesting geopolitical experiment, Deseret. Oliver should never have gone along with it. A bad precedent. Within seven years, Missouri, Arkansas and Kentucky will petition for secession from the Union. And perhaps Tennessee. You heard it here first. It will come. Oliver should send reinforcements to Fort Sumter. I'm sorry. I digress. Academic footnotes, it's a bad habit."

"That's quite all right. The Church of Joseph would like to employ you as a consultant in the case of Jessamyn Bonney. You know her?"

"I know of her. We haven't moved in the same circles."

Duroc brought out his file. It had been amended a little since the death of Bronson Manolo.

"This is ridiculous," Dr Proctor said. "Please may I have a hand? The left will do."

Wicking chewed his lip, and signalled to the sergeant. Gilhooly drew his pistol, and held it to Dr Proctor's head while he fussed with his keyring. A manacle fell, and Dr Proctor waved his hand about to get rid of an ache.

"One move, Otto…" Gilhooly stood behind the man in the chair, his gun cocked and pointed at Dr Proctor's pineal gland. "I'd like it, you know."

Dr Proctor leafed through the Jessamyn Bonney data.

"Hmmn. Interesting girl. What's her score?"

"Nowhere near, Ottokar," said Wicking. "You don't have to worry about the record. Yet."

"Don't be vulgar, Francis. It's not a game, you know. It's not basketball."

"What is it then? All the killing?"

"It's an Art. It's the authentic American Folk Art."

The Tasmanian Devil looked up from the file. "Well, M. Duroc?"

Duroc put his hands on the table. "We would like Jessamyn Bonney dead."

"That shouldn't make you happy, but certainly won't make you lonely."

Russell said, "Roger, I don't see where this is leading us. Your people didn't say anything about…"

Duroc raised his hand. "Silence." Russell's jaw dropped. "Thank you. Dr Proctor, we are prepared to offer you more than the deal presented by the United States of America. You have been convicted by no court recognized in Deseret. You could be awarded citizenship."

Wicking was furious. "This is freakin' insane."

"Shush, Francis," said Dr Proctor. "I'm interested."

"You could be granted political asylum in Salt Lake City."

"I'd rather stay here. No, just kidding."

Gilhooly was confused. The sergeant's brain wasn't up to this. Good, that gave Duroc a better than 80% chance of success. The other officer, Bean, was picking his nose and scratching his belly.

"All you have to do is kill one girl. After so many, that shouldn't be difficult."

Wicking got up. "I'm ending this meeting now. I had no idea when the President's office authorized your presence that you would be taking such an extreme stance. Mr Duroc, I shall be reporting in full…"

Duroc pulled the ivory throwing star—invisible to the asylum's metal detector—and flicked it across the room.

Gilhooly's throat opened in a cloud of blood. Dr Proctor's hand was behind him in an instant, catching the falling pistol.

Wicking nearly got his gun out, but not quite.

The shot rang loudly in the room. Wicking took his chair with him as he tumbled backwards.

Duroc was on the other side of the room now, his hand over Bean's mouth, pinching the guard's nostrils. He struggled, and died.

"Don't worry, M. Duroc. Everything in this place is soundproofed. Too many screams in the night."

Russell was speechless, trembling. Duroc had scooped up Gilhooly's keys, and was methodically stripping Dr Proctor of his chains.

Gilhooly twitched on the floor, still bleeding. Dr Proctor was free now. He stretched his arms and stamped around. He passed the gun to Duroc, who turned it on Russell. The Treasury man put his hands up.

Dr Proctor knelt by the sergeant, and took hold of the throwing star lodged in his windpipe.

"I told you," he said, twisting, "not to call me Otto."

The star scraped bone. Gilhooly gurgled, and stopped kicking. Dr Proctor stood up, and smiled at the Treasury Man.

"Ottokar," said Russell, "we have a relationship…"

"That's right, Julian. A very close relationship. None closer."

The Tasmanian Devil looked around for something. He saw the coffee things, and picked a teaspoon out of the sugarbowl.

"How careless," he said. "It should have been plastic. I suppose aluminium is cheaper than any petroleum byproduct in these troubled times."

"Ottokar…"

Dr Proctor stood over Russell, the spoon in one hand, his other on the Treasury man's shoulder.

"Dr Proctor," said Duroc. "Hurry up. We have a very brief window of opportunity here."

"It's a moment's work, Monsieur."

Even Duroc didn't want to watch the Devil at work. By the time the screaming was over, he had Bean stripped of his uniform.

"Is this your size?" he said.

"A little generous over the belly, but we can tighten his belt."

Dr Proctor stripped out of his whites, and pulled the uniform on. They would have used Gilhooly's clothes, but there was a little blood on the collar.

"Ready?"

"Yes, Monsieur." Dr Proctor held up the teaspoon. It was red.

"What are we waiting for?"

"Cook's privilege," the Devil said, "I get to lick the spoon."

"Jesse, what's wrong?"

"I don't know. Hawk. It all seems so crazy, sometimes. The Dreams, the prophecies. I'm a girl from the Denver NoGo, not some picstrip superheroine."

"You've come a long way from the NoGo."

"Have I? Have I really?"

"You know the answer. What were you? A petty criminal, a sociopath. You've killed, you've robbed…"

"That was just a phase, you know. You grow out of it."

"The people you killed won't grow out of it."

"I've never killed anyone who wouldn't have killed me."

"That's not true."

"…you're right."

"How do you feel about that?"

"…I don't know. It doesn't seem like the same girl. With the gangcult, it was different. You just kept riding along with the pack, you did what was expected…"

"You were the leader of the pack."

"Yes, but that just meant the others expected more of me."

"Would you go back, if you could?"

"I'd bring back Andrew Jean and Cheeks and the others, yes."

"That's not what I asked. Would you ride with the gangcults again? Waiting for the Op or the Maniak who'd take you down?"

"No. I'm too old, anyway. But no."

"And what else have you got to do?"

"Save the world?"

"Don't make that sound so bad, Jesse."

"Isn't it? This world isn't all that worth saving, if you ask me."

"You can't spend your whole life killing your father."

"What's that got to do with it?"

"Your father brought you into this world, and your father was scum, therefore you reject the world."

"That sounds too easy to me. My father wasn't the only slimeball in the world. For a start, you should meet my mother, wherever she is. Rancid Robyn."