George Martin: Lowball

Baba Yaga stared down. It was nearly impossible to hold her gaze. Marcus had seen hard men. He’d faced monstrous jokers. He’d killed men who wanted to kill him. But none of them had a face as deathly fierce as this old woman. The anger in her eyes pummeled him, seared him.

Watching must have unnerved the crowd. Whispers passed through the audience. Uncomfortable shifting. A few rose and then stood, unsure what was happening. One man, sounding drunk, said this wasn’t what he paid for. The woman next to him shushed him.

“Marcus,” Father Squid said, “you could still-”

“Never,” Marcus said.

“I only wanted a future for you.”

“A future with your blood on my hands? Never.”

Baba Yaga’s voice was small and cold, and yet reached them clearly. “You defy me? Foolish boy.” She puckered her thin lips. She sucked in her cheeks, leaned forward, and spat.

The spittle fell through the wire mesh and down toward Marcus. Such a small action from such a small woman. Pathetic, he thought, if that’s the best she can do .

Father Squid smashed into Marcus’s side and shoved him away.

The small gob of spit landed where Marcus had been a moment before. It splattered on the side of Father Squid’s cheek. The priest yanked his face away, but not quickly enough. He pressed his fingers to his tentacled cheek. He staggered. His body went rigid, fingers jerking spasmodically. His black eyes bulged, as if a great pain had bloomed inside him and he just then understood it.

Marcus slid toward him. He reached out, but Father Squid twisted away. He walked a few stiff steps before one of his legs buckled. In the complete hush of the arena, Marcus heard the snap of bone breaking. Not just once but again and again, a whole concussion of fractures. Father Squid went down. At first he grasped his leg, but he let go when it began to bend and twist. And then his other did the same. His head snapped back, banging against the floor. His torso bulged as if living things were moving beneath his skin. He rolled over and tried to push himself up. A wave rolled up his spine, audibly snapping vertebrae as it did. His arms and legs wouldn’t support him. They were shattered, rubbery things, writhing.

And then he did rise, but not by his own power. The terror on his face made that clear. His body levered up from the floor, slowly, excruciatingly, supported on legs that were no longer legs. When he was upright, his eyes found Marcus. With great, trembling effort, he said one long, drawn-out word. “Lizzzzzzzzie…”

Before he was finished, the name rose into a scream. His torso snapped back from his middle and he became a molten form morphing out of all recognizing. His face went liquid. His eyes held their shape but they swam within the shifting chaos. His mouth was still a mouth and it screamed and screamed …

Until it stopped. Until all the horrible motion ceased. Marcus stared, recognizing what stood on the floor beside him, but not believing it. In the silence of the arena, Marcus-and everyone else-stared at the strange structure that was and wasn’t Father Squid. The priest had been transformed into a prayer bench, complete with padded platform for the knees and an upper shelf for the faithful to lean against, heads bowed. Trapped in material that wasn’t exactly flesh but wasn’t wood or metal or plastic either, the father still breathed. His mouth stretched wide across the front portion of the bench. He saw still, through eyes that no longer had a face. Instead, they looked up from the shelf on which one of the faithful might tent their hands in prayer.

Franny had flashed A badge at a cabbie, and shoved the handcuffed Berman into the back of the cab. He hadn’t been gentle. They had wasted weeks, even shut down the investigation when all the while this man had held the key. And had kept silent while people died. Thinking about Father Squid and all the others trapped in a nightmare had Franny’s hands clenching in impotent rage.

Wingman goggled at him as he blew in the door of the precinct, shoving the producer ahead of him. “Book this asshole.”

“Okay. For what?”

“Attempted murder, assaulting a police officer, kidnapping, conspiracy … hell, being an asshole for that matter. Captain?”

“He’s in,” Homer said, still looking poleaxed.

Franny nodded. Homer called down to Sergeant Squinch and took control of Berman. Franny pushed through into the bullpen. Michael Stevens, seated at his desk, looked at him. Strain had etched lines around his eyes. He looked like a man who had lost everything. Franny ignored him, strode across the room to the office door, gave one pre-emptory knock and walked in. Maseryk looked up, a Jovian frown creasing his forehead. Surprisingly Mendelberg was also there, seated in a chair across the desk from the older man.

“Black, what the fuck?” the joker woman asked.

“I know where they’re holding our missing jokers,” Franny said. The two captains exchanged glances.

“Yeah, we do too,” Mendelberg said.

Maseryk shot her a glance. “That might be a bit of an overstatement. We know they’re someplace that ends in stan.”

“How did you? Never mind … I’ve got more than that. They’re in Kazakhstan, in a town called Talas,” Franny said.

“Kazakhstan,” Mendelberg repeated as if she were tasting the word.

Looking down into those bloodred eyes Frank remembered how Mendelberg had shut down the investigation, browbeaten him for arguing. He couldn’t control it, he snapped, “Do you want me to spell it for you?”

That brought Maseryk out of his chair. “You better fucking climb down, Detective.”

Mendelberg surprised him. She waved it off. “It’s okay, Thomas.” She turned back to Franny. “Where did you come by this?”

“Berman. He’s being processed right now.”

“You arrested him,” Mendelberg said slowly.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Franny laid out what had occurred at the condo. For a moment the two captains just blinked at him, then Mendelberg reverted to form.

“Why is a SCARE agent involved in an NYPD investigation?”

“He had resources I … why are we talking about Norwood? Why aren’t we-”

“Tell me everything,” Maseryk ordered.

“That could take a while.”

“Give me the Reader’s Digest version.”

So Franny walked them through it all. How the dead joker on a rural highway in New Jersey linked up with a SCARE investigation of smuggling. How the body led to the dog-training facility. How Jamal had run the names of the dead Russians that linked them to the KGB, how the DVDs had led to an American Hero cameraman, which had led to Berman, and how Berman had provided to the mysterious and very scary Baba Yaga the names of jokers who had auditioned for American Hero . “It sounds like there’s a lot of former KGB goons so we better have SWAT-”

“Are you listening to yourself?” Maseryk interrupted. “This is Fort Freak. NYPD Fifth Precinct. We don’t have jurisdiction in Brooklyn, much less fucking Kazakhstan.”

“And even if we could act how the hell would we get there? Flying carpet?” Mendelberg chimed in.

“We’ve got that handled.”

Maseryk came out of his chair again. “You are not going to cause a diplomatic incident. And neither am I.”

“So what? We’re going to do nothing? These people are being killed.” Franny clenched his teeth before even more intemperate words could emerge.

“Black, my first partner here, thirty years ago, taught me one hard lesson: when in doubt do nothing. Otherwise you’re sure as fuck going to make things worse.” The captain continued, forestalling the objections he saw rising to Franny’s lips. “Now, nothing doesn’t mean nothing. The first thing we’re going to do is contact the State Department. Then I’ll get on the horn to the UN, see if I can reach Lohengrin and the Committee. Your buddy can tell his people at SCARE. We rattle enough cages this Baba Yaga may shut down the operation.”