Christopher Golden - The Nimble Man

At the back of the bar the cat went to a corner booth that was draped in shadows, not far at all from where Jaalisa was being interviewed, squeezed for some vital detail that might make this crime more than a statistic. The stray leaped up onto the bench of that booth and sat down.

And then it changed.

The only sound was a low rush of air, like a man inhaling suddenly. Flesh rippled and bone stretched with impossibly fluidity. Where the cat had been, Clay Smith now sat staring at Sergeant John Brodsky, the uniformed cop who had called him down here in the first place.

Deja vu. Clay had first been in Charmaigne's forty-seven minutes earlier. He and Brodsky had a passing acquaintance based almost entirely upon Clay's reputation. He wasn't a private investigator, but for a wealthy resident of the Quarter he had found himself in the midst of enough murder investigations in recent years — and was invaluable in solving nearly all of them — that some of the members of the N.O.P.D. had come to rely upon him. Other cops, however, detectives in particular, despised him.

Clay didn't mind. It was never about being liked.

A call on his mobile phone from Brodsky had brought him to Charmaigne's before the department had sent a homicide detective down. That was better for everyone, politics-wise. He had talked to Brodsky, heard about Jaalisa's 911 call, the deaths of Trav and the kid on the floor, and nodded once.

Then he had gone to work.

Someone had gunned the kid in the doorway while Trav was getting the place cleaned up for business. The bartender always came in early to wash the floor, wipe down the tables, all the things that nobody wanted to do when they were closing up at 3 a.m. The kid — whom no one had identified yet — had obviously run in through the door and then been shot in the back. Trav had been a witness, and witnesses have a very short life expectancy.

Clay had examined both bodies without touching them. He had made a show of considering the crime scene. But that was just for the sake of the cops who were watching him, trying to figure out how he did it.

They couldn't see the tether.

The souls of murder victims never passed on to the afterworld immediately. Always, they clung to their victims for a time, crying out for vengeance, perhaps hoping someone will hear their anguish. If Clay reached the victim within the first few hours after their murder he could still see the tether, an ethereal trail of ectoplasm that stretched from the hollow shell that had been the victim's flesh all the way to the current location of the soul.

The soul that was attached like a lamprey to its killer.

Clay had followed the tether out the door of Charmaigne's and then on a twisting path through the French Quarter. Eventually, it had led him back here.

The voices of the policemen and the tired, hard-edged words of the prostitute seemed like church whispers as they drifted through the bar. Clay slid from the rear booth and stood up, black shoes scuffing the floor. He wore tan chinos and a simple, v-necked navy blue t-shirt and his hair was freshly cut. In this neighborhood he would have stood out, been noticed by everyone he passed. But nobody had noticed a stray cat with copper fur and one white ear.

Clay started toward the front of the bar.

Sergeant Brodsky looked up sharply from questioning Jaalisa, notepad and pen in his hands, and he frowned deeply, then stood up and moved to block Clay's path.

"I didn't even see you come in," Brodsky said.

The man had a round little keg of a beer gut and his slumped even when standing, but his eyes were bright and intelligent. He only looked the part of the fool. Even now there was something in his voice that suggested that he knew there was something unusual, even unnatural, about Clay Smith, but he would say no more about it.

"You weren't supposed to," Clay told him with a smile.

Brodsky processed that a moment, eyes narrowing. Then he nodded. "You find anything?"?"Yes. Your perp."

Closer to the front door, the plainclothes detective cleared his throat. "Sergeant, what the hell is this?" He strode toward them, shoes rapping the pitted wood floor. "Where the hell did this guy come from?"

The detective was pale, with dark circles beneath his eyes. He had probably not been drinking yet today, but the stale smell of alcohol exuded from his pores. There were sweat rings forming under his arms and the white shirt looked rumpled as though he might have slept in it.

"Lieutenant Pete Landry, meet Clay Smith," Brodsky said. "He's here to help."

The Lieutenant's nostrils flared and he stared at Clay. "You're him."

"Yes."

"He's got a lead on the perp," Brodsky offered, making a game attempt to defuse the tension.

"Oh, he does, huh?" The Lieutenant rolled his eyes and reached into his shirt pocket to pull out a pack of cigarettes. He tapped one out, dragging the moment, and fished into his pants for a lighter. When he snapped it open and set fire to the end of the cigarette, he gazed at Clay through the flame, then clicked the lighter shut.

"So, give, genius. Who killed Travaligni and the kid?"

Clay did not smile. Instead, he stared at the wretched, silently screaming ghosts that clung to Pete Landry, tearing at him with insubstantial fingers. Trav the bartender was there. And the kid. But there were others as well. An attractive, middle-aged woman, a thug with cruel eyes, an old man whose spectral body seemed contorted somehow.

"Come on, Lieutenant," Clay said. "You did. You killed them."

The hand holding the cigarette to Landry's lips shook and dropped away from his mouth.

"Christ, Clay!" Brodsky snapped. "What the hell are you — "

"The kid had something on you, saw you do something else you shouldn't have been doing. Or maybe he was a runner for you. What are you supplying on this block, Pete? Crack? Heroin? He pissed you off, this kid. And the fool bartender, he should've slept in, just this once, but his work ethic wouldn't let him."

The other uniformed officers had begun to slide toward them now, drawn by the words and by the way the air in the bar had grown suddenly heavier.

The Lieutenant hesitated only another moment, then put the cigarette to his lips again and took a long drag as his colleagues watched him in confusion and doubt. He let a plume of smoke out the side of his mouth and then glanced around at the uniforms.

"Who the fuck does this guy think he is? Come in here, making accusations like that."

Clay glanced at Brodsky again. "I doubt he used his police issue. But I also figure he's arrogant enough not to have dumped the gun he did use. Check under the seats of his car, maybe the trunk, I think you'll find it. I also think if you check his hands you'll find residue."

Lieutenant Landry snorted and shook his head, tendrils of smoke rising up to the fan spinning above them. "You got some balls, you. But you watch too many movies."

Brodsky wasn't gaping anymore. The look on his face had gone from incredulous to darkly inquisitive.

"Then you won't mind if Gage and Caleb over there take a look in your car, right Lieutenant?" the Sergeant asked.

The man laughed. "Damn, boys, y'all can do whatever you want." He nodded toward the two uniforms in question, gestured toward the door. "Go on, boys. Have yourselves a time."

They hesitated only a moment, then glanced at Brodsky, who nodded once. Then the two cops went out the door at a run.

"Jaalisa," Brodsky said, "you want to take a look out the door at the car across the street?"

The prostitute did not seem at all tired anymore. Her eyes were wide and her chest rose and fell as though she were breathing for two. She stared at Pete Landry for a long moment and he took a long drag on his cigarette, its tip burning red in the darkened bar. Jaalisa shook her head.