Chris Holm - Dead Harvest

"I'm pretty sure you do." The doctor finished wrapping the wound and taped the gauze in place. "This," she said, "is a knife wound."

I said, "Listen, lady, I think you've got this all wrong."

The doctor raised her hands, a placating gesture. "I'm not the one you should be talking to," she said. "I'm just here to patch you up — I don't much care what happened. But if you know something about what happened here, they will find out. You two don't look like terrorists to me — make things easier on yourself and cooperate."

Kate opened her mouth to protest, but I silenced her with a glance. "You're right," I said. "Of course you're right. About the wound. About everything."

The doctor said, "So you were stabbed."

Kate looked at me — puzzled, frightened. "Sam, don't-"

I shot Kate a silencing look and said, "It's all right, Mary — we have to tell her."

"Tell me what?"

"About the bomb. See, my brother — her father — he's always talking crazy, like one day, he'll have his revenge — that sort of thing, you know? He's been that way forever, and didn't nobody think he'd ever do anything about it. Only last week, when the city laid him off, he started gettin' twitchy — leavin' at all hours of the night, holing up in the basement for hours on end working on God knows what. I mean, I got worried. We both got worried. I took to snooping around, trying to figure what he was up to. That's when I found the book."

"The book?" the doctor asked, rapt.

"That's right. Some sort of anarchist's handbook. It was full of crazy crap about napalm and explosives and stuff. Truth is, it scared the shit out of me. So this morning, I followed him to the basement and confronted him — least, that was the plan. When I got there, there was one o' them bombs, I mean right out of the pictures, and when he saw I saw it, he freaked. Stabbed me in the leg, and just left me there. I musta passed out, because by the time this one brought me to, it was too late."

"And your brother?"

"I can't say for sure, but if I had to guess, I'd say he died in the blast."

"And you'd be willing to cooperate with the police on this?"

I nodded solemnly. "I guess at first I figured you got to stick up for your family, no matter what, but you're right — we owe it to everybody here to tell the truth."

She put a hand on my shoulder and gave it a comforting squeeze. "Stay here," the doctor said. "I'll be right back." Then she ducked out of the tent, setting off toward the makeshift command center the cops had established on the other side of the street.

"Sam, what the hell was that about?" Kate demanded.

"I was buying us some time," I said. I swung my legs down off the bed — a little easier, now that the wound was good and numb — and, with a little help from Kate, managed to find my feet. There was a pair of crutches lying across the empty bunk beside me, and I grabbed one of them, wedging it in my left armpit to take the pressure off my injured leg. I took a couple cautious, hobbling steps, and found that with the crutch's help, I got along just fine.

"By implicating us in the bombing? No way they let us walk out of here now!"

"You saw the way that that doctor was looking at us, Kate — she wasn't letting us out of here regardless. The only difference is, now she thinks that we're cooperating, which means instead of flagging some beat cop down from my bedside, she's gonna give us a little breathing room while she goes and fetches us a bigwig."

"Yeah, but when she realizes we're gone, this place is gonna snap shut so tight, no one's gonna get to leave."

"You're right," I said. "Which is why you've got to get out of here now, before they realize what's happened. I can ditch this body and follow, once I get what I came for."

She shook her head. "No."

"Kate, you have to."

"I'm not leaving you, Sam — not this time. Last time, it nearly got you killed, and it turned out Pinch wasn't quite so lucky. I won't make that mistake again."

"Damn it, Kate, you don't have a choice!"

"The hell I don't."

I said, "Look — the man I saw on the news, his name is Mu'an. He's a messenger-demon — sort of an emissary between the demon-world and their angelic counterparts. He's also a snitch. An information broker, to hear him tell it, but whatever you call it, the job's the same. I understand he's profited quite heartily in this detente, selling whatever it is he knows to whoever'd like to know it. It seems in war he's not so lucky. Now, there's a chance that Lilith was right, and this was nothing more than a random act of violence, one of a thousand such skirmishes to come. Then again, maybe Mu'an wasn't just a target of convenience. Maybe he knew something — something worth killing to keep quiet."

"But the man on the security tape — he was no demon, was he?"

"No — he was an angel. But an angel of the lowest order — a foot soldier. He'd just be carrying out orders, which means the call came from somewhere else. Relations being what they are, I suspect a whispered lie in the right ear would be enough to get the job done."

Kate asked, "You think this Mu'an was set up by his own kind?"

"I don't know. It's a pretty big leap, but right now, it's all I've got. That's why I'm not leaving until I talk to him."

"Well, then," she said, a wan smile flickering across her weary features, "I guess we'd better find him fast."

Turns out, he wasn't hard to find. Though the medical tent was a crowded, sprawling affair, the patients had been triaged according to the severity of their injuries. The end we'd been deposited in was full of scrapes and cuts and broken bones. At the far end of the tent was a makeshift ICU, a roiling mass of sound and fury as medical personnel struggled to stabilize the worst-hit so they could be loaded into one of the endless parade of ambulances that waited to whisk them away. Mu'an was somewhere in the middle. He lay uncovered atop a stretcher, eyes closed, in a navy suit of worsted wool. His tie they'd cast aside, and his shirt was unbuttoned to the waist, revealing a bloodied undershirt beneath. A coarse white hospital blanket lay tossed off on the ground beside him. His suit and hair — the latter pitch black, and tied into a loose ponytail at the base of his neck — were badly singed and reeked of smoke. His lips were dusky and cracked, his eyebrows gone; his broad cheekbones, normally so deeply tanned, were streaked with a raw, angry red that glistened beneath a thin layer of ointment. One arm was draped across his chest, his shirtsleeve cut away. The little of his arm that was visible around the gauze was blackened like an overcooked ham.

I approached his bedside. Mu'an didn't stir. But as I reached out to shake him awake, his eyes flew open, and his hand clamped down on my wrist. It was wrapped in bandages and crackled sickeningly as he tightened his grasp around me. Then he recognized me, and his grip slackened. His head, raised suddenly when I'd disturbed him, collapsed back onto the flimsy hospital pillow.

"Well, look at this — the man himself. I confess, I didn't expect I'd see you here." Mu'an's speech had the odd, musical cadence of some long-forgotten language, as though despite his easy fluency, he would not deign to think in a human tongue. He attempted a smile, but all he got for his effort was the slightest of upturns at the corners of his mouth, and the glisten of fresh blood in the cracks of his desiccated lips. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

I said, "I need answers. I think you have them."

Mu'an blinked at me a moment, his eyes glistening and unfocused. A cough escaped his lips, spraying his lips and teeth with blood. He dabbed at his mouth with the back of his one good hand and frowned. "And I'm to just supply them, then, is that it? On account of we're such good friends, I suppose." "Something like that."