Steven Brust - Agyar

His desk was overflowing with Diet Coke cans, bent paperclips, an ashtray leaking peanut shells, four audio cassettes, a framed photograph of a couple of ugly grammar-school-aged children (no wife shown), a few issues of various news magazines, reference books, and memo pads. He was reading one of the news magazines, and I must have been standing next to him for most of a minute before he noticed me. He wasn’t startled, he just looked confused, then he said in a voice that was much higher-pitched than I’d expected, “Who are you?”

“Jack,” I said. “Jack Agyar.”

“Yeah? What do you want?”

“I need you to dig something up for me on the computer.”

“Huh?”

I repeated myself. He still didn’t seem to understand. I pointed to the terminal and said, “Start that thing up, I need you to ask it some questions for me.”

He looked at me like a Labrador retriever that’s been given a command outside its vocabulary. He said, “Who did you say you are?”

I gave him my name again. I can be very patient.

“You work for the paper?”

“No.”

He finally seemed to have figured out what was going on. “Then why the hell should I-”

I took him by the throat and lifted him up, so his feet were kicking wildly in the air. He made gurgling sounds, but couldn’t get much volume. “Because,” I said, “I would appreciate your help.”

I dropped him back into his chair and smiled at him. He had a coughing jag, and when it was over I noticed that he was covered with sweat and stank badly. He just stared at me until I pointed to the screen. “Now,” I said. “I’m in a hurry.”

He nodded, wide-eyed, and turned to the screen. His hands were shaking. He typed a space, and the screen, which had been blank, became filled with nonsense, some of it almost in English. There was a blinking line in front of a copyright symbol at the bottom of the screen. He typed “call out library,” stopping to correct several errors in his typing. It said, “Login.” He typed something I couldn’t see because it didn’t appear on the screen, then the copyright symbol came back on.

“What do you want to find?” he squeaked.

“First homicides, then missing persons, then deaths from unknown causes, over the last six months.”

“Okay.”

He typed “F homicide,” and a return. There was a brief pause, then the screen began to fill up. First was a line that said, “Doc date freq lines database headline” (I know this because it is reproduced on these papers in front of me), which was followed by information that, presumably, he understood. The only thing that made sense to me were the ends of the lines, which said such things as “Third Shooting in Commons-Neighbors Frightened.” He made notes on a pad, recording what seemed to be the document numbers.

I pulled up a chair. “It seems this is going to take a while.” I said. “I might as well be comfortable.”

Three hours later I had a nearly complete list of homicides, deaths from unknown causes, and disappearances within the last six months, along with all known details as provided to the Plainsman. The police files would have been better, but also much harder to get access to.

It surprised me how much of this sort of thing there was. It would have taken quite a bit longer, but my associate had become very cooperative, even friendly, and had started pointing out ways to, as he put it, “let the machine do the work.”

Still, it was quite a respectable bundle of papers. I might have had some trouble getting them home if my friend hadn’t volunteered his briefcase.

But enough of that. I have the papers, and will begin to study them tomorrow.

I have spent some time going over the files from the newspaper, and discovering that it isn’t quite as easy as I’d thought it would be to find what I want. I guess I was expecting to see either clear signs of Kellem’s handiwork, or else clear signs of suppressed information. Unfortunately, after going through everything, I found at least a hundred cases of deaths or disappearances that could have been her work.

Perhaps she was not quite so indiscreet as she thought. Part of the problem, I suppose, is that what I’m looking at is information that has seen print, and the details that would help me are mostly those that, for one reason or another, were not included in the article. I would certainly have better luck if I could find the reporters who covered the cases, or at least their notes, but the names of the reporters are not included in the information, so I’d have to do the whole thing again. Better yet, I suppose, would be to attempt to break into the police files, rather like the lamb sneaking into the lion’s den to steal food. The notion does not appeal.

I will keep this information anyway and perhaps later I will come up with some useful way to proceed. This has been only a cursory glance; a careful study might yet produce something I can use.

Perhaps the idea was pointless to begin with. My thought had been to try to determine which crimes were going to be hung on me, so I could make some effort to protect myself. But, really, what could I do? If she is determined to destroy me in order to protect herself, than I cannot prevent it; that is the nature of our relationship, and I understood that from the beginning. She made me who I am, and she did not do so out of kindness.

And yet I’m finding my unwillingness to allow this to happen is growing, which is stupid; rather as if a stone, dropped from a cliff, had decided it was unwilling to hit the ground.

But enough. I think a visit with Jill would be very good for me just now.

Snow is falling, very heavily, and blowing about at the same time, and it is exceedingly cold. I associate snowfalls with mild, humid weather; I think this is unusual.

I am trying to remember how I made it home, and I can’t do it. I walked and I ran and I stumbled, and I suppose it was painful, but I have, mercifully, no memory of it. But I find that I can sit here, and I can still operate my fingers, so I will do so.

I must do something about Jill, but it will have to wait until tomorrow; now it isn’t easy for me to even sit in this chair. I wasn’t certain I’d be able to work these keys, but it seems that I can, at least for now, although I seem to be getting weaker by the moment. My hands are trembling very badly, so that I’m amazed that I am not making numerous mistakes. The trembling is annoying, and it is getting worse. I tried to talk to Jim when I got home, but speaking still hurts, so I just shook my head, made my way up here, and collapsed in the chair. That hurts too, but not so much.

I must do something about Jill.

I went to see her, I think about four or five hours ago now. I entered the house, came up to her room, and just stood there. The door was open, and I wasn’t being quiet, so she heard me as I came in; she was just looking at me, as if she were holding her breath to see what I’d say.

I studied her for a moment, then said, “You’ve redecorated.”

She swallowed, it seemed to take some effort, then nodded. She didn’t speak; probably couldn’t.

I said, “I liked it better before.” She still didn’t say anything. I said, “Whose idea was this?”

When she didn’t answer I said “Whose?” again, putting some snap into it.

She remained mute, like a child who doesn’t know it’s being addressed.

I said, “It was Don, wasn’t it?” She didn’t answer, so I put even more into my voice and repeated, “Wasn’t it?”

At last she nodded.

I said, “I had forbidden you to see him.”

She began to tremble.

“Come here,” I said. After a moment she came. I pressed her into my arms. She gave a small muffled cry as the silver points of the mounting of my pendent dug into her chest. Soon she was quiet. There were footsteps, then, and I heard a door opening down the hall. Tom’s head emerged from the door leading up the attic. I glared at him, but he didn’t seem to notice; just nodded pleasantly to me and continued down the back stairs into the kitchen.