Fiddleback Trilogy 1 - A Gathering Evil Read online

  "My office." He headed back out toward the foyer. "Marit, are you coming?"

  She shook her head. "No, actually, I'll leave you here, Tycho, and go start things rolling for tomorrow. It will save us some time."

  I gave her a quick kiss. "I'll meet you at your place in an hour?"

  Marit shook her head. "No, meet me at Danny's Place about 8. Have dinner first." She smiled impishly but said no more and left the gallery. I, in turn, followed Alejandro up the stairs and back through the upper viewing gallery to a doorway in the back. He unlocked it and waved me into his office.

  His workplace was as clean and open as the gallery. He had an antique standing desk that he kept clear except for a black phone, blotter and pen and pencil set. Because he worked standing, he had a conversation nook in the corner to the right of the doorway, with three comfortable, black-leather chairs surrounding a small circular coffee table. It was to these he directed me, but the pictures hung on the walls diverted my attention.

  Behind his desk I saw a piece that had to be by Picasso, yet I did not recognize it. A Monet hung on the left wall, along with a Cézanne and Pollock. Back beside the door, I saw a Wyeth Helga portrait and opposite it a Van Gogh that looked to be another of the Sunflower pieces. I looked closely at the Van Gogh and knew I could not place it within any catalog of his work, yet I found it as beautiful and entrancing as any of his other work I had seen.

  Alejandro closed the door. "You like Van Gogh?"

  I nodded. "I do indeed, but this can't be genuine. If it were, you would have far more extensive security measures in place here. Because this isn't a copy of a known piece, it's not a forgery, but if you were to sell it as a recently 'discovered' piece, you could get a fortune for it." I glanced at him. "Did you do this?"

  He shook his head. "My lot in life is to recognize talent, not possess it myself. That was done by an associate of mine who died several years ago. These other pieces were painted by others."

  I smiled wryly. "I imagine it would be very tempting to offer a wealthy client a piece that he dare not have authenticated, especially after, say, a robbery of an art museum that has gotten a certain amount of publicity."

  "It would, indeed." Alejandro folded his arms. "In fact, having done that was how I first became associated with Coyote."

  "How so?"

  "Coyote had decided, for reasons known only to him, to relieve someone of a private art collection. One of the pieces he got was a Dali with a questionable pedigree." Alejandro sat down and tugged at the knee of his slacks as he crossed his legs. "I heard of the theft, then got a phone call. 'I am Coyote,' he said, 'your people do very good work, and your clients would doubtless be interested to know just how good it is.'"

  I sat across from him, on the edge of one of the chairs. "Did he blackmail you?"

  The art broker half-closed his eyes. "Not blackmail per se, but an offer of protection. He said I could get pictures into places, and that I had information that could be valuable to him. He suggested if we worked together we would both find it profitable."

  "I'm unclear. What did he mean when he said you could get pictures into places?"

  Alejandro smiled like a cat who'd gotten the cream. "You would be surprised by the number of people who remove their valuable paintings from a room being swept by security experts. They seem to assume that those who are in charge of security are capable of going rogue and stealing that which they hold most precious. A passive bug is very difficult to detect, and one that is not present in the room when you do the sweep is positively impossible to find."

  "I see." I could easily imagine being surprised and not a little scared at getting a call from Coyote exposing my error, then offering an alliance. It was interesting to note that with Hal, Coyote had offered a warning, and with Alejandro he had used gentle coercion. I imagined with Rock he must have employed a powerful motivator.

  "So, what is it you want done, Tycho?"

  "What I want is a painting of Phoenix in which a giant Fiddleback spider has spun its web from the tops of the citadels and City Center. I want it grasping for or nesting at Lorica Industries."

  "Interesting. What style do you want?"

  I thought for a second. "As close to photo-realistic as possible, I think. It will be a surreal fantasy piece by any definition, but I don't want it that widely open to interpretation. The original should be on display, but listed as not for sale. Noting lithographs will be made might not be a bad idea."

  Alejandro nodded his head. "Bait. You want me to keep track of whoever asks about it, right?"

  "Dead on target." I stood. "I'll pay $5000 for the piece to be done. Who can you get?"

  "You'll want it fast, I assume." I nodded, and he smiled. "Estefan Ramierez works in that style and fast. He could use the money."

  I remembered seeing paint on his clothes. "Good, that will be payback for what he did for me. How long?"

  "Possibly as soon as two days from now. He works quickly."

  "Great."

  Alejandro stood and offered me his hand. "Very good doing business with you, sir."

  "And you, sir."

  "Any thought to a title?"

  I nodded. "Have the spider about to chomp down on Lorica and we'll call it 'Devouring Its Mate.' If that doesn't shake something loose, nothing will."

  Leaving the Higuera Gallery, I decided to get something to eat without leaving the Mercado. Rather loud and boisterous crowds filled the two Mexican eateries, so I settled on a Chinese restaurant called Sesame Inn. Why it had located a branch in the Mercado I was uncertain, but I found it a familiar and serene sanctuary in the land of plastic Aztec jaguars and gringo-ized Mexico.

  I ordered a Tsingtao, still amazed at how China managed to export foodstuffs while failing to feed its masses, and settled back into the booth I had been given. The interior decor had a lot of intricate woodwork and scenes delicately drawn on rice paper graced the walls. Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew I had been here, or in a similar place before, but my amnesia frustrated my attempts to mix my present with my past.

  Getting the Fiddleback solution underway made me feel pretty good. Given that Alejandro's clientele included some of the richer folks in Phoenix, word of the painting would get around quickly. If we tracked and could sweat anyone who showed an interest in the picture, we might be able to figure out who or what Fiddleback was. I felt certain the picture would draw someone out, and, as Alejandro suggested with his experience, Coyote would be more than capable of convincing them to cooperate.

  In enumerating the problems we faced for Hal, I had left one out. That was the problem of the traitor within Coyote's cell of aides. I would not have minded confiding in Hal, but the presence of the others in the room at the time made me hold my tongue. Anyone there could be "it" and, while I had a front-runner, I knew better than to make any assumptions.

  Hal Garrett, however, I considered worthy of trust. Coyote had told me that the traitor would do his best to kill me. While any of the people I met would be physically capable of pulling a trigger and ending my life, I did not think Hal would do that. Twice he had counseled against violence and his whole drive with the Blood Crips and other gangs was to stop them from retaliating for actions the Aryans might take. Because he balked at having me end the WAWA problem by application of a lead injection to Heinrich, I put him down as someone dedicated to breaking the cycle of violence.

  My prime candidate for traitor, of course, was Rock Pell. I found him a callous and shallow individual who was too chummy with the Warriors of the Aryan World Alliance. He clearly felt a loyalty to himself first and foremost. His selling out to a higher bidder, whoever that might be, was not hard to imagine. Still, since Coyote did not direct me to him, I knew there had to be other candidates—perhaps even more than one.

  Bat, obviously, was capable of violence, and I had to be certain not to let his apparent respect for my skills lull me into believing he could not betray me. Marit, too, was a candidate, though she had certainly had
ample opportunity to kill me when I was defenseless. Alejandro had direct daily contact with just the sort of people who had brought me into Phoenix in the first place, which meant he could be hired to deal with whatever sort of embarrassment I might present. Natch struck me as being a low probability, but a child of the streets learns that unpleasant things may have to be done to survive. Slitting my throat could be just one such thing. Moreover, if she and Bat were in league, they would be a very difficult pair to deal with.

  Jytte, in many ways, presented the greatest and the least threat. Because she functioned as the communications center for the cell, she certainly had more information than anyone else. I did not imagine she passed everything on and that she, if anyone, had the keys to figuring out who the traitor was. Extracting that information would be difficult and, if she was the traitor, I would get directed at another, totally innocent member of the group.

  Coyote, on the other hand, had given her an implicit vote of confidence when he routed my communications through her. She was strange enough, with her Barbie-doll looks and computer skills, to be able to monitor our conversations. Had Coyote suspected her, he would have contacted me outside her sphere of influence, or had me work with another cell to uncover the traitor in this cell.

  Still, this did not give me the freedom to tell her what was up. While her skills in navigating through computers could probably have uncovered everything I needed to know, I couldn't count on Jytte to keep secrets from whoever the traitor might be. If, for example, Marit were the mole and Jytte felt a debt to her because of their friendship, the traitor could be tipped to my inquiries and either act to end them, or skip the city altogether.

  I was alone in this. Coyote knew it and, I think, wanted it that way. I got the feeling he wanted me to find the traitor, but he also wanted something else. Until I could puzzle out what that was, however, I could only continue my investigations and hope that the luck that had kept me alive so far would continue to hold.

  The waiter came and I ordered both hot and sour spicy soup and tangerine beef. I took a pull on the beer and savored its sharp bite. It struck me that the only way I would uncover the traitor was to begin to parcel out information on a limited basis. When my enemies started acting on this specialized information, I would know who had gone over to the other side.

  The food arrived quickly, and I forced myself to eat slowly. The soup was spicy enough to make my nose run, with not too much vinegar. It was so good, of course, that I sniffled my way right through it and on into the tangerine beef. That was another hot dish that masked its heat with a sweet, yet tart, sauce. I liked it so much that I knew, had I ever tasted it before, I would have recalled it and broken my amnesia block. I ate my way around the slivers of dried red pepper and ended up far more stuffed than I had intended.

  Cheer up, I told myself, if Sedona is as bad as Hal thinks, this might be the last good meal you manage to have.

  I paid my bill and strolled back out into the Mercado. Threading my way through the winding, cobblestone streets, I found an interactive City Center directory. Working my way through a series of touch-sensitive screens, I located the listing for Danny's Place. I had to go up one level and then halfway across the center to get there. I had plenty of time before I had to meet Marit, so I decided to walk instead of descending to take one of the trains.

  Walking through City Center, virtually all of which was new to me, I got a chance to really see the world in which people like Nerys Loring and Marit lived. White marbled walkways shined and bronze trim on the buildings bore no trace of fingerprints. All smudges had been painstakingly scrubbed from windows and clean, cool water bubbled up in a number of fountains. The plants all proved to be lush and green, making City Center more a rain forest than an oasis in the midst of a desert.

  As I strolled along I saw one maintenance crew struggling to lever a barrel cactus, pot and all, onto a trailer hitched to an electric utility cart. Each of the three men looked sharp in his starched and pressed uniform.

  Sweat appeared in circles beneath their armpits and in a dark stripe along their spines, but that hardly seemed unnatural given how hard they were working. Lifting in unison they managed to heft the plant onto the trailer, then one of them picked up a broom to sweep away the dirt that had spilled from the pot.

  All around them people passed as if the men did not exist. Each of the men, in turn, had a broad smile pasted on his face. Even with sweat pouring down from their scalp and into their eyes, they maintained their idiot-grins of pleasure. I wondered for a moment if they were doped up, but the sharp quick look in their dark eyes told me this was not the case.

  Hispanics all, they wore the smiles like masks. Here they were, blessed beyond all possibility, working in City Center. Probably born in the dark slums of Eclipse, somehow they had broken into the light. They were determined not to sink back into Eclipse. While they might still live there, and they would never progress beyond their station, their children or grandchildren might profit from this toehold in City Center.

  Looking around I saw other invisible people working throughout City Center. Uniformed women washed windows. Young men with brooms and scoopers patrolled the mall, snatching up any litter thoughtlessly deposited by the denizens of this place. They bowed and sidestepped, smiling in the face of unkind comments and jumping to show their superiors courtesies that were never returned.

  Social Darwinists, I knew, would point out that the best and most able to survive of current society were due everything that generation upon generation were able to give them. They would also note that these industrious members of the underclass were, as one would expect, rising up to fill a niche that the superior society left open. In this way they would slowly but surely evolve into the upper class themselves.

  In theory, I could see, this was true. Alejandro Higuera had his own gallery, yet I suspected his parents or grandparents had come to Phoenix from below the border. Estefan Ramierez would employ his talent for art to make a bid at joining the well-to-do, but the gulf between him and Nerys Loring was more than money alone could bridge. Racial, social and economic barriers would all hamper him and frustrate him. Were Estefan to make it in this society, it would be as a curiosity, not a man accepted on equal terms. A pet.

  The word "pet" echoed around inside my skull as I rode the escalator up toward Danny's Place. "Pet" was what that thing in the dream called me. I wondered if I had a keeper, a patron, that kept me much as I would expect some rich art maven might keep Estefan. Could that person be Fiddleback? That would explain the arachnoid form in the dream.

  The most heartbreaking aspect of what I saw in City Center was this: It would take generations for people like Estefan to attain what people like Marit had now. In that time, of course, the rich would have become richer. There would always be a buffer between the new and the old, which could only irritate and frustrate the new. A lot of energy would be wasted resenting those who really should have been beneath their contempt.

  Those emotions, I knew, could be positively explosive. Heinrich and his boys were a perfect example of that. Angered by what they saw as a loss of what they had a "right" to, frustrated whites lashed out at the minorities they saw taking over. Not only was their notion of racial superiority baseless, but their claim to America was purposefully blind. The Amerindians were here first and, especially in the southwest, the Spanish came before the Anglos. Using unsound logic and fabricated science designed to inspire fear and hatred, the Aryans sought to destroy that with which they could not compete.

  Logic dictated that, because all humans are equal at birth, all should be treated the same throughout their lives. The realities of the world ignored logic, pigeonholing people and limiting their possible progress. Grants and welfare programs ensured that people would not starve, but they offered no incentive to try to better one's lot in life. The whole system, while it might soften the savagery of life, also doomed people to live in a twilight existence that would not kill them, but could not provide them
with happiness or anything I would call life.

  Working in City Center allowed the people of Eclipse to see what could be theirs. It also showed them how difficult it would be to attain. It guaranteed an escalating spiral of misery and bitterness on the part of the Mikes, and blissful ignorance of the building resentment by the gnomes.

  When it all fell apart, it wasn't going to be pretty.

  I stepped off the escalator and looked at Danny's Place. Through the big window I saw faded decorations that immediately tagged the place as a neo-retro-'60s bar. With a sinking feeling of dread in my stomach, I walked into the place and let my eyes adjust to the harsh glow of blacklight posters on the walls. Back in the corner a wide-screen projection TV showed an episode of some old sitcom about four young men in a band and The Beatles' "I Wanna Hold Your Hand" blared out over the speakers in the ceiling.

  I saw Marit wave at me, and I threaded my way through the bar. In doing so I noticed two things that struck me as very odd. All of the waitresses were tall and slender, wearing long wigs with straight brown hair. Each wore a baggy-sleeved shirt, a polyester vest and bell-bottom slacks to match, though getting that much peach fabric had to have been a special order. Each wore a button that said, "Hello, have a Partridge Day."