Spares - Michael Marshall Smith [79]
“Hey, cool,” said Golson brightly. “Then you guys are in really deep shit. Sure you don’t want coffee? It’s cinnamon apple—”
“Shut up!” shouted Vinaldi and I simultaneously.
“So what now?” Vinaldi asked, deferring for once to me.
“We go see a guy who I think’s going to be hurting by now,” I said, turning to Golson. “And you keep your mouth shut about everything you’ve heard, or forgetting women’s names is going to be the least of your troubles.”
“I believe that,” Golson said with sincerity, and jumped out of the way as we ran for the door.
“What makes you think Ghuaji’s going to talk now?” Vinaldi asked, as we stormed into Howie’s for what—for me—seemed like the twentieth time in two days.
“Three things,” I said, shouldering my way through the people inside. “First, his skin was fucked. It looked and felt funny. I saw something similar a couple of days ago on the body of the guy who killed Mal. Second, the wound in his head seemed to get worse rather than better while we were here this morning. Three, he said something about top-ups, and there were leaves on his boots.”
Vinaldi got it as we were stalking down the corridor. “They have to keep going back?”
“I think so. And Ghuaji’s currently going nowhere at all.”
“So maybe you’re not as stupid as you look. That’s encouraging.”
“Don’t get your hopes up,” I told him. “I have hidden superficialities.”
There were three people in Howie’s storeroom. Dath, who was watching over the body with sterling vigilance, balancing a chain saw in his hands; Howie, who looked like he was taking the whole thing rather personally and trying to make up for that morning; and Ghuaji himself. I walked straight over to the latter and bent down, keeping well out of the way, just in case.
The hole in his temple looked looser than before, and there was a small pool of blood under the back of his head. His skin seemed the same. Maybe the strange texture was just a result of having been there so long, and not something which got any worse.
“You know what’s happening, don’t you?” I said. There was no reply. “You’ve got that place in your blood. You need to go back there to recharge, and you’re not getting it lying here. Meanwhile, Yhandim’s running around New Richmond with the other guys. He may have a major plan, Ghuaji, but the way things are going it ain’t going to involve you.”
“Fuck you,” he said, predictably. They all say that, don’t they—and probably not even one of them realizes that when it comes to their turn it’s worn pretty thin and isn’t terribly frightening anymore. Especially when they’re taped into immobility and smelling of wet blood from the holes in their head. “Your mother sucks goats in Hell,” he added, hoarsely.
“A telling riposte, I grant you,” I said, “but you know what I’m saying is true. Now listen up. We know that Arlond Maxen got you guys out somehow, so that’s something you can’t tell me.” I ignored the explosion of surprise from Howie and Dath. “So let’s concentrate on where Yhandim is holding the spares.”
“Man, you know I ain’t telling you nothing,” Ghuaji said, coughing up another mouthful of blood.
I pulled away the collar of his coat and saw that the neck wound was also opening up. A flower of blood above the collarbone showed trouble was coming there too. I shrugged.
“Have it your own way. But time’s running out.”
I’d barely lit a cigarette in the corridor outside when I heard a scream from within the storeroom. I opened the door a crack and saw Vinaldi standing over Ghuaji I didn’t know what he could have done to make the soldier make that sound, and I didn’t want to find out. I shut the door on another shriek