The Language of Bees - Laurie R. King [113]
“What's his real name?”
“Dunno. Honest, I don't know.”
“How did he find you?” I asked.
“There's a group run by some of the churches, helps men when they come out of nick. Find jobs and that, you know?”
“And you were freshly out of prison?”
“Four years in The Scrubs.”
Wormwood Scrubs prison was aptly named for the bitterness of one's experience there. “So this Brothers presented himself as a fellow churchman willing to give a convict a second chance.”
“'S right.”
“Instead of which, he gave you a second career. Did you drive a young woman down to Sussex last Friday?”
“Friday? No, he gave me the day off Friday, and the week-end.”
I watched him closely, and although I could see that he was concealing some knowledge, I did not think he was lying outright.
“And tonight? He's not coming back for you, is he?”
“No.”
“Then how will you catch them up?”
“I won't.”
“What, he's just driving off and leaving you here?”
“If he wants me, he knows where to find me.”
“I don't believe you,” I said, although I thought I might.
“He's his own man. I work for him, I'm not his partner. There's a lot he doesn't tell me, there's a lot he does without me.”
I couldn't see that line of questioning taking me any further-either he was lying and he would continue to lie, or he was telling me the truth. I decided to leave it, and asked him about his background; about The Reverend and his scar, and Testimony; about what he knew, and didn't know, and guessed. After twenty minutes or so, his answers were coming shorter, his eyes wilder as he struggled for breath.
“You got to let me out of this,” he said.
“I can't do that, Marcus.”
“I'll die in here, and then it'll be you that's up for murder.”
“If you just relax and breathe slowly, you'll be fine.”
“I can't breathe, I tell you!”
“You're probably thirsty, though, from all that dust. How about a drink?”
“Christ!”
“Tea? Beer?”
“You are a piece of work, lady!”
“Thank you.”
Before I left the room, I strapped a belt around his legs, so he couldn't reverse the roll of the carpet. I wasn't gone for more than five minutes, but when I got back, he was sweating with the fear that I had abandoned him.
The string of curses he gave at my entrance was weaker than his earlier efforts. I blithely shoved the carpet tube a quarter-turn over with my foot, then held the glass of beer to his mouth. The curses stopped, and although the floor under his face was puddled with the spillage, most of the contents of the glass went down his throat.
We talked for another ten minutes, until I was satisfied both that I had as much from him as I could get, and that he was not going anywhere for a while. I undid the belt, gently kicked him along the floor until he lay limply on top of the carpet, and then went downstairs to make another phone call to Mycroft.
“I'm sorry to wake you a second time,” I said, and gave him the address of the house, and the request that he find someone at Scotland Yard who could rouse Lestrade and send him here to pick up Marcus Gunderson.
“He should be unconscious for another couple of hours,” I said. “I located the Veronal that Brothers probably used on Yolanda. And turnabout's fair play—it works a treat on large men, too.”
Magic (1): The world is an alembic writ large, where
forces may be brought to bear on Elements. Elements are
Power, pure and simple. The greater the Elements, the
greater the Power summoned, that the man of knowledge
may free and take into himself.
Testimony, III:5
LESTRADE RANG ASKING IF YOU WERE HERE,” MYCROFT greeted me the next morning. He was beheading his second egg; I had not wakened him when I got in the night before—or rather, earlier that morning. I squinted at the clock.
“Already?”
“He seemed quite determined.”
“You told him I wasn't here, I trust?”
“I rarely tell direct lies to the police,” he replied, then to my relief added, “I merely