Willieboy, and Cane. I don't know if he ever did get anyone who was clean. But that's the truth, isn't it? He called Authority, yes but not to sell his Regenerics Secret. He wanted your protection for his child.'
Willieboy leaned back chuckling. 'Fuck, you're way off. Why would I show you his lab? And if it's true, what you say, why would we burn it?'
'If that was his lab. You may have been trying to destroy the evidence or Cotton's methods, and equipment. After all, you had the baby. You just had to reclaim it, how long would that take? Sooner or later the rumors would come in and you had the competitive interests inside Authority to placate. You avoid any turf war and the King of the Dead would get his new lease on life.' I paused. 'The burned-out lab was for the audience. It conveniently explained Cotton's untimely demise, and might keep newshounds and loved ones off the track. Enough people had read his work on Regenerics that someone would miss him. The burnt-out lab was a piece of scenery. I think Cotton was always going to die; it was just a question of when. The fact that you showed it to me was just grist for the mill. You knew I wouldn't accept it because I knew Cotton had died at the Morocco. It was important that you drive the idea of a conspiracy into my head so that I'd be more willing to believe you were the Maverick Inspector trying to do the right thing…'
'Well, you got it all figured, haven't you?' Willieboy's voice had lost that good-old boy appeal. He was deadly serious. 'We'll see what the King has to say about your theories.'
I sat silent. I was anxious to meet the King. Something deep down inside me wanted to meet him too. I turned away from Willieboy, hunkered down to go over my theory one more time. I wasn't really doing this for anyone but God, I supposed. The closest I was coming to a court of law was a brush with an executioner.
Chapter 60
I toyed with the idea of overpowering Douglas Willieboy, and going from there to taking control of the transport. But an arm like a sack of grain, and ears that rang every time I turned my head, convinced me to sit out for a round. Since our last conversation, Willieboy's manner toward me had changed noticeably. He had become distant, formidable-his good-old-boy demeanor was gone. His actions began to more resemble his behavior during our first encounter. For the remainder of our ride, the movements he allowed himself were hard and muscular- violence lurked beneath his features. There was something terrible in his gaze. His whole persona had altered, eyes awful, menacing; they thinly disguised the terror of survival. The stakes were high indeed. It was clear; Willieboy would do anything to live through this and he had no guarantees.
Despite this, I still managed to retain reserves of optimism. I was feeling hot to trot, injured but high on adrenaline. My hunches had played out well. I wasn't happy with the way the last act was shaping up; but it didn't really matter that people knew justice was done-so long as justice was done. Of course, I knew a lot of people would go unpunished, officially, for their crimes; and I was likely to suffer severely for my involvement. Times like this I had to be philosophical. There was no point to getting upset about how nice it would be to put someone behind bars. Perhaps Greasetown had evolved away from that type of justice or devolved toward the primitive law of the jungle. Certainly, the crimes that had been committed were capitol offenses. Since there were no judges or juries that I could trust, perhaps in rather democratic fashion, justice had returned to the individual. One vote. Life or death. Right or wrong. Did we need a committee for everything? If I could, I would see that someone paid for the murders. Likable or not, Conrad Billings was an innocent. He certainly didn't deserve to die. Then there was Julie Hawksbridge; she had the right to live her own life. No one should be able to turn her into a baby-making machine. Then there was the baby if it really existed. I got the creeping fits just imagining the process the King of the Dead intended to inflict upon it.
There was still the possibility that evil existed. There was a chance, however small, that it wasn't simply a poor innocent driven by social or familial turmoil to act out against his fellows. Perhaps evil could still be done. Were our social compacts our downfall? The scientists had sold our souls, objectified us. Not that the soul was an angel without wings or a devil minus horns, but the spiritual unknown inherent in religion gave us something. It allowed for justice; there was the possibility for balance. Science would not allow evil, nor would it good. It pushed us into a gray area of vulnerability. People locked their doors because of their compassion. The odd farm family sacrificed a daughter to rape and dismemberment in the hope that one day a criminal would get help. It was just a mistake. Choices, good or evil had nothing to do with the immortal soul. They were just factors in a sociologist's equation. I had to think. I had to get rid of my emotion. There was too much chance of screwing up, slowing down, if my feelings got involved. Justice was justice. It was a cold thing like the barrel of a gun. I knew what justice was. I had to see that it was done.
My optimism came from the fact that already the wheels had begun to turn. Adrian had paid horribly for his crime. Cane died for his abuses. Was that the best justice? Let the criminals devour each other. I had to believe there was another way, especially when I gauged my own position. When criminals consumed one another, they did so with violence that ravaged the innocent as well. I had to sharpen my edge. The emotion had to go. I had to hug justice to my breast, and force it into my flesh. Things were going to happen fast.
The transport screeched to a halt. Its heavy iron walls were hot, and they groaned against the speed of the rapid deceleration. The impetus forced me hard into one of the uprights. Luckily, it was my right shoulder. My left, and the arm attached to it, was still numb-throbbing intermittently. They seemed to be coming around a little, but behaved like broken radio-controlled toys. Willieboy growled at me. 'Come on.'
He walked half-crouched to the rear of the transport, and then twisted a handle set in the steel. A light flashed, a horn droned quietly. The door levered open forming a ramp. Outside, night was falling fast. A heavy fog hugged the walled-in courtyard. A wave of exhaust hit me, made me nauseous. Suddenly a pair of Enforcers appeared outside the door. They carried auto-shotguns. Both were strangely at home in the darkness that enveloped the world. Their facemasks glinted demonically. Willieboy stepped out of the transport to relay some orders. 'Take the hamburger to the lab.' He gestured to Adrian's remains. 'Then fortify the gate. Trouble's coming.' They disappeared with Adrian into the gloom. Willieboy turned to me.
'Come on. Let's get this over with.' He reached in and grabbed my left arm. It almost came off. He should have just shot me. I winced and let out an angry hiss of air. 'God damn it. Last time I take a drive with you…' I mumbled against the pain.
The King of the Dead lived in a castle-it was a three-storied mansion about two hundred feet wide built of large brown stones. Copper-roofed towers rose into darkness on the north and south ends of the structure. I spotted movement in the shadow of their open windows. We had come to a stop well inside the tall stone wall that circled the perimeter of the castle courtyard and grounds. I could remember rumors of a huge wooded acreage that enclosed the manse supposedly containing a herd of man-eating boar. I looked around and saw silhouettes along the battlements on the outer wall. There was an open lawn before the castle that contained a crushed gravel drive one hundred feet long flanked by topiary knights on leafy steeds. I cast a glance back down the drive toward the stark iron gates. Guards moved back and forth in a glaring spotlight against the black bars of a portcullis. Smaller stone towers stood on either side of the gate. Authority Transports with cannon mounted on them patrolled the grounds.
'Get going!' Willieboy shoved me. I stumbled. My clothes were in shreds and let the cooling air in. It was refreshing, but irritated my scorched skin. We approached a pair of heavy iron and oak doors set deep in the face of the mansion. I saw that a little bridge ran over to them, crossing a moat about fifteen feet wide. I looked down; the dark water dimly mirrored my face.
'A moat?' I asked Willieboy. 'You've got to be kidding.' He shrugged and pushed me on. We entered a high vaulted hallway. A huge stag's head with an eight-foot rack of antlers hung on a heavy shield on the wall opposite the entrance. Below that a pair of battle-axes were crossed. An intricate suit of armor sagged under these, looking tired. A stone hallway ran to my left and right. The manor had been designed in gothic fashion, punctuated with many high-pointed arches. The buttresses disappeared in shadow over my head. Willieboy pushed me painfully down the hall to the right. We passed works of art sporadically placed along its length. On one stand was the noble brow of Caesar Augustus, on another Hannibal. Farther down the hall was a portrait of Napoleon, farther still King Henry VIII. I turned to Willieboy, raised an eyebrow. He kept his eyes straight ahead. The muscles at his jaws bunched. This place was not to be mocked.
Willieboy pushed me up a broad flight of stairs, ending at yet another tall set of doors. A life-size human
