Down These Strange Streets

“Mason?” he said. “What’s he mean, fix that?”

But Sobinski was already lost in a peal of maniacal laughter. On the screen, Scarrey shrugged. His voice was quiet, almost gentle, but it carried over the prisoner’s pandemonium.

“Really. Stop.”

They were standing five feet apart, maybe six. But Sobinski coughed, choked like someone had him by the throat. His eyes were on Scarrey, and the fake demon show was gone.

“I don’t know what happened to you,” Scarrey said. His hands were in the pockets of his slacks. “You were bullied when you were a boy? Abused, maybe? That’s how it is with some people. Or you just never found a place in the world. It was like that for me.”

“What’s he talking about?” Anderson asked. He was whispering now, even though there was no way Scarrey could hear him. Without thinking, Mason whispered back.

“Fuck if I know.”

“Vampires. Did you ever want to be a vampire? God, I did. The interesting thing about them is that they have to be invited,” Scarrey said. “I think you were like I was. Never comfortable in your skin. You can’t keep friends very long. You can’t keep your mind focused. The chances are very, very good that you’re mentally ill and undiagnosed. But it doesn’t matter. Here’s what does. You killed that girl because you wanted something. You wanted to let go, am I right? You wanted someone else to take over the hard parts. You wanted to be safe from the world?”

“What do you want?” Sobinski asked.

“Nothing you wouldn’t be willing to part with. What do you say? Only open up? You’ll go to prison, of course, but it will be much, much easier with our help. And afterward, we can take care of things for you. Keep you from hurting anybody unintentionally. Keep you from being lost. And we’ll be there, with you. It’s what you’ve been looking for. And the price is very, very small. Considering.”

“Who are you?”

“We’re legion,” Scarrey said, almost apologetically. “But we have to be invited.”

“Come in,” Sobinski said. Scarrey nodded.

“This is going to hurt, but it won’t last long.”

“What game is he playing?” Anderson whispered, and Sobinski screamed, bent backward, and collapsed. Mason was halfway to the interrogation room before he knew that he was going. The door was open when he reached it. Scarrey’s wide back was retreating down the hall, his hands in his pockets, his stride casual and at ease.

“Hey!” Mason called.

Scarrey turned to look over his shoulder, grinned, and waved like a man seeing an old friend. He didn’t stop. Mason leaned into the interrogation room. Sobinski sat on the floor; his chair had skittered away. He looked dazed. Mason went to him, his belly tight. If he’d let a civilian hurt a suspect in custody, there would be hell to pay. But already he didn’t think that was what had happened.

“You okay?” Mason said.

“Hey, Detective,” the prisoner said. He sounded winded, like he was trying to catch his breath. “Good you’re here.”

“You need a glass of water or something?”

“No, no,” Sobinski said, with an odd, lopsided grin. “It’s cool. What I wanted to say is, I killed Osterman. It was a dick move, but y’know. Anyway, it was me that did it. On the record. D’you know what I have to do to plead guilty?”

“You’re confessing?”

“Sure,” Sobinski said.

“Why?”

“Because I did it.”

When the man smiled, he looked like Scarrey.

* * *

MASON SAT AT HIS DESK. THE WEEKEND HAD BEEN BUSY. TWO CORPSES AT a hotel down by the river in what might have been a bad drug deal or else a queer love affair gone badly wrong. A dead six-year-old in Presbyterian Hospital with head wounds that didn’t match the story his dad told. A woman living down by the country club who had gotten her head caved in by burglars, except that she’d just filed for divorce. Plus which, the perp in the Miawashi vehicular homicide was still hiding out.

The week was going to be hell.

“Hey,” Winehart said. “Diaz and Roper are taking the hotel gig. You and Anderson want the kid or the rich bitch?”

Before Mason could answer, the chief stepped in. He looked old. He looked tired. He looked human. Mason figured he looked just the way he wanted to look. Their eyes met for a moment, each daring the other to look away. They both knew that Mason had seen something he wasn’t supposed to see. Knew something he wasn’t supposed to know. The question was, what were they both going to do about it?

“How’s it going, Detective?” the chief asked, carefully.

“Just another day doing the work of angels, sir,” Mason said. Winehart seemed confused when the chief chuckled. She didn’t get the joke.

THE CURIOUS AFFAIR OF THE DEODAND by Lisa Tuttle

Lisa Tuttle made her first sale in 1972 to the anthology Clarion II, after attending the Clarion workshop, and by 1974 she had won the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer of the Year. She has gone on to become one of the most respected writers of her generation, winning the Nebula Award in 1981—which, in a stillcontroversial move, she refused to accept—the British Science Fiction Award in 1987, and the International Horror Guild Award in 2007, all for short stories. Her books include a collaboration with George R. R. Martin, Windhaven; the solo novels Familiar Spirit, Gabriel, The Pillow Friend, Lost Futures, The Mysteries, and The Silver Bough; as well as several books for children, the nonfiction works Heroines and Encyclopaedia of Feminism, and, as editor, Skin of the Soul: New Horror Stories by Women. Her short work has been collected in A Nest of Nightmares , A Spaceship Built of Stone, Memories of the Body: Tales of Desire and Transformation, Ghosts and Other Lovers, and My Pathology. Born in Texas, she moved to Great Britain in 1980, and now lives with her family in Scotland.

Here she introduces us to a proper young nineteenth-century gentlewoman who is about to try out a new role, that of “Watson” to an eccentric Sherlock Holmes–like figure—and who will discover a surprising aptitude for that role before their first case is through.

ONCE IT HAD BECOME PAINFULLY CLEAR THAT I COULD NO LONGER CONTINUE to work in association with Miss G—F—, I departed Scotland and returned to London, where I hoped I would quickly