Grantville Gazette 38

I took a deep breath and calmed myself down. There was one good thing, at least: It didn't matter if Henderson knew about my relationship with Gerd Vanderhout. Gerd had never made any pretext of hiding his involvement in the craft. After all, it wasn't an illegal activity. He was above reproach. And, while he might be questioned in the matter, Gerd was under no legal obligation to cooperate. The courts had been clear on that.

Clear in more ways than one, actually. Physical sins couldn't be admitted as evidence in any court of law. Who but a few could even see them? And how could a judge objectively believe a person's claims to be able to do so? Likewise, any descriptions, classifications or analyses relating to the sins, even by persons known to be 'expert seers,' were inadmissible. One might as well admit court testimony from a palm reader, or a clairvoyant. We in the craft were fairly well-insulated from the law, and that included freedom from search warrants and court injunctions related to hamartiaphilic affairs.

To be sure, individual sin-seers might help the cops with difficult cases, as I routinely did. But any information we provided was strictly on an unofficial 'background' basis. I knew that some in the Guild took a dim view of my relationship with the police-but I'd always cleaved closely to the spirit of our craft guidelines pertaining to non- disclosure. I had my reputation to maintain, after all.

I took a shower and got into bed. I had almost fallen asleep when a horrible thought entered my head: What if the surveillance and the break-in had not been Henderson's doing?

What if other interested parties were in play?

Sleep evaded me for the rest of the night, while my brain tried to corral all the alternate possibilities.

Maybe it would be best for me to play it straight with Henderson.

****

Detective Henderson leaned back in his chair and exposed the soles of his shoes to me. 'So let me get this straight, Pete: You think you were tailed last night, and you think someone broke into your place. Anything taken?'

'No, but-'

'Anything damaged?'

'No, Henderson. Nothing was harmed.'

'Have you received any threats recently? Any reason to believe somebody is wanting to do you wrong?'

I stared down at the dust bunnies lying on the floor under Henderson's desk. 'At first I thought it was your own guys, poking around to glom onto my confidential information. I intended to confront you about that. But then it occurred to me that it might have been somebody connected with Manny Greer's murder. Maybe making sure the job was done cleanly enough. It freaked me out. I . . . I want some investigation done. And some protection.'

'Okay, duly noted. I'll send a tech over to check things out, see if we can find anything tangible. And I'll try to arrange a squad car to swing past your street more often on its regular patrol. Understand, that's only because we're colleagues, of a sort. Call it professional courtesy. But there's no way I can pull anybody off their assignments to baby-sit you full-time. Do you own a handgun?'

'No! Guns frighten me, Henderson. I'd never-'

'You came here wanting my help. That's what I'm giving you, best I can. If you feel like you're under threat, I'd advise you to buy a gun, and carry it. The only thing to be afraid of with firearms is having the wrong end of one pointing at you. Better that you have a say in that, if it ever comes down to it.'

I felt a clot of phlegm lodge in my throat. It wasn't the thing I wanted to hear him say at that moment.

Henderson lowered his feet from the desk and rose from his chair. 'Look, Pete, you of all people ought to know how things work around here. Do you actually think we're gonna give priority to some dead hoodlum that nobody gives a shit about, when there are a hundred other unsolved murder cases more pressing? Personally, I couldn't care less about Manny's physical sins-or, as you claim, the strange lack of same. Nor what happened to them, if in fact they got plucked. Manny ended up right where he deserved to be. Regardless, there's one big problem with his case: You won't reveal the names of your sin-seer buddies for us to check out. You told me that none of them were murderers. Forgive me, but I happen to hold the opposite view.'

My head spun. He was right, of course. I knew the name of every sin-seer in North America. At least one of them was a murderer. And evidence indicated that I might be the next victim. But I'd taken a solemn Guild vow. Breaking it would destroy me, just as sure as having my throat slit.

'I . . . I just can't do that. I wish I could, but I can't. I'm sorry.'

'Fine, that's your right under the law. But it seems to me you're making things more complicated for yourself, Pete. We can't help you if you don't help us.' He paused, looked down at the floor, then said, 'There's one other thing I ought to mention to you.'

'Another thing?'

Henderson moved to the front of his desk, crossed his arms and leaned back against it. 'The Commissioner's been reassessing our consulting contracts. Budget crunch time, that sort of thing. I hate to have to tell you this, but he's teetering on the edge of canceling yours. Not enough bang for the buck, he says. You know how it is: 'What have you done for us lately?' Sorry, but . . . there it is.'

All the blood seemed to drain from my head at that moment, leaving me dizzy. 'But, but-what about the Strauss case, just a few months ago? You told me yourself that the sin of incest I recovered was helpful in cracking it!'

Henderson shrugged his shoulders in that aggravating, condescending way he had. 'Maybe it was, maybe it wasn't. The jury's still out on that one-literally. Who can say what we would have uncovered with our own legwork? How about the other two hundred-and-some-odd cases you've been called in on, besides that one? I count maybe a couple of useful leads you've given us in all that while. At most.'

'Heck, I know there were a few more than that, Henderson. What about-'

'Be honest about it, Pete. You've been sucking on the public tit for a long time, and you've done pretty well with it. The good times can't last forever. You know that.'

Shit. This couldn't be happening to me. How else could I make a living? I had no formal education, no skills save one: seeing sins. I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out.

'Look,' Henderson said, 'I'll do what I can for you, but no promises.' He walked to his office door and opened it, a less-than-subtle invitation for me to get out of his hair. 'You have to understand, Pete. A lot of folks around here just don't appreciate your kind. To be more precise, you give 'em the creeps. Hell, you even give me the creeps sometimes. Best you go on home and play with your cootie collection, and let me handle things on this end, eh?'

****

There have been a few times in the past, always under severe emotional distress, when I've been tempted to extract my own sins-even though I know that would lead to an excruciating, painful death.

It was one of the first lessons Gerd had taught me, many years ago: sins are symbiotic to a human. We cannot live without them. If we are separated, the power of our mutual longing will inevitably lead to human dissolution. Even the excision of a single sin from a living person could result in madness. A few unpublished, illicit experiments conducted by the HCG in its early days had confirmed that. Gerd had once let me read some of those private accounts. They were horrifying.

Just as one could never undo a sin he'd committed, so too could that sin's physical manifestation never be removed from a living body without severe psychical repercussions.

I stood nude in front of my bathroom mirror, looking at the horde of sins infesting my own body, from bottom to top, writhing languidly like so many crystalline larvae, occasionally exchanging positions, always on the slow move. They formed a colorful secondary skin, unseen by all but a few.

It was easy to remain professionally detached when viewing the physical sins that rode upon others. But it was never easy for me to witness the evidence of my own wrong-doings, all my many prior sins of both thought and deed. How could I have accumulated so blasted many of them in the span of my short life? Hundreds and hundreds of them, infesting every square inch of my body-each one a reminder that I was nowhere near the person I wanted to be. Even more distressing was knowing that I'd carry them to my grave-and beyond.

It was not a pleasant concept to consider.

I watched as a new sin appeared in the center of my chest, right above my heart, gleaming with the spectral glory of fresh birth: family 'hatred,' genus 'self-loathing.' I didn't recognize the species and subspecies. I'd have to consult my HCG directory to nail them down.