Busted Flush

I wish him luck on the search, and tell him we’ll pool information. I then step outside and proceed to backstab him. The street is awash with runoff from the abrupt thunderstorm. The air smells of ozone and dust and desert plants trying to grasp at the rare and valuable moisture. The smell of carny has finally faded.

I use my BlackBerry to log on to the VICAPP network that lists criminal activity across the fifty United States. The network tells an interesting story of two ATMs that have been mysteriously emptied of money. I’m finding it hard to read, my eyes seem filled with grit. I pop another Black Beauty and continue. The security camera on the first robbery shows only the top of a head. As if the robber is on his knees. Or a dwarf. Or perhaps . . . a mini-ace.

In the same vicinity as the ATMs there has been a rash of stolen cars, abandoned after they run out of gas, and a carjacking. One of the perps had been caught. A midget. He’s in custody in Center, Texas.

I locate the place on Google Earth, unbutton my collar and loosen my tie, and unhook my belt, transform into Bahir, and make the jump Between. It’s a relief to feel the flesh pull and shift and return to Noel. The binding in my crotch was becoming rather uncomfortable.

Center is another dismal Texas town that looks as if it has been dropped like a turd by a passing bird. It’s easy to locate the jail. I walk in. The officer behind the desk is young, with a too-prominent Adam’s apple, a shock of straw-colored hair. He tries to hurriedly hide the girlie magazine he was perusing beneath the desk. “Help you, sir?”

“Do you have an impound here? My car was jacked near Cross Plains.”

“We may have the guy.” He opens the gate and invites me back.

Jails the world over have the same smell. Stale booze, sweat, shit, piss, and blood. We walk down the hall while I check for security cameras. There is one, but the indicator light is dark. There are a surprising number of cells for such a small burg. I hear labored breathing as we approach the last one.

A tiny figure is seated on the thin mattress of the cot. He leans back against the wall, a hand pressed to his chest. He is whispering softly to himself. A prayer? A string of curses? I can’t make out the words. A shock of carrot-colored hair falls across his sweat-beaded forehead.

I shake my head. “No, not the guy.” The cop looks disappointed, but I don’t want to spend time filling out paperwork for a crime that never happened.

The street is lined with low-end businesses. I slip behind the 7-Eleven and transform back into Bahir. I make the jump directly into the cell.

The little man opens his eyes and looks up at me. They are pain-filled but brightly intelligent, with a wry light in their cinnamon depths.

“Well, this is something you don’t see every day,” he rasps.

I press a finger to my lips, lift him in my arms, and take us out of there.

It’s all mental, but I feel too tired to travel very far. I spent a relatively pleasant evening in the Old Town of Albuquerque, New Mexico, a few years back. There was a nearly deserted parking garage directly across the street. I jump us to the top floor. It’s deserted. Americans really do hate to walk. I allow my features to shift back to me.

“Thanks for the rescue,” the little man says, “but why?”

“I’m looking for Niobe,” I say as I lay him down on the cold concrete floor.

“That’s nice.”

“You’re the one who caused all the chaos at Cross Plains.”

“Yep.” The word resonates with pride and something else . . . love is the only way I can describe it.

“Got her some traveling money and a car, did you?” I kneel at his side.

“Might be.”

I keep a flask of brandy on me at all times. Along with cigarettes, a gun, and a knife, it means I’m prepared for almost anything. I hold it to his blue-tinged lips and he sips hungrily.

“I don’t suppose you’d tell me where to find her?”

“Nope.”

Again there is a wealth of information in a single word. There is determination and, unfortunately for me, not a hint of bravado. Clearly the homunculus is dying. Hurting it will only hasten its death, and probably won’t garner any results.

My knees are aching so I sit down and now the rough concrete is digging at my seat bones. Usually I’m not this aware of physical discomfort. I must really be tired. Trying to keep my tone very conversational I say, “You know I won’t be the only person who will figure out how to find you.”

“You seem brighter than they are,” he says.

“Granted, but they do have the resources of the American government.”

“And Mom has us.”

My reaction surprises me. Instead of finding it unbelievably creepy I find it sadly touching. “Your mom?”

There’s a faraway look in the strange eyes as if he’s hearing a distant voice. “Yes. She loves us . . . love you, too.” For an instant I think he’s talking to me, and there’s a sudden tightness in my throat. I shake my head hard. “I did my best,” he whispers softly toward the stained concrete overhead. His eyes close briefly and the pain-wracked features soften.