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Arlo knew he was going to join the CRISPR club the moment he saw Harriett. She was impossibly tall and magnificent, handing out flyers for a club recruitment drive. She used her imposing form and beauty to arrest fellow students into listening to her brief pitch on the future of transhumanism. She had clearly altered her own structure. No normal person was that tall, and he wondered how painful the transformation must have been. He stood in the shadow of the campus’s oldest oak trees, watching her so long that he missed two classes.
He knew he his life was a blessed one. Saved by missionaries from his war-torn ancestral home and raised in Spain, he was loved despite looking and sounding different than his other 13 siblings. The students at the concertado schoolshad been less accepting, but it provided the best education and much needed lessons on the privileged limits of tolerance. He had learned science and how to fight at the same school, and that had led him to America.
His parents had tried to encourage him to study theology or sociology, something that might be used to help people as they had helped him. His brawls with fellow students, though, had given him the resolve to stubbornly pursue his love of science, even through the quiet disapproval of his family. The unspoken agreement that emerged from this was he would be allowed to pursue his chosen vocation as long as he never broke faith with the Holy Church. When he left for America, this was only hinted at in reminders to attend Mass and questions about the priest’s sermons.
Now he had encountered Harriett, something that stood in the face of all of that.  The church had decreed all genetic manipulation to be a sin, even in utero to prevent diseases in generations that hadn’t been born yet. Not only did her height advertise that she had tinkered with her own DNA, but she was participating in an organization that treated it as a some kind of social club. Arlo, thinking of his homeland with its droughts, floods, wars, and starvation, couldn’t even imagine having the resources to treat the building blocks of life as toys. The metamorphosis cost alone was unimaginable to him.
Arlo shunted his backpack and crossed the quad to Harriett who was smiling at student passersby even as most ignored her. Others glared at the fliers she was handing out with open hostility. As she locked eyes with Arlo, seeing no ill will in him, her smile increased in radiance till all he could do was take the pamphlet she handed him and mumble a hello.
She began to ask him about why he was interested when a wandering student yelled out, “Hey Harriett, does your boyfriend know you were a dude last week?”
“Oh piss off you bigot,” was Harriett’s immediate reply, neither unafraid nor ashamed. Whatever anger her tone held drained away and she came back to Arlo with a devilish grin. “I wasn’t a boy last week.” She touched him lightly on the arm and winked. “It was months ago.”Â
Arlo couldn’t tell if she was joking. Either way, it was going to make for some very interesting conversations.
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I had cast Sartre into the role of sociopath for so long that I couldn’t tell if the pain that flooded into his face was genuine or the role he thought he was meant to play. If it was a performance, though, he wasn’t playing it for me. As his eyes welled with tears he swatted Lanzo’s distancing hand away and pulled the younger man into an embrace. Lanzo collapsed into that hug, his tears returning as Sartre held the his face into the nape of his neck.
I stared at the hills of the vineyard and pretended I didn’t feel bad for Lanzo or Moreau. Several of the rooks exchanged cigarettes and muttered things indecipherably French, low tones of sympathy and commiseration.
In what was both a very long and short amount of time, Sartre ended the embrace. Still holding him by the shoulders, he gently shook both the younger man and himself, bringing them back to the reality of the sunny mountaintop that lived with murder just down the hill. When Lanzo raised his head again, Sartre caught his eye and asked, “Who did this?”
Lanzo sniffed and searched for words, shaking his head with the impotence of not knowing. In the pain of that moment, I found my mouth opening and I uttered words that were almost assuredly a bad idea. “It was the Russians.”
Still holding Lanzo, the intimidating fire came back into Sartre’s eyes. “Mitnick did this?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so. There’s a different crew from the mother country in town. They did this.”
“Why?”
“They’re looking for who killed Sergei,” I lied. “They were trying to ask Moreau some questions. I think things got out of hand.”
Lanzo, understandably confused, asked, “How do you know this?”
I shrugged, feeling the tightness of the trench coat. “I put it together on the way up. I ran into a few of them.” For simplicity, I combined the encounters with Mikhail and Pyotr. “They were asking about Sergei.”
“How did they know about this?” Sartre leaned into the question’s new pronoun.
“They’d heard I’d been asking around about Sergei. They wanted to know why.” I nodded decidedly at Lanzo.Â
The possible connection between Sergei, Lanzo, and his uncle began to clear the fog of pain that had been on Lanzo since the garage. “Sergei was with Nika.”
A bit of his anger rose again at being left on the outside as Sartre said, “Who?”
“I met Nika and Sergei at the Factory,” Lanzo mumbled, almost to himself. “We…they think I killed Sergei?”
“They think you know something about it.”
Lanzo pinched his lower lip, considering this new information. Sartre, though, was still firmly focused on his own business. “How did they find out about the station if la batard did not tell them?”
“A bunch of the new Russians are in town. I caught one of them tailing me at the casino. They’ve got an eye on your whole operation.”
Sartre pivoted back to the boulder and placed a hand on it. The many holes in the story I was spinning combined with what I didn’t know about Sartre’s knowledge moved my blood faster, swelling my feet and heating my skin in a way that had nothing to do with the afternoon sun. I ignored this until Sartre asked, “You said it was Mitnick who killed this Sergei? Why would he do this if Sergei was with his allies?”
I shrugged. “Best guess? Sergei was supposed to keep an eye on Nika and Mitnick killed him when he found out he had let Nika fall in with the local rabble.” I gestured to Lanzo at that mention. “She must be too important to someone back home to allow that.”
Sartre patted the boulder, trying to transfer some of its stability to himself. “So they killed Moreau in their search for Sergei? This makes no sense if they knew he was at the station.”
I tried to keep my mouth from hanging open as I was caught in this simple mistake of my timeline. I could feel a gleeful shiver descend from the lizard part of my brain as it considered the violence that would be necessary to get out of this. Three guards here, three back at the house, two more on the driveway. The lizard uncoiled its tail from my spine as it whispered, “We’re not getting out of this.”
I shuffled my swelling feet until I was surprised by Atwell. “They weren’t asking Moreau about Sergei. They were asking about Lanzo.” I slapped away the part of my brain that was planning the fight as all eyes turned toward Atwell. “There were multiple bodies at the station with Sergei’s. Bodies you hadn’t put there, Sartre. One of them was a Frenchman. That was your rat.” I felt the story settle as Atwell layered mortar between the bricks of my lies.
Sartre’s dubiety wasn’t completely swayed, though. “Mitnick kills this man over a girl. One he is meant to protect?”
Before Sartre could continue to string our flimsy facts together, Atwell continued for him. “Mitnick tried to pin it on you and that fell through when you found the body first. The new Russians showed up looking for Sergei and they sniffed out the station. They argued – maybe they found out who really killed Sergei and they fought. That turns into a couple more corpses. So whoever walked away called the police, hoping to cause you trouble. I got into the middle of that, but…” Atwell nodded towards Lanzo, “The Factory connects all of this to him.”
“Mitnick has brought trouble to my shores, killed my friend, and now wishes to kill Moreau’s blood?” Sartre’s anger hadn’t abated through any of this, but I could feel it shifting away from us. “Because of his own mistake?”
Whatever lizard-tailed part of my brain had anticipated violence hissed its denial as I took a page from Atwell’s book. “We can turn this into an opportunity.”
The heat of Sartre’s anger was dampened by those words, his cunning stronger than his desire for instant gratification. “What do you mean?”
I shrugged, the components for what I was laying out already in place. “Mitnick’s got trouble with his own people. If he’s supposed to protect her and she disappears, on top of everything else…”
Sartre grinned with the wicked pleasure of the tormented who suddenly finds he’s holding his torturer’s whip. “If he loses the girl, they will kill him for it.”
I shrugged again to say maybe. It was warm enough now that I would have taken off the trench coat if I hadn’t been hiding the revolver under it.
Sartre’s anger and hatred boiled out of him in a braying laugh. While we stood there, he laughed as if the plot was formed by his one true fat god, Luck, and was handed to him after months of frustration in having to deal with Mitnick. He raised his head to laugh at the sky until he turned to each of his men, laughing in their faces until they slowly joined him.
When he eventually began to peter out, he wiped a tear of pure joy out of the corner of one eye. “Yes, go do this. Take the girl, hide her away. I will keep you safe while the Russians eat each other.”
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The Apprentice noticed the line of luminescent crystals the first time he stepped into the Wizard’s laboratory. They were on a high shelf, thus he assumed they were valuable or fragile or both, so didn’t ask about them for a very long time.
Between the weary hours of transcription, quests for kings, and alchemical lessons (such as why love potions are, at best, trouble), the Apprentice learned that the Wizard was much kinder than her stern demeanor suggested. As such, one day, between the bubbling of beakers and the scribing of pages, he asked his master, “What are the glowing orbs on your highest shelf?”
“Ah,” the Wizard clucked as she often did when the Apprentice asked difficult questions. “Those would be my mistakes.”
Confusion overcame awe of his instructor, causing the boy to say, “My father always said you shouldn’t drudge up old wrongs.”
“Then your father is a wise. It’s not good to hold onto grievances or flagellate oneself with own’s errors.”
“Then why do you keep them?”
With a heavy sigh, the Wizard retired from her strangely bound grimoire. “Because encased in each of those orbs is a mistake that taught me an important lesson.” In her wizened hand she picked up a rod that she often used in her instruction. The Wizard used it to point at one of the many orbs.
From its surface, the spectral image of a crying young boy with a bloody nose sprang forth. “I learned to be kind because I was cruel.”
She moved the rod to another crystal, from which came the translucent image of a starving family. “I learned to be generous because I was greedy.”
With as much hesitation as the Apprentice had ever seen in the Wizard, she moved the rod to the next. In its depths the boy could see a young woman who very much resembled the Wizard running away, looking over her shoulder in terror at an unseen thing. “I learned to be brave because I was a coward.”
The Apprentice stared at each of the crystals. “It almost seems cruel to keep them.”
“Perhaps it is,” the Wizard conceded, “but there is a part of me that fears if I ever forget the mistake, I will forget the lesson. So, sometimes, late at night, I take them them down from the shelf and arrange them around me. I pick each up in turn to examine them. And as I look at their stupid, tragic beauty, I tell myself:
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When none of Sartre’s man opened fire, Atwell and Lanzo followed. In that afternoon silence, I thought I could hear something like the rotating drum of a cement mixer.
One of Sartre’s men, professional enough not to gesture with his weapon, stepped forward and pointed past the carpark. A dirt path disappeared behind it, headed uphill from the house. I nodded and moved that way, feeling Atwell and Lanzo behind me.
The latest rain couldn’t have been far behind as the path was still a bit muddy, something I trudged through without concern as it was high time to shine my shoes anyway. Lanzo stumbled through it like a shell-shocked refugee while Atwell fell behind, trying to pick and choose his path from one dry spot to the next. As we headed up the slope, the rhythmic percussion sound grew louder.
Not far from the carpark was the grassy peak of the hill the house was built on. Three other rooks stood around watching Sartre walk a worn path that led to the top, their eyes shaded with admiration. The Night Governor, on the other hand, paid no attention to anything but what he was doing. He was stripped to the waist, thick muscles straining as he pushed a boulder up the hill.
His grunting travelled down the short slope followed by the sound of the rock rolling down after he released it, producing the cadenced noise we’d heard. From the top of the hill, Sartre let out a barking laugh and raised his hands into the air like he was Rocky Balboa. I suspected he did this every time he got to the top. I guess it kept him in shape.
Sweat drenching his fireplug frame, he trudged down, taking a towel from one of his men at the bottom. Wiping sweat off himself, he closed the distance till recognized us.
As we came into focus for him, Sartre smiled his yellow smoker’s smile. Until he noticed Atwell. At that, Sartre’s demeanor became electrified with hostility, the transformation occurring so quickly I thought I’d have to get between them. Fortunately, Sartre only stood his ground and gestured at Atwell with such force I thought he was going to fling his towel at him. “What is this lavette doing here?”
To keep the peace, and Atwell alive, I said, “He saved our bacon.”
Sartre squeezed an eye shut and inspected me with the other, looking every inch like the old woman in the villa. He swabbed off his face, wiping sweat and credulity away. “What is this nonsense?”
I gestured from Atwell to Sartre, notifying him it was his turn to speak. Atwell paused long enough I worried he had forgotten our agreed upon lie, thankfully disproved when he said, “Someone knew about the service station. What you had stored there.” Under Sartre’s narrowing gaze Atwell continued, “They informed the police. The Flic were going to raid it and I only found out minutes before. I didn’t have time to find you so I had the place torched. I figured that was better than the evidence getting into official hands.”
The rigid silence that followed was only punctuated by the local insect chorus. They barely had time to get through one refrain, though, before Sartre laughed, loud enough that I could feel its forced nature. He reached out to put his arm around Atwell’s neck. Smiling with a mouth like a dirty razor blade, Sartre said, “This is true?”
Atwell, squirming against the sweaty embrace, said something in the affirmative. Still firmly holding him in the grapple hug, Sarte side glanced at me. I nodded. “It’s true.”
Sartre laughed again, this time with more honesty, not letting go but jangling Atwell. “Then I owe you! Why did you not tell me this?”
Sartre released him to grab a jug of water from one of his men. Holding it by the neck and bottom, he gestured at Atwell with it saying, “I know why. You have been following me.” He drank.
To my surprise, Atwell shrugged. “Yeah.”
Sartre slowly lowered the jug, eyes blazing at Atwell. “You think I would allow this?”
Appearing secure in the armor of being a representative of the United States Atwell stood firm. “Sartre, we have an understanding. But you don’t trust me and I don’t trust you. If I hadn’t been keeping tabs on things, then I wouldn’t have known about the station and you’d be talking to the cops.” He shrugged again. “If it makes you feel better, I watch everyone. I watch this town. It’s what I do.” All in all, it was a very impressive lie.
In a continued resemblance to the old woman down below, Sartre eyed Atwell. “Then perhaps you can tell me who informed – how did the police know about the station?”
With almost no hesitation, Atwell answered, “That’s what we’re here to talk to you about.” I had to hand it to the little rat, that was the best play there was to go with.
Atwell handed the conversation back to me with a nod, switching the focus of the Night Governor’s gaze. Moving that along, I tilted my head to Lanzo, “Have you met Moreau’s nephew?”
Having paid no attention to the Corsican until that moment, Sartre eyed him. There was a slow recognition that translated into a widening of his eyes and a lop-sided grin. “Lanzo?”
Lanzo had used the intervening time to recover himself, but even so it was clear he was having a very bad day. Fatigue and tears had ruddied his face. Whether it was because or despite this vulnerability, Sartre moved to embrace him.
Lanzo stopped him, holding up a hand when the older man got close. “My uncle is dead.”
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The house is the color of muskmelon and has the same sunny charm. It looks out of place in its rundown suburb, where it attracts the attention of those who know that anyone with such a fine home must have money. Some break in to steal its valuables. Others, dressed in the smart clothes of realtors, see another kind of opportunity in the lovely home. Surely the owners want to leave their bad neighborhood. The agent can help them. For a commission, of course.
The money, the valuables, they’re there, in the house. You can smell it.
There’s a house like this in every city, from Detroit to Mogadishu, and no one ever sees the owners. Always someone tries to go in, though, sometimes for larceny, sometimes for honest greed.
The house, though? It doesn’t care about your motives. It only cares that you go into the basement, where the sticky sweet smell draws no flies, attracts no rats, and leaves only the clean, clean bones of the unwary.
