Daylight Runner Page 4

  “This is Sergeant Baiev.” Mercier tilted his head in the direction of the second man.

  “I haven’t seen my father in three days,” Sol told them.

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “I wish we did. You see, I’m sorry to tell you that we have a warrant for his arrest. For the murder of a Mr. Tommy Hyung, a fellow daylighter. Would you mind coming with us?”

  “Murder!” Sol exclaimed, stunned. “He can’t be…I mean…Murder?”

  “I’m afraid so, Mr. Wheat. Now if you’d just come with us—”

  “I have a class—”

  “Your teachers will be informed. I’m sure they’ll understand.”

  They led him to an unmarked black car parked on the corner. Baiev got behind the wheel, while Mercier sat beside Sol in the back. It was a blocky machine, and the engine sounded more powerful than a normal electric motor. Pulling away from the curb, Baiev steered it into the road, skillfully avoiding a group of teenagers on mopeds, and soon they were on the main western route, heading toward the closest section of city wall.

  “When was the last time you saw your father?” the inspector asked him.

  “Wednesday morning…. Aren’t you supposed to be recording this or something? I thought there was supposed to be a—”

  “You’re not under arrest, Mr. Wheat. You’re just assisting us with our investigation. Have you had any contact with your father since then?”

  The school bag holding the gun was a heavy weight in Sol’s lap. The note had said not to trust the police.

  “No. I don’t know where he is.”

  Mercier eyed him thoughtfully. “You have no need to worry. It’s merely our job to bring your father in. If he’s innocent, then he has nothing to fear.”

  “I don’t know where he is,” Sol repeated. “Where are we going?”

  “To the station. This won’t take long. We’ll return you to school when we’ve completed the interview.”

  “I’m under eighteen. Shouldn’t I have somebody with me or something?”

  “We can assign you a social worker if you like. There’s a lot of red tape involved, though. Your mother’s deceased, isn’t that right? A tram crash? You lost your older sister in the accident too, according to the ISS file. A tragedy. I lost one of my sisters to cancer recently. They used to be able to cure that, you know. We just don’t have the drugs now. But at least we were ready for it. A tram accident—now, that’s very sudden. Hard to take, I imagine.”

  Sol hadn’t thought about Nattie and his mother for some time. It had been years since the accident. He hated this cop for bringing it up. His memories of his sister and his mother were fading treasures, recalled on quiet nights with a bitter mixture of fondness and distance. They were not for blunt discussion in the back of a police car.

  The police station was twelve stories high, with an observatory on the top floor and metal grids on the windows. This was not a local branch; it was the CIS headquarters: center for all the major criminal investigations. Its gray and blue walls rose out of the clustered buildings around it, tall and imposing. The road took them to the fourth floor, and Baiev stopped outside the door. Mercier gently ushered Sol from the car. For a moment, Sol felt trapped. Some of the guys he trained with in the boxing club were regular visitors to police stations. They said there were weapons detectors on the doors.

  “You can leave your things in the car,” Mercier told him.

  Sol wasn’t reassured; he was certain they’d search his bag. But they could do that anyway. He left the school bag on the backseat of the car and let the inspector lead him into the station.

  Mercier led him past the front desk, where two officers were arguing with an enormous, pale-faced gangland type from the bottom levels and a pair of irate Filipinos. The five raised voices echoed down the hallway as Sol and his guide made their way deeper into the building.

  “You will be safe here, Mr. Wheat,” Mercier told him.

  “Don’t let the atmostphere of the place alarm you. Or some of the people, for that matter. There is nothing to be scared of.”

  This did little to put Sol’s mind at ease. There were holding cells along this corridor, and the heavy doors, with their small openings, were an intimidating sight. At the end of the corridor, Mercier opened a door and waved him in.

  “Ah, thank you, Inspector,” a voice greeted them.

  Beyond the door was a gray room with no windows, lit by a single diode cluster hanging from the ceiling. There were three men in the room, all in the dark red uniform of the ISS, the Industrial Security Section. These people had authority wherever affairs of the Machine were involved. Which was pretty much everywhere. If you were to believe the rumors, there was no love lost between them and the CIS. One of the men, obviously of the highest rank, gestured to Sol to sit at the bare table in the center of the room. Controls for a recorder were set into the top of the table at one end, and there was a chair on either side.

  “Thank you, Inspector,” the first man said again.

  “We’ll take it from here.”

  “I’d like to sit in, if you don’t—” Mercier began.

  “That won’t be necessary, thank you.”

  Sol glanced back at Mercier, understanding the insistent note. Mercier—an inspector in the CIS—had just been tasked with delivering him. It was the Industrial Security Section that was in charge here. The inspector’s face was frozen into a carefully neutral expression. He nodded and left, closing the door behind him. Sol turned to face the three men.

  “Have a seat, Mr. Wheat,” the first one told him. “I’m Inspector Ponderosa; this is Sergeant Koenig and Detective Collins. We just want to have a word.”

  Sol sat down in the chair nearest him; the sound of its legs scraping across the floor was very loud in the small room. Sizing up the officers as if they were opponents in the ring, Sol let his eyes wander from one to the next. Ponderosa was a middleweight, his athletic build accentuated by the wine-colored uniform and its black and silver trim. Under close-cropped, dense black hair, his rugged, good-looking face was spoiled by a mouth with the thin lips of a wound. Koenig was a light heavyweight, narrower than Ponderosa in build, but taller. Collins was short, squat, and burly, a heavyweight red-haired barrel of a man. The three officers studied him, and Ponderosa gave him a warm smile and took the chair opposite. He leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table.

  “As I’m sure Inspector Mercier has told you, we’re looking for your father,” he began. “When was the last time you had any contact with him?”

  His voice had a slightly high-pitched quality to it. Sol could imagine it getting annoying very quickly.

  “Wednesday morning—I told Mercier that already. I haven’t seen him since then. Who’s accusing him of murder?”

  “I’ll ask the questions,” Ponderosa chided him gently.

  “Can’t have you stealing my thunder, now can I? You saw him Wednesday morning, before you went to school, is that right? He was on his way to work? And if I’m not mistaken, he didn’t come home that night or the following night. Am I right?”

  Sol nodded.

  “What about last night?”

  “He…he didn’t come home either. I didn’t see him.”

  Ponderosa’s face was almost expressionless. There was still a smile playing on the corners of his mouth, but it was no longer a friendly expression.

  “Have you had any contact with him at all since Wednesday? A phone call, a note to say where he was? Nothing?”

  “No.”

  The room was stifling. There was nowhere to look that wasn’t solid and gray. Only the door: flat, featureless, and closed.

  “You must have been worried when he didn’t show up.” Still the semismile from Ponderosa, with no trace of humor in sight.

  “He stays out some nights,” Sol said softly.

  “Ah, yes. The ratting dens. I believe he’s a regular visitor to the fights in the Filipino District as well. Likes to bet a bit, your father, d
oesn’t he?”

  Sol looked down at his hands then glanced toward the door. They weren’t supposed to be allowed to interrogate him on his own like this, he was sure of it. He knew he should challenge them, but he couldn’t summon up the nerve.

  “We don’t care about that kind of crap, Sol,” Ponderosa said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “We’re just interested in anything your father might have said to you in the last few days. I can’t believe he wouldn’t have sent you some kind of message in that time. Not even a note? No phone call?”

  “I said no.”

  “What about his friends? Have you talked to any of them?” The ISS man stood up, walking around the table to bring his face closer to Sol’s. “Who is he most likely to confide in, do you think? I’d like you to give us a list of his friends, workmates—anybody your father trusts. He’s in real trouble here, Sol. We can help him, but we have to find him first. We think he’s fallen in with some very nasty people. Help us find out who he might have talked to, and you’ll help him.”

  His father didn’t trust anybody. Not really. He had a few friends, but Sol couldn’t think of anyone who…Murder. His father was being accused of killing somebody. It hit home for the first time. Sol couldn’t believe it; Gregor got into fights sometimes—he was difficult to get along with—but he wouldn’t kill anybody.

  “How did it happen? The…the death,” Sol asked falteringly. “How do you know it was my dad? He wouldn’t kill somebody, he just—”

  “At four sixteen P.M. on Wednesday afternoon”—Ponderosa cut him off—“three witnesses say they saw your father severely beat Tommy Hyung—a fellow dome-maintenance technician—before throwing him off a catwalk into a piston well. The pistons were not operating at full speed, which is how they were stopped in time to save enough of Mr Hyung’s body to be positively identified. Well, from his dental records, anyway.”

  The other two men were standing against the walls on either side of Sol now, and he threw furtive looks up at them. He glanced at the door again. It was the only way out of the room, and all three men were between him and it now. The balls of his feet were pressed against the floor, his legs bouncing up and down restlessly. He had his fingers knotted together and he stared down at his hands, crushing his fingers against one another.

  Mercier had said there was nothing to be scared of. Why had he said that? Sol wasn’t being accused of anything; why would he be scared? His swollen nose itched, and he scratched the bridge of it, trying not to touch it where it was broken.

  “I’m asking you for names, Sol.”

  When he didn’t look up, Ponderosa grabbed his chin and forced his head up.

  “Listen to me when I’m talking to you!” the inspector snapped.

  There was the sound of angry voices outside, and the door swung open. There was Ana Kiroa, with outrage written across her face. Mercier stood behind her, looking sheepish.

  “What the hell is going on here?” she snarled. “This boy is sixteen years old! Who do you think you are, interrogating him without a guardian present? I’m going to have you all up on charges, you goddamned fascists! I want the name of your superior—I’ll have the mayor herself down on you for this! Come on, Sol. You’re getting out of here. These goddamned bullies can’t question you without an adult here to represent you and they know it. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to give them the chance after this.”

  Sol was already standing up. Ana looked young and small standing among all these men, her outrage fierce but brittle. Her voice was shaking as she spoke. She could only be a few years older than he and yet she had put them all on the defensive.

  At first, he couldn’t understand how she had got there, but then he realized Mercier must have led her through.

  “A clerical error, miss,” Ponderosa said, unabashed. He threw a hostile glare at Mercier. “We’re sorry if there’s been any misunderstanding. The boy was just—”

  “The boy was just leaving!” she barked. “Come on, Sol.”

  He let her lead him out, looking back just once at the three police officers.

  “Keep walking,” Ana muttered under her breath.

  “We’ll be in touch, Mr. Wheat,” Ponderosa called after him. “Once all this has been cleared up.”

  “Keep walking,” she repeated.

  She had her hand on his elbow and was striding toward the entrance. They passed the desk, drawing a few curious looks, and then came out onto the street.

  “Mr. Wheat!” Mercier shouted, and Sol turned around.

  The inspector was holding his school bag.

  “Your bag. You almost forgot your bag.”

  “Thanks,” Sol mumbled, taking it from him.

  The gun was still in the bottom of it—he could tell by the weight. They hadn’t searched it.

  “Apologies about the, eh…the mix-up,” Mercier said humbly. “Should’ve ensured a proper procedure. I was assured that the ISS had permission from the school and it was all aboveboard. Regrettable mistake. It won’t happen again.”

  “You’ve got that right!” Ana snorted.

  They walked away, looking for a tram stop.

  “Thanks,” Sol breathed. “I wasn’t sure what to do. I mean, they were police…and I…” He was shaking, and his voice was catching in his throat. “They said Dad killed somebody.”

  “Jesus. Those jerks really did a number on you.” She shook her head. “They can’t question you about a library fine without a guardian present, let alone a goddamned murder! Goddamned fascists!”

  He suddenly noticed that she was breathing hard too, and she was sweating. She was frightened. He realized it must have taken some nerve for her to barge right in there and confront those cops in their own station.

  “How did you know where I was?” he asked her.

  “A man called the school, said you’d been picked up. He said you’d been taken here.”

  “Who? A cop?”

  Ana frowned. “I don’t know; at the time I assumed he was, but now I’m not sure. He didn’t sound like somebody who thought much of the police.”

  Sol thought about the gun in his bag. And the note from his father. He and Ana came to a tram stop and looked down the road. Sol slipped his hand into his school bag and found the hard shape of the gun wrapped in the scarf.

  “Where is your father?” Ana inquired. “I presume they haven’t got him?”

  “No. And I haven’t seen him since Wednesday. That’s when they said…they said he did it. He killed a guy.”

  “We’ll go back to school until dismissal,” she told him. “You shouldn’t be on your own. Do you have any family you can stay with?”

  Sol shook his head.

  “Well, you’d better stay with me, then. Those thugs might try to pick you up again. They’re not above tossing your rights aside if they think they can get away with it. You can sleep on the couch.”

  “Okay. Thanks.” Her back was turned to him as she looked down the road for the tram, so Sol allowed himself the barest hint of a wry smile as he spoke. He was finally getting to spend the night at Ana Kiroa’s, and all it took was his father to be accused of murder. It was turning out to be an insane week.

  Section 5/24: RUMORS

  WITH MS. KIROA GONE, her students had a free class. The principal had told them to study, but as soon as he left, they had proceeded to have a lively discussion about why Sol might have gotten busted.

  “This is a symptom of the authoritarian system,” Ube Lamont declared.

  “My ass,” said Faisal. “I bet he’s been done for dealing.”

  “I’ve never even seen him smoking, let alone dealing,” Cleo responded.

  “Not stem, I mean gulp. I bet he’s running a still. Or his dad is. His dad’s into all sorts of stuff.”

  “You don’t even know his dad,” one of the other students put in.

  “My uncle knows one of the guys his dad works with,” Faisal replied. “And he says Gregor Wheat’s always down in the lower levels. They all are,
those daylighters. They work hard and they play hard. I say more power to ’em.”

  “Who’d believe what your uncle says?” Ube grunted.

  “I’ve seen him out on the dome platforms on Sundays. He’s a Dark-Day Fatalist.”

  “So what if he is?” Faisal snapped defensively. “Doesn’t mean he isn’t right!”

  Cleo listened to the discussion bounce back and forth across the class as Sol’s reputation was remolded to suit his new place in the criminal fraternity. There was an unmasked respect for his new status as a wanted suspect, but also a malicious glee at the trouble he was facing.

  She and Sol had been real friends once, back when they both did gymnastics. Not childhood sweethearts or anything like that, just two kids who had a good laugh together. But he’d changed after his mother and sister had died. These days he was…Well, he was all right. He just didn’t really click with anyone, didn’t trust anyone. Which made him all the more mysterious now that he had been busted.

  She couldn’t help herself; she was dying to know the full story.

  “Listen to you, all of you!” she cried out, standing up to get their attention. “You’re like a bunch of old women, the way you’re going on! Sol’s probably just broken one of the thousands of damn rules they stick us with, and they’ve dragged him off to make an example of him as a warning to the rest of us. It could have been any one of us. They just want everyone to be scared, so we’ll behave the way they want us to. It’s not about him; it’s about controlling the way we live.”

  Some of the others nodded. Many of them felt that their lives were being manipulated by the people in authority. It was a common subject of Cleo’s music, and she knew it always touched a nerve. She loved the way they looked at her when she talked like this; with passion and respect in their eyes.