Part 1 (1/2)
SOULSTORM.
By Chet Williamson.
Prologue.
These were the swift to harry; These were the keen-scented; These were the souls of blood.
-Ezra Pound, ”The Return”
Within The Pines it waited, not with the patience of men, but of stone. And as it waited, it dreamed, not knowing if its dreams would ever live as it did.
It dreamed of men, of the time when men had come, and of the time men would come again, though it could not say if such a time would ever be.
As it dreamed, it ached with need-the need for dream to become reality. But this time would be different. This time need would be tempered with wisdom. This time the dream would live. All it needed was for men to come again.
Men and the needs of men.
And at last men came, moving through its dwelling like beetles crawling through an empty skull; and in the presence of men the dreams screamed for release and were let slip once, twice, and then held in check. For the time was not right. These men had not come to stay. But from their words it learned that other men would come soon, others who would stay, who would have no choice but to remain and dream the dreams, do the deeds.
It waited now, not with the patience of stone, but of the damp gray moss that clings to it.
Manhattan 12/14.
”Did you hit him or didn't you?”
The captain was angrier than Wickstrom had ever seen him. He was standing, leaning forward over his shabby gray desk like a school princ.i.p.al confronting a restroom smoker.
”Well?”
”Yeah,” Wickstrom said. ”Yeah, Cap. I hit him.”
The captain sighed, and most of the redness left his face as he let his fat body fall back into the worn leather chair. ”What's the matter with you, Kelly? You're a G.o.dd.a.m.n good cop, but you'd be a h.e.l.luva lot better if you weren't so hot under the collar.”
”I'm sorry, Cap . . .”
”Sorry, yeah. Great.”
”I read him his rights . . .”
”I know you read him his lousy . . .”
”But then he took a punch at me.”
”Then subdue him, for crissake, don't break his nose!” The captain shook his head in frustration as Wickstrom looked down at his hands in his lap. They were big hands, fleshy but sharp-knuckled.
”I didn't mean to hit him so hard.”
”You didn't mean to hit your wife so hard either, did you?”
As soon as Wickstrom looked up, hurt and angry, the captain was sorry he'd said it. ”My ex-wife,” Wickstrom corrected him.
”Yeah.” The captain nodded. ”Yeah.” They glared at each other until the captain spoke again. ”You know what this means?”
”I'm out. Right?”
”You don't seem too upset about it.”
”It was gonna happen sooner or later.”
”I tried, Kelly. I mean I really tried.”
”I know.”
”You haven't made it easy. First that pimp, then that foreign kid, now this spic...”
”Cap, the pimp pulled a knife on me, this Garcia guy tried to tap me out, and that French kid, who you d.a.m.n well know was packing enough snow to make the whole city fly, was so stoned himself that he put up a h.e.l.l of a fight!”
”You didn't have to blind him.”
”I didn't try!” Wickstrom roared. ”It was a lucky punch!”
”You don't mean that,” the captain said after a moment of silence.
”No.”
”Because if I thought you did, I'd have your a.s.s in a sling so deep, you'd be b.u.mping bedrock.” He pushed back his chair and put his polished black shoes on the desktop. ”There's going to be a hearing next week.”
”What if I just resign now?”
”It'd be better,” the captain said, nodding. ”For everybody.”
Wickstrom gave a twisted smile. ”Will that satisfy the spic? Or will he want to press charges too?”
”He won't. I'll see he doesn't.”
Wickstrom stood up, took off his badge, and set it and his ID on the captain's desk. ”Thanks for that much.”
”I'm sorry, Kelly. I really am.” He stood and shook Wickstrom's hand. ”Good luck, huh?”
Wickstrom smiled. ”I sure as h.e.l.l could use a little.”
Rio de Janeiro 3/11.
George McNeely sat in the waiting lounge at the airport. A tall thin young man in his early twenties sat beside him, flipping through a Portuguese edition of Playboy. When the young man came to the centerfold, he surrept.i.tiously unfolded it.