“You said Dr. Rice sent you to meet with me, and that you were following me around to see if I was one of them. I’m not. I’m looking for answers too.” I explain again.
My reasons for seeing him concern the night when everything changed, more than wanting to know whatever the Crawfords are up to. And Raymond was adamant that Alistair had a hand in the conclusion of what happened after I passed out. However, the longer I sit here with him, the more it feels as if I’m grasping at straws. But, if there’s even the smallest chance of getting an answer, I will take a gamble on it.
“He’s part of something,” he speaks again finally, once the cigarette has burned halfway down. “Sorta like a cult. Secret meetings, strange occurrences when things go wrong…”
“Like what?” I lean closer to prove he has my undivided attention.
“Remember a couple of months back, when—” He stops himself to crush the cigarette into an ashtray. He lights another without waiting. “When that guy got trampled to death near the harbor?”
“Sure. Some gang-related thing, wasn’t it?” Crime isn’t anything new, here. You can’t get through even a day without hearing about some commotion in thestreets. Most people think it’s caused by disgruntled Bleed-dwellers, who want to open a few spots in the city so their families can move in. The rest of us, who don’t buy into what’s said on the news, know that the whole world turns on violence and cruelty.
He shakes his head gravely, inhaling a lungful of smoke.
“He was a friend of mine. The one who put me onto this case.” Another low sigh breaks his rhythm. “He started barking up the wrong tree, and targeting the mega-corps. They dealt with him by bashing his head in with a fisherman’s hook.”
I feel my brow furrowing before I can stop it. Given his doubts about me, the last thing I need is for him to think I don’t believe what he’s saying. “And you’ve got proof of this?”
“Just a picture from some surveillance tapes.” He reaches into a satchel he brought with him, sitting on the chair next to him.
He hands me the picture, and seeing it makes my blood run ice-cold.
“That’s—”
“Yup,” he says. “He was a couple of hangars over from the body when he took this one.”
The photograph, which is a snapshot of a camera’s live video feed, is grainy and blurred. But even with its distortion, there’s no mistaking the mask on the culprit’sface or the maroon robes on his shoulders. I stare at it for what feels like hours before I can look away.
“This isn’t him,” I say, when I’ve concluded my study of the picture.
“It isn’t.” Raymond sips at the last few drops of beer in the bottom of his bottle.
“His mask is different. This one’s too colorful.” I hand him the picture. He takes it and puts it back into his satchel.
“Different people, same cult.” His neutral tone slips back to the same as the other day, a man bordering on lunacy. Either my replies, or whatever’s happening on my face has convinced him that we’re on the same page. “I’d bet the farm that the man in this picture is Alistair Crawford. And the guy you saw, the one who killed Tom, is—”
“Colter.” It sounds stupid, I know, but letting him say Colter’s name in such a disgraceful connection feels wrong.
“Looks like I better shove off.” Raymond says, as the singer announces the song they just finished was the last of the night. “But before I go, do you want a piece of unsolicited advice?” he asks, collecting his things and standing up.
I nod.
“Keep your head on a swivel around ‘em. Don’t let them taint you with their bullshit.”
As if I wasn’t going to be doing that already…
To distract myself from the bombshell Raymond has dropped on me, I turn to the stage to see what’s happening there. This shit with Dylan seems like a walk in the park to navigate now.
The smoke that hangs in the air coats the room in a thin white haze, when the band breaks up. Rather than help his siblings pack away their instruments, Dylan comes straight over to me.
“You guys killed it up there.” I say. The thought of complimenting him alone makes me sick, so I give praise to the band as a whole instead.
“You think?” He pulls out the chair next to me and flops onto it, using his wrist to wipe away the bullets of sweat on his forehead. “Who was that guy you were talking to?” I detect a hint of jealousy in his voice, but he doesn’t wait for my response before he speaks again. “Fuck, you’re beautiful.”
Just play along a little while longer. Give him what he wants so you can keep on doing what you love.
Then again, under different circumstances I might’ve liked hearing it. If he’d spoken to me like this in the office, he might’ve stood more of a chance than threatening my job to get me to go out with him.
“Your fucking mouth drives me crazy,” he goes on, and any nice thought I had about him, evaporates to dust.
