Over the Darkened Landscape

France, 1927





Jane had joined him for his lecture at the Sorbonne, and then shortly afterwards they went back to England for the wedding between their son Gip and H.G.’s best secretary, Marjorie. The day after the wedding he again returned to France.

He spent most of his time writing, but on the tenth of May a letter from his son Frank arrived in the post.

Jane had cancer. Had been ill when he had seen her, and had not told him.

He set down the letter and immediately wrote a quick note to Jane, to tell her he loved her, and that he was coming home to help her. He wanted to write that he would see her through her recovery, but before the letter could get that far there was a scratching at the door of his study. He slowly looked up, hands shaking and mouth dry.

A cat stood there, one he had never seen around the house before. Cats were not allowed in Lou Pidou, his unwavering decree. It stared at him for a moment, then arched its back, flattened its ears, and hissed at him, before turning and walking out. It was the same orange cat from two years before.

Wells was still for a moment, then he exploded out of his chair and raced to the door. The cat was nowhere to be seen.

He shuffled back to his study, feeling an odd combination of defeat and relief, feeling that what Wain and the cats had shown him was just about over. He went to his desk, but instead of sitting he lay down on the floor underneath, curled up much like Wain had been two years before.



“I have had Frank’s letter today and for the first time I learned how seriously ill you have been & that you may still be very ill. My dear, I love you much more than I have loved anyone else in the world & I am coming back to you to take care of you & to do all I can to make you happy . . . My dear, my dear, my dearest heart is yours.

Your loving Bins.”

—Excerpt from a letter from H.G. Wells to Jane Wells.





“ . . . my little wife has to die of cancer & I want to spend what time remains of her life with her . . .”

—Excerpt from a letter from H.G. Wells to Margaret Sanger, written before leaving France.





“ . . . and H.G.—H.G. positively howled. You are no doubt aware that he was not a conventionally perfect husband . . . O it was hideous—terrible and frightful . . . The way of transgressors is hard . . .”

—Excerpt from a letter from Charlotte Shaw to T.E. Lawrence on the funeral of Jane Wells.





More Painful Than

The Dreams of Other Boys



Mike Gordini leaned against the hood of his patrol car and watched the world go by, marvelling at the sight of families all together, children being towed along by parents, patient and otherwise. Kids here were so helpless, so unable to control themselves and their lives, and on the second day of his new duty it was still taking him by surprise.

His new partner, Simone Perez, came out of the Korean grocery and tossed him his Coke, then walked around and climbed in behind the driver’s seat. Mike opened his door and sat beside her, found himself staring at her and wondering at how she looked; pretty, he thought with surprise, even though a few wrinkles showed and some gray hairs were creeping in around the temples and up top. The ring on her finger told him someone else likely thought she was good-looking as well, but he hadn’t had the guts to ask about that yet. Weird enough that he was here with her, in this strange section of the city.

She turned her head back from shoulder-checking, caught him staring at her. She smiled. “What?”

Mike could feel the heat in his cheeks. He turned his head and looked out his window, pretended he was watching for perps as he cracked open his soda. “Nothing,” he answered, then took a sip.

“Nothing my ass. I can’t say I know what you’re feeling, Mike, since I grew up here. But I’ve met a couple of people who came out of Templeton, and they’ve told me how weird it is for the first little while. I can only imagine.”

He grunted and took another swig; watched this city of age go by, and wondered at it.



*



For the remaining three hours of their shift, life remained uneventful, the presence of their car serving as a check for anyone thinking of pulling any stunts. Twenty minutes before the end of their shift, all available units were called to an address near the Line with Templeton.

Simone looked over at Mike. He felt a lurching in his stomach, knew he wasn’t ready to get that close to the Line so soon after having to cross over. But he forced a smile and nodded at her, then turned on the lights as Simone shrugged her shoulders and stepped on the gas. But before they’d gone a block, a second call instructed them to come in to the precinct to see the captain.

“Come in, both of you,” he said, when they got to his office. “Close the door and have a seat.”

Captain Munro was even more amazing to Mike. Almost no hair, a huge gut, wrinkles and age spots lining his face, he was everything that Mike had always thought he would never be. Was this how he’d end up on this side of the Line?

“There’s been a murder,” said the captain. “Derek Hayes.”

“Jesus,” said Simone. She looked over at Mike, but he just shrugged. The name meant nothing to him. “Very rich guy, sometimes seems like he owns—owned—half the town. To say nothing of all his other interests around the world.”

“Ah,” said Mike, nodding. He looked back to Captain Munro. “So what does this have to do with us?”

“Well,” said the captain, “mostly it just has to do with you, Gordini, although Perez will continue to back you up. Hayes was found dead inside Templeton; beaten to death.”

Mike leaned forward. “Inside Templeton. What, you mean just over the Line?”

Munro shook his head. “Nope. He was down on fifty-fourth, near the clocktower.”

“Holy shit,” said Simone.

Mike leaned back and nodded, feeling a little nervous now, then asked, “Why are you telling us?”

The captain steepled his fingers and for a long moment stared over them at Mike. “The mayor had a little chat with the chief,” he finally said. “Hayes, as you might imagine, was a go-to guy for political contributions, and already his lawyer and his corporate partners are making noises about wanting this solved now. So the mayor wants someone from our force in there to make sure that the investigation goes the way it should. To say nothing of the fact that we don’t know if we can trust whatever they have for investigators over there.”

Ice-water shock ran down Mike’s spine. He closed his eyes for a second to regain control, heard Simone say, “No way, Captain. We can’t do that!”

“Who said anything about you, Perez? You’ll be staying here on this side, giving backup when the time comes.” He looked back to Mike. “You understand what’s up?”

Mike nodded, too stunned to speak. He’d only been out of Templeton for just over three months now, and after training and then only two days on the street, here he was being asked—no, told—to go back in. “I’ll age,” he managed to croak.

“You have an advantage, Gordini, you know that. You’re only just out, so it isn’t going to hit you as hard. And even though you were forced to leave, I’m told that the way things work your recent departure should actually help retard the process.”

“It gets worse each time you go back, though.” He winced at how whiny the plea sounded.

Munro’s deep voice sounded hoarse now, but he ignored Mike, just carried on. “We’ll provide for you, of course. The only way you can go in there is as a full detective; there’s no way anyone would accept just a beat cop working on this case. And we’re only asking that you do the most basic investigations while in Templeton. Most of your work will be done on this side of the Line, with our full support.”

Mike leaned his elbows on his thighs and sat there, quiet, first looking at the captain and then at Simone. Munro just leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, but Simone was staring hard at Mike, almost glaring. Finally he shrugged, looked at her with what he hoped was an apologetic face, and said, “I’ll do it. I can’t turn down this chance to prove I can handle it.”

Simone stood up, threw up her hands. “You stupid prick. You’ve only been on the job a couple of days. What the hell do you think you need to prove?”

“That’s enough, Perez,” whispered the captain. Even that quiet Mike could hear the threat in his voice. “You’re going to get a bump up as well, go back up to detective.”

Back? thought Mike.

“It’s not about a promotion, captain,” protested Simone, but he waved her off.

“You have a suit?” he asked Mike, whose thoughts jumped back to the situation at hand.

“Yes, sir. In my locker.”

“Right. Go downstairs and get changed. I’ll meet you at Sarge’s desk with your new badge and the keys to your car. You too, Perez. Make it fast.”

Mike stood, saluted, and left the office, Simone right behind him. In the squad room, a dozen faces all turned to look at them, but no-one said a word. A telephone rang, but everyone ignored it at least until the two of them had crossed the room and were through the door to the stairwell.





The car was a ratty old Buick, probably the worst one in the garage. But at least it was his own, and he thought it went well with his shiny new badge and his brown, slightly dilapidated secondhand suit, slacks hanging by mismatched suspenders while they waited for a chance to be taken in. Simone sat in the passenger’s seat this time, sullen, staring out the window, looking quite snazzy in her beige outfit.

He reached the edge of Templeton in about fifteen minutes, pulled the car to the curb and just sat there, staring at the Line and gripping the steering wheel tight enough for his knuckles to go white. Several squad cars sat at the edge, as well as one ambulance, but the officers were just milling around, nobody willing to step over. Looking through the thick fog of the Line, he could see only the vague shapes of buildings; no-one over there liked to approach it unless absolutely necessary.

“Ready?”

Simone turned and looked at him. “F*ck no. But it’s your decision, isn’t it. And since I’m your partner . . .” She gave a weak smile. “Let’s go.”

Mike stepped out and pocketed his keys, then flashed his new badge at the first cop to approach him. The officer, a guy he recognized but didn’t recall ever meeting, shook their hands and led them over to the sergeant standing at the edge, hands on his hips and staring down at the road.

“Sergeant Dickson,” said the patrolman. “Gordini and Perez are here, the detectives we were told about.”

The man reached out a big meaty paw and shook Mike’s hand, then Simone’s. “Detectives. You got a radio?”

Mike blinked. “Uh, no,” he said, pretending to pat himself down. “Got my sidearm, got my badge, didn’t think to grab a radio.”

“Dewey, grab the man a radio so he can go in!” Another patrolman ran and pulled a portable radio from a car and ran it over. Mike took it and hooked it to his belt, trying to hide the bulge under his jacket.

“Ready?” asked Simone, squeezing his elbow.

“Guess so,” he finally said, and turned and, after a brief moment of hesitation, crossed the Line.

Instantly he felt tired, run ragged, but soon that feeling was overwhelmed as he crossed out of the haze, was replaced by something approaching claustrophobia. Everything was as he remembered, but his short time out in his new life had served to change his perspective.

To his right he heard the click of a lighter being closed, smelled the sweet smell of the tobacco that they sold on this side of the Line. “I was wondering if they were gonna sucker you into coming.”

Mike turned, smiled in spite of the turmoil he was feeling inside. “Hiya, Danny.” His old partner, Danny Glaus, stood leaning against a light pole, taking a drag on his smoke, looking up at Mike. He wore a light blue short-sleeved shirt with suspenders, a black beret with “TPD” emblazoned on it, and jeans with runners. His heavy black baton hung loose from a holster on his pants.

He walked up and shook Mike’s hand. “You a detective already? Way to go.”

“Thanks.” Mike looked down at his former partner. “It was an incentive to get me to come back across.”

Danny took one more drag then flicked the smoke away, nodding. “Thought as much. Never struck me as anything like a game of cops and robbers anytime I talked to someone from over on your side.” The accent was deliberate, Mike knew.

Danny tossed a stick of gum to Mike, who caught it and grinned. Cinnamon: made Danny feel a little more grown up, rather than chewing the bubble gum so popular on this side. He unwrapped it and started chewing, felt some memories rush back with the shot of flavour gently burning his tongue.

After putting a stick in his own mouth, Danny walked around to the driver’s side of his car, face grim. “Climb in.”

Mike stood and looked at the car for a second, feeling a bit flustered. He either didn’t remember the car being this small, or else himself being this big. Feeling like a clown at the circus, he opened the door, slid the seat back as far as it could go, then squeezed himself in, knees halfway up to his nose and his back bent at a peculiar angle. It was then something of an operation to reach out and close the door.

Danny fired up the little two-stroke engine, and the car jumped away from the curb, rattling and roaring as it went, little bouncing-head dinosaur doing a sympathetic shimmy from its suction-cupped location on the dash. Inside, it smelled of tobacco and cinnamon, a strangely sweet aroma after having lived on the other side of the Line.

Mike thought about asking questions regarding the crime scene, but between the noise and his currently squished diaphragm, he decided it would be prudent to wait. Instead he watched the town go by, remembering the sights, looking at billboards advertising new toys or imported G-rated flicks, viewing with wonder the tiny buildings that had once seemed a normal part of his life.

He turned and looked at Danny out of the corner of his eye. His former partner still looked thirteen, something that seemed a bit weirder now that he’d gone to the other side of the Line and seen kids that age who still acted like kids. Danny had been this age for most of his life, grown into it and then just hit a holding pattern, some parts of his mind and emotional makeup maturing, but still remaining basically a kid. He took his job with the Templeton Police Department seriously enough, although Mike remembered so many of the days where it had all seemed a game to them. And it had been, really just playing at cops and robbers, no domestics or rapes or murders ever happening, ever needing to be dealt with.

And now there was Derek Hayes, lying dead near the clocktower. No game this.

There weren’t many cars on the streets, but that was normal for Templeton. Instead, Mike watched as they roared past bicycles and skateboards and scooters and pedestrians, even some smaller kids riding metal or plastic trikes. It was close to the end of the day, so he imagined most of them were coming home from work or school right now.

A billboard on the side of one of the buildings advertised two old Shirley Temple and Jackie Coogan movies playing at the art house theatre, a retrospective from when they had first quit acting and moved into directing, sharing that bill with adult directors on the other side of the Line—a procedure no longer in vogue. Coogan was dead now, had crossed over and aged a couple of decades ago. But Temple, Mike knew, lived still, hiding in her suite uptown, tucked away like a miniature version of Garbo, unwilling to face or deal with anyone in the town that carried her name.

He watched several heads turn sharply as they went by, and he knew he was seeing looks of shock on some of the faces as they realized what the passenger in the cop car was. He’d never seen such a sight himself, all the years he’d lived in Templeton, so he could imagine just how bizarre he looked.

Danny cut the motor and let the little car roll to a halt in the middle of the road. Mike managed to pry open the door with a moderately paralysed hand and then practically fell out of the car and to his knees, thinking this was a great way to start as he stood and brushed dirt and gravel from his pants.

There was a crowd standing near the yellow tape, about three dozen kids, looking anywhere from five to fifteen years old. As he approached they all stepped back, almost as one, staring up at him. It was an unsettling feeling, combined with everything else that was happening; he knew he’d gotten taller since leaving Templeton, but looking down at them and seeing just how much most of them had to crane their necks to look back up at him, the changes he had gone through hit home that much harder.

“Through here,” said Danny, lighting up another smoke and lifting the tape to walk under. Mike just waited until he was through, and then he stepped over it.

He recognized the building they were at; it was an apothecary on the main floor, run by Sandy Hancock, and then some low-rent apartments up above. A uniform Mike only half-recognized nodded at them and held open the door to the pharmacy and Danny led the way in, Mike stooping just a bit to clear the doorjamb.

Inside he found he could stand up straight, as long as he was careful around the light fixtures, which were just the right height to clip him a good one. He looked to make sure he had a good fix on where all of them were and then turned his eyes and his mind to the business at hand. There were several cops inside, three guys and a girl who knew enough about forensics to do the job when needed, and he nodded at each one briefly before following Danny.

At the end of the aisle Danny turned, then pointed to the counter. “Over there.”

Mike stepped up to the counter and leaned over to have a look. Lying on the floor were two bodies, which was a surprise: Sandy Hancock, face up, eyes wide open and the back of her skull bashed in; and, sprawled on top of her, curled up in a fetal position, an adult male with even more dents and furrows in his skull. Derek Hayes. Blood was spattered everywhere.

“Eeuuw.” He could feel two urges, fought to keep them both down: the desire to puke and the complete fascination with seeing two dead bodies.

“No kidding,” said Danny. His voice seemed a little shaky. “Here’s where you get to start. We’ve already dusted for prints and taken photos, and Doc Baird is ready to move the bodies, but we wanted you to have a look first.”

Mike moved around to the other side of the counter, bent down and looked at the man’s wounds without touching anything. “Find a weapon yet?” He was already feeling out of his league here. The closest he’d come to a murder investigation was when he was a cadet, a visit to the crime scene after the body had been removed so that they could watch the forensic team do their work.

“I’ve got guys checking alleys and garbage bins and the like,” said Danny. “Nothing yet.”

Mike popped his head up and looked for the head of the forensics team. “Any interesting prints, Jim?”

Jim peeled off a glove and scratched his head. “I don’t know, uh, Mike. We’ve got a bunch of adult and kid prints here, but I don’t know what to make of it. I mean, it was so weird having him here,” he gestured at the body, “it just goes beyond making any sense to me that we might have had another adult in here, too.”

“So do you figure these prints are all his, or do some of them look like they might not match up?”

Jim shrugged his shoulders. “Oh yeah, Mike, like we’re experts at this.” With a start Mike realized that Jim looked frightened, that they all did. “Nobody I know’s ever been murdered before. We play good guys and bad guys.” He paused to catch his breath, shuddered. “But nothin’ like this. We don’t know how to do this stuff.”

Mike stood and walked over, put his hand on Jim’s shoulder. “Sounds like you did good finding the adult prints. If you can get them together for me so I can take them back over the Line when I’m done here, that would be great.”

Jim nodded and smiled up at him, looking every inch the ten-year-old boy that he was. “I’ve already lifted and marked them all and have them ready to go. Just ask Marie for the baggies when you leave.”

“What else do you have for me, Danny?” he asked, walking back to where his former partner was lighting up yet another cigarette. A sure sign just how nervous he was feeling.

“Up the stairs, but I haven’t had much of a chance to look yet.” He turned and headed through the back door and on up, Mike following close behind.

It wasn’t too tight a fit, but it was small and mildly claustrophobic, and when they came to the top of the stairs he saw that this room must have been where Sandy combined her office and living quarters, small even by Templeton standards. He quickly walked over to the half-open window and knelt down on the floor, eyes closed and breathing in fresh air until he felt his shoulders lift a bit.

“The bed,” said Danny.

Mike looked and grimaced. He couldn’t help himself then, and all his years in Templeton came bubbling up to the top. “Oh, yuck!”

Danny smiled. “Yeah, that’s pretty much what we all were thinking.” He pointed his smoke at the fresh stains on the sheets. “Doc had a quick look up skirts and in pants, and what you’re thinking is right. Sandy Hancock and Derek Hayes were bumping uglies, man and child, right here in Templeton.”

“Son of a bitch,” whispered Mike. “You hear stories on the other side of the Line, and I know sometimes they’ve caught some pathetic f*cker thinking about crossing over, but I never heard about both sides being in on it. That’s sick!”

“Besides being illegal. Most of us think the same, Mike. There’s still some people who don’t think it’s sick, though.”

Mike shrugged. “I think you can safely rule out everyone who’s under, say, ten or twelve. This beating seems a little much to have been done by a little kid. Plus, Derek was not only an adult, he looked to me to be a pretty big guy. That would be a tough fight for anyone, most of all a kid.”

“Unless he was caught by surprise.”

“The only thing that makes that guess difficult, Danny, is that he was on top of Sandy. We’ll go back down and ask Jim if he thinks he was moved, but I doubt it. So that means that he got it after Sandy, which makes the element of surprise that much less likely.”

“Oh.” Danny took another drag, then stubbed out the cigarette in an empty ashtray. “Sounds like you’re learning lots as a grownup.”

Mike smiled. “I have to. It’s a big and ugly and exciting and dangerous place. Not that I’ve really had a chance to use any of that training yet.”

“Good a time as any, hey?”

“Guess so.” Mike leaned down to push up off the floor, caught a glimpse of something and stopped, stumbling back to his knees. “What the hell is that?” he asked, now lying down on the floor and reaching under the bed.

Danny was down on his knees beside him, leaning over and looking. “What? What do you see?”

The bed was big compared to others he knew of in Templeton -- no question why, now—and so Mike even had to get his head partly under the frame before he could reach it. He could have just picked up the bed and moved it out of the way, but he reasoned to himself that the work involved would have been greater, this room being so crowded they would be moving furniture every which way to make space.

He rolled onto his back and then sat up facing Danny. In his hands was a small ornate yellow and orange box, a thick blue rubber band wrapped around it to hold the lid in place. Written on the side in black felt pen were the letters “SH.”

“Sandy Hancock,” said Danny.

“You still have a keen grasp at the obvious, my friend,” responded Mike, grinning. He frowned then, set the box down on the floor, realizing he wasn’t completely prepared for handling the crime scene. “Got any gloves?”

Danny jumped up, looking eager to help. “Downstairs,” he said, running out to pilfer some from someone on the forensics crew.

He returned and handed a pair of latex gloves to Mike, but they were made for extra-small hands, and kept pulling at the hairs on the back of his hand. Finally, Mike snapped the glove off and handed both over to Danny. “Easier if you do the honours.”

Gloves on, Danny peeled back the rubber band and lifted the lid, leaning over so he could see inside. “Me too,” said Mike, pushing his shoulder. Danny grinned and tilted the box so they could both see.

Cotton balls. “Pull them out, gently,” said Mike.

Danny did so, and about halfway down he felt something hard and cylindrical. He pulled it out and held it up to the light: a finger-length glass vial with a black stopper on top, dark green liquid inside.

“Holy shit,” said Mike. It was barely a whisper. “Anything else?”

Danny pulled back some more cotton, and then very carefully removed a small syringe. “Drop it back in,” said Mike. He pulled out a larger evidence bag, and Danny slid the whole box inside.

“Is this the real thing?” asked Danny. His eyes were wide.

“Looks like Slow,” said Mike, standing up. “If it is, maybe we have a motive for the murders. I have to get back to the other side of the Line now. I’ve been over here too long, and there’s going to be plenty of work to do if this is what we think it is.”

Danny stood with him, lit another smoke. “You know,” said Mike, pointing at the cigarette, “That stuff’ll stunt your growth.”

“Har har,” replied Danny, sticking out his tongue. “Mr. Funny himself has returned.”

Mike took a bow, turned towards the stairs.

“We miss you, y’know.”

He stopped, didn’t turn around.

“I remember when I first noticed that you weren’t going to stay a kid forever, when you started to age. I felt real cheated that day.”

Mike turned back to face him. “It wasn’t my fault.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” said Danny, trying unsuccessfully to blow a smoke ring. He’d always thought smoking made him look cool, and Mike had never had the heart to tell him how wrong he was. “You chased that one bad guy pretty close to the Line that one time I remember. I still wonder if that had anything to do with it wearing off.”

Mike shrugged, looked down at the floor. “It just happens sometimes. I’m not the first kid to all of a sudden grow up.”

“No, but it’s the first time it happened to a friend of mine. It’s hard to see you grown up like this, knowing that you’re living in another world and you’re never going to be able to play or run, to be like a kid ever again.” Danny wiped a tear from his eye. “And now you come in here for this stupid murder, you’re going to get even older! All this time, being stolen away from you . . .” His voice trailed off.

He didn’t need to be reminded of any of this. After a long moment, Mike finally lifted his head. “I can’t stay any longer, Danny. Are you giving me a ride back to the Line, or am I going to walk?”

“Jesus.” Danny stubbed out his smoke on the heel of his shoe and then brushed past Mike, heading down the stairs before he could say anything else.

After arranging for the body to be sent back across the Line and collecting everything he thought he needed for the investigation, Mike squeezed back into the car and rode in silence. As he was climbing out, Danny reached over and put a hand on his arm. Mike didn’t look back, just sat there, looking at the fuzzy outline of figures on the other side.

“Try to remember to have fun sometimes, okay?”

Mike shook his head, trying to pretend there were no tears fighting their way up and out. “Doesn’t work that way once you grow up, Danny. You know as well as I do.” He stood up and shut the door, still looking across the Line.

Danny gunned the noisy motor, yelled, “I don’t ever wanna know that, Mike. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I hope I don’t see you again.” Car belching black and blue smoke and roaring like a walrus on a motorcycle, he spun around and drove off, leaving Mike to cross the Line on his own.

He still had the gum in his mouth, he realized. Old habit from when he used to live as a kid. It was as tasty as cardboard now, so with two last open-mouthed chews he spit it onto the road, and then stepped across the Line.

It hit him harder coming back, the weight of new years bearing down on him not only from above, but from around and inside of him. Any spring in his step he may have felt before was definitely lost now, and for only the second time in his life—the first being when the growth spurt had told him he would no longer be a kid—his bones were aching. He practically staggered out of the fog onto the other side of the Line.

Hands grabbed both his arms, voices called for coffee and a place to sit. Next he knew he was leaning against a seatback on the passenger’s side of a patrol car, and Simone was there, leaning down and pressing a cardboard cup of coffee into his hands. “I don’t drink that shit,” he said, trying to smile.

“It’s an acquired taste,” she responded, making as bad an effort to return a smile. “You grow into it.”

He took a sip, grimaced at how bitter it was, then marvelled at the warm feeling he got as it settled inside of him, at the fact that already he felt more awake and alive. “Jeez, this ain’t half-bad,” he said, taking another sip and grimacing again.

“Welcome to middle age, Mike,” said Simone, putting a hand on his shoulder and squeezing.





All day Mike had avoided looking in a mirror. He’d let Simone drive back to the precinct so he could avoid using the rearview and had kept his head down when walking through glass doors.

But now that he was at home, leaning back in his overstuffed chair and drinking a strangely unsatisfying Coke, the urge to look had finally overtaken the fear. He took one more sip and then wandered into the kitchen, pouring the remainder of the soda down the drain, and then walked down the short hall to the bathroom. Once inside, he closed the door and stood facing the mirror for a good while without turning on the light, just letting the darkness accompany his worry while he thought about the case.

Derek Hayes had gone across the Line to engage in some deviant pedo action with Sandy Hancock, and, if Mike was right about the little vial of liquid he’d found, he’d been doing it regularly. Tomorrow Mike expected to visit the lab and be told that the stuff was Slow, a drug that gave a buzz like nothing else on the streets, but that usually killed the people who took it.

A side effect of the drug was its ability to counter the effects of crossing the Line, which meant that when it first hit the streets a few decades ago there had been a huge underground market for it. But the market had dried up among all but the worst of freaks with its eighty-or-more percent death rate, enough even to scare off most of the sick f*cks who wanted to cross the Line into Templeton to screw little kids. But for those people who were able to use Slow and not drop dead after the first hallucination, the trips over to Templeton could be a possible bonus; an hour, maybe even two or three, safe from the aging effects of the Line. As a kid, Mike had never thought about the possibility of predators crossing the Line and doing their thing with impunity, but he found that his new self came up with that thought very quickly.

He shuddered, then turned on the light.

It was too bright, but after squeezing his eyes shut for a few seconds, he was able to open them and slowly raise them to the mirror. A small cry escaped his mouth, but he clenched his fists tight, regained control, and continued to look.

There were wrinkles on his face, mostly at the top of the bridge of the nose and in the corners of his eyes, as well as two large smile lines grooved deep in his cheeks. A few light brown spots flecked his face, and he needed to shave his definitely pudgier chin. His hair was still mostly brown, thank God, although there were a few wisps of gray, and besides looking a bit thinner it also seemed that his hairline was higher up his forehead. He reached down and grabbed a small mirror that sat on the counter, held it behind his head, angled it so he could see that, yes, he did have a small bald spot on the crown.

Looking at his hand as he put the mirror back down, he saw that his fingers were fatter and hairier, something he had not expected. He put his hand on his stomach, felt the belly, and slowly unbuttoned his shirt, letting the mass of flesh and fat spring free with a last flick of his fingers. Then he finally undid his pants, unsure even if he could pull them on again in the morning. His gut bulged, loose and defiant, daring him to find a way to shake it off.

“Christ.” He shut off the light and went to bed, shedding clothes in the hall, utterly dejected, lost in this new body.





The phone rang at 7:30, waking him from an unsettled sleep. It was Simone.

“I talked to the captain, and he gave me an idea about how much more you’re going through. So I’m coming by with some sweats, and then we’re going out to get you some coffee and breakfast and then some new clothes.”

Mike rubbed his eyes. “Thanks, but I have to get down to the lab.”

“Captain’s orders. Have a shower, and I’ll be there in ten minutes.” She paused. “Besides, the captain will meet us with all the results, probably while we’re eating.”

“Right.” He leaned over and hung up the phone, then slowly pulled himself out of bed. When he was essentially vertical he realized he had to pee like nobody’s business, so he hurried into the john to relieve himself. After what seemed a crazily long time standing there—he was amazed that his body could hold that much piss—he flushed and then turned on the shower, climbed in while it was still too hot and danced around inside while he worried at the faucet, finally setting the temperature right only after alternately scalding and freezing several parts of his body.

When he was done he brushed his teeth in front of the misted-over mirror, ran a comb through his hair, then headed to the bedroom to put on underwear and a housecoat, stooping down with some effort to pick up last night’s clothes on his way. Then he sat on the edge of his bed and just waited.

Five minutes later there was a knock at the door. He closed his eyes for a moment and then opened them and went to answer. Simone stood there, grocery bag in one hand, smiling. She wasn’t dressed for work.

“Captain gave me a few hours off. I get to spend it helping you acclimatize.” She shoved the bag into his hands. “Here. It ain’t high fashion, but it’ll do for the diner. Go get dressed.”

“If you have some free time, shouldn’t you be spending it with your family?”

Simone rolled her eyes and pushed her way past Mike. Sitting down at the kitchen table, she said, “I said the captain gave me free time. To be with you, not to piss away my day pretending I still have a life.”

The look on her face told him to not bother asking any more questions, so he went to his room and changed. Basic gray sweats, loose sweater, then his own socks and sneakers. “Where to?” he asked as he opened the door to the outer hallway.

“The Ritz Diner. I’m having fried eggs and hash browns and coffee, lots of it.” The two of them climbed into her car, and she started it up. “You?”

He thought for a second. “Pancakes, side of sausage, OJ, coffee.” His stomach rumbled. He was hungrier than he’d thought.

They got a booth near the front of the diner. Mike watched Simone prepare her coffee—two scoops of sugar and one creamer—and copied her, found that it was more palatable that way. After the first jolt hit his system he leaned back and closed his eyes, almost smiling, picturing himself having a day off where nothing was weighing on his mind.

“You gonna stay with the case?” asked Simone.

He cocked one eye open, stared at her. “What do you mean?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “You’ve already done what the captain asked you to do. You crossed the Line, checked out the evidence, there’s not much more you need to do, if you don’t want. I know that the captain has other people on the job now, folks who’ll stay safe on this side of the Line.”

He shook his head. “Are you saying I’m expendable? Now that I’ve done my bit and took away fifteen or twenty years from my life, now I don’t need to stick around anymore?”

Simone leaned forward and put a hand on his arm. “Cool down, Mike. I was just asking. The captain didn’t say nothing about you being pulled from the case. He just wanted me to make sure you were okay. I’m your partner, even if it’s only been a couple of days. It’s my job to look out for you.” Mike looked out the window, watching a mother and her three young children walking by. “You have kids?”

She took her hand away. “Used to. Jason was thirteen when he was hit by a bus, two years ago.”

Mike grimaced. “Jesus. I’m sorry.”

Simone shrugged. “That’s okay. I think it’s one of the reasons I took to you so easy. He would still have been younger than you were when you were forced to leave Templeton, had to come across, but I could see a lot of the same qualities in you that I remember so well in him.”

“I was still a kid.” He smiled.

“You were,” she said, nodding. “Newly minted adult, still keen about life. Even though just a few months before you’d had to leave your childhood behind.”

“Not anymore.” He frowned, pinching at the skin on his forearm and watching it droop rather than snap back into place. “Nothing new about any of this.”

They were both silent for a moment, and then Simone continued. “Anyway, I took a leave of absence for a while, and when I came back I requested to be put in a patrol car. Just didn’t have the head for thinking seriously about cases right about then.”

That rang a small bell in the back of Mike’s brain. “That’s right. Captain promoted you back to detective. I was going to ask about that, but I guess I forgot.”

Their breakfasts arrived then, and for a few moments the two of them just ate. Finally, halfway through his third pancake, Mike could feel himself starting to fill up. He leaned back again, took one last swig of juice, then cleared his plate to the side and leaned his arms on the table. He was about to speak when the door opened and in walked the captain, heading straight for their table. Mike scooted over to make room for him.

“How are you feeling today?” he asked, signalling the waitress for coffee.

Mike shrugged. “A little better now that I’m up and about. Have to go get some clothes and get looking decent again, though.”

Captain Munro eyed him for a few seconds, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills, peeled off a bunch of twenties. “You’ll be needing to shave, too,” he said. “Just yesterday your face was like a baby’s butt. When you buy your clothes get yourself a decent electric razor as well.” Mike made to protest, but Munro put up his hand. “It’s not on me, it’s on the department. We got you into this, so we may as well help equip you.” He turned his attention to his coffee then, squeezing in two creamers and a heaping spoonful of sugar.

After a sip and a grimace he rummaged in his other pocket, pulled out a couple of folded-up pieces of paper and handed them over to Mike. “It’s the preliminary results from the lab on that vial you found,” he said. “They faxed this to me at home this morning.”

Mike grabbed a napkin and wiped away the juice and coffee rings, then flattened out the report. He tried reading it over two times, but finally had to lean back and push it across the table to Simone. “I’m not sure I follow, sir,” he said. “I mean, they had us read lab and forensics reports when we were in training, but nothing had detail like this.”

Simone looked up from the papers. “Jesus,” she said. “This is for real?”

Captain Munro nodded and then turned his attention back to Mike. “That was indeed a vial of Slow that you found at the apartment, Mike. But there’s a difference in the chemical makeup, and, while they’re still trying to confirm their initial impressions, they are pretty sure that the stuff retains its ability to counteract the Line but is no longer so lethal. If it’s even lethal at all.”

Mike took a second to let this news travel around inside his head. Then he asked, “How come we don’t already know about this stuff? Why isn’t it on the streets big time?”

Munro shrugged. “Beats me. Maybe it’s just hit, and only the special people have it. I talked to the folks on the drug squad, and they’re just as surprised as we are. They’ve got people out snooping around right now, but we’re going to have to do our own checking as well.”

“Where do we start?”

The captain fixed Mike with a stare. “I know you’re still new at this, detective, but try and remember that you were also a cop on the other side of the Line. Try and think like one.”

Mike scratched his chin, feeling the unfamiliar stubble growing there. “I guess I should go make myself look pretty and then go talk to Mrs. Hayes, for starters. At least I assume there’s a Mrs.”

“There is. I’ve already made an appointment for you to see her, at 11:30.” The captain slid another piece of paper across the table to him. “Here’s her address. It’ll give you plenty of time to fix yourself up.” He turned and looked back at Simone. “And Perez, your day off just ended. Get yourself dressed like a detective again, so you can ride along.”