“Felt like someone was watching us. C’mon, there’s a back way to his shop through here. We can stay out of the market. It sounds nuts over there.”
“Yeah—” Marco lagged behind, was still studying the dune. Vic turned down a narrow path and into a tight alley where shacks jutted out of the high sand and roofs met overhead to form a dark tunnel. Cracks in the tin allowed thin lines of sift to fall in golden veils. Vic ducked her head as she passed through one. She found Graham’s by looking for the shack with the billiard ball for a door handle. A perfunctory knock, and she pushed her way inside, bells overhead ringing.
“Graham?”
There was no one at the counter. A lantern flickered with the breeze swirling through the door. Marco kicked his boots on the doorjamb and joined her inside, closed the door, which upset the bells again but stilled the shadows. “Look at those bikes,” Marco whispered.
Vic ignored him. She ducked under the handlebars of the suspended bicycles and peered into the back. The workshop was empty. “Graham? You still in bed?” She had gone up two rungs toward his loft to check his mattress when she saw the body behind his workbench. Graham’s stool lay on its side. “Marco!” she called. She scrambled down from the ladder and hurried around the workbench. An electric light on the bench was still on. She swiveled it toward the floor so she could see better.
“You okay?” Marco asked.
“Fuck,” Vic said. She moved the stool, which lay across the body.
“Is that Graham?”
“No. Never seen this guy before.” She reached up and adjusted the light better. “Damn. Look at this.”
There was something wrong with the man’s face. It was stove in, like he’d been hit with something, perhaps a bat, but there was almost no damage to the skin, just rivulets of blood streaking from his nose. “What the hell?”
“Hey, I know that guy.” Marco knelt down beside the man. He lifted his hand and bent his arm around, studied a tattoo and a knot of sandscars on his wrist. “Danger,” he said. He looked up at Vic, saw the confusion on her face. “His name. That’s what he went by, anyway. Used to be in the Low-Pub Legion. Muscle. Blew shit up. Whatever you needed, he did it for a price. Went north when the price got better.”
“Cannibals?” Vic stayed away from the wastes as much as she could; there was a grove of trees up there and a couple sources of water, some nice dive sites, but the dunes were generally unsafe.
“No, a new outfit. One of our bomb guys hooked up with them as well. Word is they’re fast and loose with their coin. Haven’t taken credit for any attacks, but that don’t mean they aren’t trying. What happened to his face?”
“Looks like he was hit with something.”
Marco reached down and touched the dead man’s cheek. The flesh moved like rotten fruit.
“Fuck,” Marco said. “It’s like a sponge.”
Vic held her hand over the man’s face, careful not to touch it. She just lined her palm up over the damage. “Graham must’ve had his dive gloves on. He powered his suit up and shoved your friend here in the face, probably when he came back around the bench to threaten him.”
“You think he hit him with his suit?”
Vic nodded. “Would’ve powdered his skull. Turned it into sand. I think that’s his brains leaking out his nose.”
“Aw, fuck.” Marco stood up. “And he just left him here?”
“Well, either Graham took off in a hurry or Danger here wasn’t alone and Graham was hauled off. Weird of him to leave the place unlocked and unmanned like this. He’s weird about his shit.”
“Yeah, well it was weird of whoever took him to leave that kick-ass visor just sitting there on the workbench.”
Vic turned to see what he was talking about. “Don’t even think it,” she said, watching him reach for the set.
“Just want to see them.”
“A friend of mine might be in trouble.”
“So what’re we supposed to do? And what do you think Danger wanted? Your guy owe him money, maybe?”
“What do you think, you goon? You think maybe we’re not the only two trying to track down Danvar by following leads rather than bumping over the dunes with our sails flapping in all directions? Someone else thinks Graham knows where Danvar is. Or shit—” Vic stood up. “Maybe someone else knows that Graham knew where Palmer went. Maybe we’re two steps behind …”
“No, no, no.” Marco paced up and down behind the workbench, shaking his finger at the dead man on the ground. “I’ve got it. Oh, fuck, I’ve got it. You were right. It’s north of here. There’s this guy Brock, the one I told you about, the one who’s been hiring up talent and throwing coin around. I bet that’s who financed all of this. Yeah.” Marco stuck the end of one of his long dreadlocks into his mouth and chewed, lost in thought. Vic gave him time. For all the grief she gave Marco, she had fallen for his brains before his good looks. “What if your brother didn’t discover Danvar?” he asked, reasoning something out.
“I’m listening.”