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Chapter 47: The day after
Trask missed another merchant breakfast at the King’s Arms.
After the events of the night before, he’d slept late and only made it to the Chamber minutes before Osgar got back with an update.
He was busy trying to remember the code words he’d found in Lockton’s office, but the only one he could definitely remember was Egg Custard.
“Gully himself came to see us,” Osgar told Trask. “They found a stack of buried import export license requests and promise that they’ve already begun approving them.”
“Have they found him yet?”
“Well, no,” said Osgar. “Nobody knows where he went. Gully admitted that he should have kicked him off the grid first before firing him.”
“Maybe they can hire the process server to look for him,” Trask said. He was mostly joking. But maybe… never mind.
“They tried,” Osgar said. “Crewe said that they’re never coming back to Krim again. And theirs was the only firm even willing to consider it.”
“I can’t believe they’re all too scared to come here,” Trask said. “I mean…” he gestured towards his window. “The place is packed.”
“Not scared,” Osgar said. “Well, not most of them, anyway. It’s the privacy thing. And the distances. It can take weeks to get to some cities. It’s not worth anyone’s time.”
“Well, at least we know what he looks like. Don’t we?”
“That’s one thing Gully was able to confirm,” Osgar said. “That Lockton hadn’t left the grid at all. So he’s still with his regular avatar.”
“I hope we find him before he grows out his beard,” Trask said.
“What are you working on?”
“I found a list of code names in Lockton’s office,” Trask said. “With numbers after them.”
“So?”
“So I’m thinking that he might have been taking bribes, and keeping records of them. Or blackmailing residents. As a grid employee, maybe he knew about things that people wanted to keep secret.”
Lockton had mentioned crochet clubs when he threatened to permaban Trask. And illegal gambling. What else did the man know?
“I’m sure some merchants won’t want word to get out that they paid bribes to get their licenses approved,” said Osgar. “I bet there will be several people who’ll send assassins out after him once they learn he’s hiding somewhere on the grid.”
“I’m sure everyone already knows,” Trask said.
“At least everyone knows what he looks like, so we won’t be seeing collateral damage.”
“Well, not as much collateral damage.”
“I found another severed head in the shrubbery under my window this morning,” said Osgar. “It was the smell that gave it away.”
Trask tapped the list of code words he was working on. “I’d bet that Lockton is going to try to pull together as much money as he can and disappear to some far-off city where nobody knows who he is.”
“You don’t think he’d leave Krim?”
“Well, if he does, he’s got civil lawsuits waiting for him,” Trask said. “Binkie said he lives online. He could stay on Krim forever if he hides well enough.”
“Maybe he’ll die slowly of the plague,” Osgar said.
“We can hope.” But Lockton was slippery. If he hid out on Krim long enough for the statutes of limitations to expire on whatever Gully Labs planned to sue him for, he’d be free and clear of any consequences.
And, until then, Trask would be walking around with a target on his back.
There was a knock on his door and a woman poked her head in.
“Joe told me I could come in,” she said.
“Thomasin!” Trask shook off his feelings of dread and stood up. “You came back!”
“Yup,” the artist said. “I got notified that the two-week suspension had been lifted and headed straight for the gate.” She shook her head. “My studio is a mess, but the other artists are chipping in and helping me rebuild.”
“I was worried you’d be too traumatized,” Trask said.
“Honestly, I don’t even remember dying,” she said. “I’m more upset about losing all my art.”
“You should check with City Hall,” Trask said. “I found a bunch in Lockton’s office. Your bag, too.”
“Oh, good,” she said. “And I’ve got something for you guys.” She reached into a sack — a promotional one, telling people to eat at Josep’s — and pulled out a leather binder then opened it and handed a sheet of paper to Trask.
“Umm, very nice,” he said. “You’ve entered your… cubist era?” He turned the sheet to see if a different angle helped him tell what he was looking at.
“No, it’s for the wanted poster,” she said. “It’s Lockton.”
“Oh, of course,” said Trask. “I should have recognized him by the ears.”
“Excellent,” said Osgar. “We’ll put it up everywhere. We’ll issue a reward.”
Trask passed him the paper.
“Hmmm.” Osgar held the drawing at arm’s length, then moved it closer, then further away again. “We’re going to need one with him with a beard, too.” He glanced up at Trask. “Do you know of any artists who can draw a person with different facial hair and hats?”
“I’ve got that, too,” said Thomasin, and opened her binder again. “I got up extra early to work on these.”
“Yes, we’ll catch him in no time,” Osgar said.
Trask was about to add that she shouldn’t worry, but the last time he’d said that to her, she wound up dead.
“Just be careful until then,” he said instead. “Try not to go anywhere alone.”
“You think he’d come after me again?”
“Your drawings helped to expose him,” Trask said. “He might want revenge. He seemed a bit … unbalanced … when I last saw him.”
“Will he come after the chamber?” Osgar asked. “Do we need to start watching for snipers again?” He paused. “He wasn’t a very good shot, was he?”
“But he was just fine at setting fires,” said Trask. “And other things.” He glanced at Thomasin and decided not to get any more specific. Osgar would know what he meant.
Trask remembered how close he’d come to getting his own throat slit.
Thomasin said she didn’t remember the death itself. But even if the memory wasn’t recorded, she probably felt it as it was happening.
They say time slows down when you’re facing death, Trask thought. He remembered the screams of the injured tourist at the Barley Mow. No, having an angry killer on the loose, bent on reveng,e was not a good thing.