Chapter 14: Drunkard's Gait

Nathan Harland.

Shot six times.

I throw the scotch back and let it trickle down my throat. I savor the burn. I bathe in its numbing, healing aura.

I sit alone, in a corner booth of the watering hole not far from my apartment. Nobody bothers me as I work, scanning my datapad through the news articles that have been run since the murder of Nathan Harland. I've lost track of how many drinks. I shake my head, trying to clear the haze. Trying to clear it of memories of the courtroom, the pictures, the six-shooter on the table... And the connections. The six shots that killed Nathan Harland have me playing connect-the-dots. And as for the possible link to the Blue Wreath...

I try to take another drink, but my glass is empty. My hand is shaking.

I bang my glass against the table.

"No ice!" I growl.

The bartender's a skinny wisp of a thing, and he hurries to comply; doesn't bother trying to get the empty glass from me, just fills up a fresh one. He knows me-knows I have a temper sometimes. Not two weeks ago, I left some upstart's teeth on the floor for getting too familiar. I should quit drinking.

Maria Tarelli. Just one unsolved case in a city full of them-a case that's over a decade old, now, and should just be let go.

But I haven't let it go.

I feel the muscles tightening beneath my sleeves. A hairline fracture cracks in the empty glass in my hand.

"Damn right, I haven't."

The wispy bartender brings my drink, sits it on the table, and leaves quietly. I flip my datapad to the next article.

NATHAN HARLAND MEMORIAL SERVICES ANNOUNCED

Deceased's father, billionaire Rutherford Harland, to receive guests in Amber City's Botanical Gardens, in his first public appearance in almost twenty years...

I've read this all already, and thus far have been rewarded no great insight, but rereading the same information in slightly different wording has at least helped me to digest and familiarize myself with the family history of the the Harlands: the legendary, self-made billionaire Rutherford, the quiet, number-crunching son Nathan, and the spotlight-loving philanthropist daughter Yvonne Harland Reed.

Amber City Detectives declined to provide details regarding the cause of death, but one officer commented, "The pallets in that factory looked like they had not been moved in years. It would have been a long time before anyone found the body if we hadn't been directed to it by an anonymous tip."

I stop.

I reread the final paragraph twice more, just to be sure of what I'm seeing.

I briefly consider trying to contact Detective Albright right here and now, but decide against it, sauced as I am. Better to head home, sleep it off for a few hours, then get hold of him. I shouldn't have come here in the first place, but Caesar's unsolicited reminder of the past rattled me up something good.

I shut my datapad off and put it away. I finish my drink and drop a crumpled wad of bills on the table. I stand-

And the world goes lop-sided.

I brace myself against the table, double-clutch, and start again, this time more carefully. I tip my hat to the bartender and cross the gently swirling room, past patrons who pay me no mind. My drunkard's gait is practiced, hardy, and capable.

I notice, just a little too late, the occupants of the table beside the door: four big, silent men in trench coats, each of them staring at me so hard you'd think I was a naked woman walking on her hands. I exit through the front door as casually as possible. As soon as the door swings shut behind me, I duck low and slip left. It's raining again, damn it.

The tilting world plays tricks on my footing, and I nearly fall twice as I race through the rain, toward the corner of the alley that leads home. I draw the 44-cal akslug pistol from my chest holster as I run.

"Should have been paying closer attention," I scold myself. "Scratch that. Should have just had a water."

I practically crawl the last bit of the way, and I've just made it around the corner when I hear the bar door swing open violently and crack on its hinges against the outside wall.

I crouch behind a garbage can for cover. The world is rotating around me. I shake my head, trying to put it right, but no dice. I'm three sheets to the wind and in no condition to hold my own against anybody, let alone not four men who presumably are in the business of holding their own.

Not in a fair fight, anyway.

I pull the flash grenade from my jacket pocket, remove the pin, and let it cook. I hear the hurried smack-smacking of shoes against puddles, coming my way. The countdown runs in my head:

Five, four, three, two-