Deader Still

37

“Since when do you own a boat?” Connor said as we walked down one of the west side docks toward the silhouette of a thirty-foot motorboat. Empty, it looked like a creepy little ghost ship. I expected to see spectral figures floating around inside the small cabin on its deck, but was relieved to see nothing of the sort.

“Well,” I said, “technically I don’t own a boat, but the Fraternal Order of Goodness does. You said you needed one, so I got us one.”

“And if I said I needed a supermodel?” Connor said. He undid the knot cleating the boat to the dock without an ounce of difficulty.

“I’d have to check the supply room for one of those,” I said.

Connor crossed down to the far end of the boat, undid the cleat there, and stepped onto the deck with one foot while pushing it away from the dock with the other.

He waved to me like he was leaving on the Love Boat. “You coming, kid?”

I hesitated as the boat floated away, but jumped over onto it before the gap spread too wide.

“I take it you’ve done this before?” I said, searching for the ladder leading up to the steering on top of the darkened cabin. “ ’Cause I don’t know how to drive one of these things . . .”

“A couple of times,” Connor said. “Not with this boat, mind you. I usually had to rent one, then expense it and wait to be reimbursed months later. Nice of you to save me the trouble this time. Maybe you F.O.G.gies aren’t worthless after all.”

I found the ladder and climbed up. I fished out the keys the Inspectre had given me and moved to the controls, but Connor held his hand out. “Keys, kid.”

I gave them over and Connor fired up the boat, leaving only the bare minimum of running lights on. He pulled away from the dock and out into the Hudson River at a good speed, heading north. “Boating isn’t that hard,” he confided. “The secret is not to hit the land or other boats.”

A fine mist rose around us as we sped toward the distant lit-up structure of the George Washington Bridge. I rode along for several minutes in silence, simply enjoying the disconnect from the city and the feel of the open water, but eventually my curiosity got the better of me.

“You want to tell me who this Thaniel Graydon is now?” I asked.

“Not who,” Connor shouted over the sound of the engine, “what.”

“Sorry,” I said. “It sounded like a proper name.”

“It is, or rather was. You should know him; he’s part of your old-boys network. Thaniel Graydon was a F.O.G.gie. What I know about him is limited to his involvement with the early years of the D.E.A., but I think he had something to do with one of our founding fathers being a necromancer.”

This all felt oddly familiar, and then it hit me. “Benjamin Franklin,” I said.

Connor turned and looked at me. “How do you know that?”

“I think I was Thaniel Graydon,” I said. “For only for a few seconds. Back when we were working on Irene’s case, I accidentally triggered off this book that Wesker was carrying around and I got the most horrific flashes of this rotting creature . . .”

I shuddered, not sure if it was from the cold on the water or the ancient necromancer’s image that once again filled my head. “So I doubt we’re going to see someone well over two hundred years old,” I said. “Umm . . . are we?”

“Given our chosen profession, it isn’t out of the realm of possibility, I suppose,” Connor said.

“True,” I admitted, “but where are we going?”

“The Thaniel Graydon Center is a special annex to the Rikers Island facility.”

“Rikers?” I said, confused. “Isn’t that in the East River, closer to Queens? We’re going to have to circle Manhattan. Not that I mind. It’s a nice night and all . . .”

“Rikers Island is in the East River, yes,” Connor said, “but the Thaniel Graydon Center isn’t attached to it. It’s free-floating. It’s a prison barge where they keep a lot of their special cases.”

Connor took one hand from the wheel and pointed forward at a speck that looked like a giant, floating Lego that grew larger with every second we sped toward it.

I wondered if this was the prison where Mina had first heard my name again and met Faisal. Although she possessed no special powers that I knew of, she definitely qualified as “special” in a lot of ways, and given her somewhat dangerous and erratic behavior, she had probably earned a quick place within the prison community.

Up close, the barge was impressive, a miniature four-story city crammed onto the deck of an immense boat. Blocky white buildings were guarded by tall searchlight towers at the four corners of the barge. Even if you were able to escape the confines of your cell and avoid the lights, there was still the open water to contend with. It seemed a perfect place to house someone like Faisal Bane.

A searchlight picked up our approach and we docked. Men bearing shotguns came from a small workstation hut to help us board, and without a moment’s hesitation checked our Departmental IDs. Not much for small talk, two of them escorted us to one of the larger buildings on deck before turning us over to a single officer, also not terribly talkative. He signed us in to a large room filled with rows of tables and benches.

“Looks like a slow night for visitors,” I said to Connor.

The guard laughed.

“These aren’t the type of people who get visitors,” he said, speaking up for the first time, “and if they do, they come in ones or twos, usually late at night.” He thought about this for a moment. “Kind of like you two,” he continued, sounding almost philosophical. The guard held his hand out, and I wondered if I was supposed to tip him. As I reached for my wallet, Connor reached into the pocket of his trench coat and pulled out a folded piece of paper.

The guard snatched it from him and looked down at what was written there. His eyes widened.

“This one might take me a while,” he said. He reached up and pressed the button on his communication device. “We’re going to need three men to Level C. I repeat, three to Level C. Make that four . . . and dress for a mess.”

He folded the paper back up, handed it to Connor. “You two wait here,” he said, then started off toward another door at the far end of the room. He rapped on it, and then there was a short buzz. He let himself out before slamming it back shut.

“ ‘You two wait here’?” I said. “Where the hell does he think we would go?”

While Connor and I waited, the clanging and buzzing of doors opening got closer and closer until the door nearest us buzzed. It slid aside to reveal the imposing figure of Faisal Bane strapped to a tall cart with wheels on it. He was in a straightjacket with his arms lashed around him, and tight straps ran up and down the length of his outfit. The only part of him exposed was his head of dark hair. His sharp European features were a little more drawn out than usual, bordering on the side of sickly. Incarceration wasn’t treating him well, even though his face was a stone mask of indifference as the guards wheeled him into the room and deposited him in front of us.

The sway of the barge caught all of them off balance, and the cart Faisal was on tipped forward, putting him in danger of slamming down on his face with no way to break his fall. All five men strained to upright the cart and luckily stopped it before it fell all the way over. They set it firmly on the ground and backed away from it with caution.

“Jesus,” I said. “Do you keep him all Hannibaled up like this all the time?”

The guard shook his head.

“Why do you think it took me so long?” he said, with a laugh. “Nah, we usually let the prisoners roam free among themselves . . . No one really cares if one prisoner goes after another out here, you know? But, well, we can’t really have him running free around you outties.”

I refrained from joking that I was an innie and instead gave a respectful nod. This seemed to satisfy the guard. He walked over to Faisal and looked him in the eyes. Faisal stared back at him, impassive.

“Now, I’m gonna be right over there,” he said, pointing to an enclosed surveillance room with windows along one wall, “while you conversate with your little friends here. You do or say anything out of line and we’re gonna have a problem. You know, the kind of problem that only a stun baton can solve. Alright?”

There was no reaction from Faisal whatsoever, unless you counted blinking.

The guard and his four companions headed off toward the surveillance room, talking amongst themselves, their laughter giving me the creeps as it echoed in this dreary and depressing place.

“Hello, Faisal,” Connor said. “Not quite as nice as your old office at the Empire State Building, is it?”

Faisal ignored Connor the same way he ignored the guard, choosing to change his stare to me. “I wondered when you might show up,” he said, the traces of something Slavic running through his accent.

Seeing Faisal again brought back all the fear and intimidation I had felt when we first met, but there was a new fire of hate in his eyes. And why not? I had driven Jane to betray him, depriving him of her. Thanks to Wesker, we had even thwarted his assassination attempt on her with his corporate “headhunter.”

“I get the impression you’re not too excited to see me,” I said.

“Relax, kid,” Connor said. “I doubt he’s ever excited to see anybody.”

This seemed to grab Faisal’s attention, and he finally looked at Connor.

“Oh, no,” Faisal said. “On the contrary. I’m quite thrilled to see Mr. Canderous.”

“Why’s that?” I asked.

“Because it means you’ve been in contact with your little crimson-haired friend, doesn’t it?”

My face went red when he said it.

“Is that Mina?” Connor asked, quietly. “I thought she was a blonde on the surveillance tapes from MoMA?”

“So was I, if you remember,” I said. “But she’s actually a redhead. Dye job.”

“What’s this?” Faisal said, smiling now. “Sounds like Connor’s a little out of the loop. You haven’t told your partner all about your little blast from the past? Is this lack of trust some new part of defining your precious ‘goodness’ that I’m not aware of?”

“I can explain more about Mina later,” I said, glancing at Connor.

Connor had been leaning back against one of the tables. Out of nowhere he stood up and lunged for Faisal. It was uncharacteristic of him and it freaked me out. I grabbed a piece of the tail of his trench coat before he could make it across the table, hoping it would hold. I pulled him back toward me.

“Connor! What are you doing? Stop it.”

Connor continued to struggle, trying to strip himself out of his coat to get free.

“Why, kid?” he said, one arm free. “So assholes like him can continue to work people like you over with their lies? Forcing you to make stupid choices, jeopardizing other agents . . .”

“He’s baiting you,” I yelled, but Connor wouldn’t stop struggling, and my arms were getting tired. I let go of him and slapped him across the face.

Before I could pull away, the electric snap of my powers reaching out shocked me. In the anger and desperation of the moment, I forgot how easy it was to lose control of them when my blood was up. I tried to pull the power back into me, but it was no use. I caught the briefest of glimpses into Connor’s life. In my vision, Connor was in his apartment, reading that invisible letter again, this time through tear-filled eyes. The momentum of my slap broke the connection between the two of us and I was back on the prison boat, slightly disoriented.

“You okay, kid?” Connor said, looking shocked as well. “What the hell just happened?”

“Nothing,” I lied. “My power almost went off, but I stopped it in time.”

“Sorry to interrupt your little slap fight,” Faisal said, “but did you come here for some sort of purpose?”

It was my turn to ignore him for a change.

“He’s baiting you,” I said to Connor again. “Outside of being pure evil, the guy is all about the head games. If you want to be mad at someone for the stupid choices I’ve made or for the things I’ve kept from you, then be mad at me.”

Connor looked like he was shaking it off. “The student becomes the master, grasshopper. You’re right, kid. I know that. I never would have snapped, but this whole situation has my mind messed up.”

I stood there in silence for a moment.

“Can I get in on this Hallmark TV moment, too?” Faisal said, and now there was real venom in his voice and frustration. His attempt at toying with us had failed him. When we didn’t rise to it once again, he said, “I’ll assume you’re not here simply because you miss my winning personality?”

“Finally something we can agree on,” Connor said. “Kid?”

I recounted the mad state I had found Cyrus in below the Guggenheim, how creepy and phantomlike he had become . . . all this on top of being a cultist.

When I was done, all humor had left Faisal’s face.

“I hadn’t realized Cyrus had gone this far off the deep end,” he said. “It’s bad for business.”

“I’m surprised you care,” Connor said. “I thought you two were together on this one. I’d think this type of fucked-up scheme would be right up your alley.”

“Not when it interferes with my grander schemes, it isn’t.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“Your schemes?” I said. “You want to elaborate on that?”

Faisal smiled. “I’d rather not.”

“Fine,” I said. I looked at Connor. “This is getting us nowhere.” I started walking off toward the guards in their surveillance room. It looked like they were playing cards.

But the sound of Faisal’s voice stopped me in my tracks. “I hate being on this barge,” Faisal said loudly. I detected a hint of desperation in his voice.

“What’s the matter?” I called over my shoulder. “Incarceration not as fun as you expected?”

“Being cast adrift at sea is hardly fitting for a man of my stature,” Faisal said. “That, and I get a bit seasick. The once and future master of evil, and a little boat rocking does me in. There’s some irony for you.”

I stopped and turned back to him.

“You know, I had thought my Ghostsniffing operation had been where the real money was, but it wasn’t. It’s in government. Did you know that this floating prison was built at a cost of one hundred and seventy million dollars? You wouldn’t know it by the looks of it. But that kind of money . . . that’s enough to put every last inmate here through Harvard, easily. They built this nausea-inducing place to handle the overcrowding of the regular Rikers facility, but, oh, what I wouldn’t give to be serving my time on dry land.”

I could hear the false sense of melodrama in Faisal’s voice. Connor glanced at me and I read the look in his eyes. This might be the only chance we were going to get for any real information. I walked back over to the two of them.

“Do you know what I miss most about the mainland?” Faisal said. “The comforts of home. There’s nothing here. At least Rikers Island has educational facilities, medical clinics, ball fields, chapels, workout equipment, grocery stores, a decent barber, a bakery, a laundromat, its own power plant, a runner’s track, a tailor shop, a print shop, even a car wash. Amenities. The little things that make life livable . . . you know, things befitting a man of my stature.”

“Why don’t you paint us a little picture, then?” I asked. “I’m sure we can arrange a transfer or something, depending on how valuable what you have to say is. That is why you gave us your little laundry list, isn’t it?”

Faisal remained silent.

“But let’s make one thing clear,” Connor added. “You’re not getting free. We can put in a good word for you with the administration, but you’ll still be serving your time, either here or there.”

“I wouldn’t dream of trying to escape,” Faisal said with mock sincerity. He smiled. “Okay, well, maybe I would dream of trying to escape, but I would never try it.” He sighed. “Very well,” he said. “Where to begin?”

“If you say ‘at the beginning, a very good place to start’ or start singing The Sound of Music, I’m going to have them put you in solitary,” I said.

He thought for a moment, then turned to Connor.

“You know what I love about your new recruits? The naiveté.”

“Meaning what, exactly?” I asked. I snapped my fingers to get his attention back to me.

“Here I am, in jail . . .”

“We caught you,” I interrupted. “We put you out of business.”

“Oh, yes,” Faisal said, smiling like the cat that got the canary. “I forgot. Of course you did. That’s what I’m talking about. Here I am, in jail, and you think because I’m on this floating hellhole that you’ve put me out of the evil business?”

“What is Cyrus up to?”

Faisal’s eyes narrowed and he stared at me. “When you crashed our party at the museum, literally, you merely set back the course of the Sectarian cause. You didn’t stop it. Yes, you put me in here, but you forget Cyrus was the one who had been heading up the Surrealist Underground, the other, more artistic arm of our fund-raising. And he’s the one that got away. He’s been running things on the outside. I didn’t know about all this necromancy of his, though. I’m pleased to hear he’s taken up a hobby.”

I ignored Faisal’s happiness about Cyrus’s Zombiepalooza. “So this whole Para-lyzed thing is just an extension of your original plan?” I asked.

“A reboot of sorts,” Faisal said. “It was Cyrus’s idea to go with this more artistic/sadistic route where art would turn into revenge against our enemies, all at a profit to our evil little patrons. That all seemed a bit over the top to me. I’m more subtle. But once I met your old friend Mina in here and saw how obsessed she was with you, well, I couldn’t help but get on the vengeance bandwagon. I had told Cyrus to have you killed after you had helped Mina with the heist, not before. Apparently, in his demented state, he couldn’t wait to try, could he?”

“Meaning what?” I asked.

“The Oubliette,” Faisal said. “When he told me he had sabotaged it, I was furious. Still, I would have thought Mina could have finished the job. Very disappointing.”

“I’m glad to see that I can bring like-minded psychos together,” I said, glum.

“Cheer up,” Faisal said. “You’re still alive, aren’t you? Despite my best efforts. If anyone’s got a reason to be depressed, it’s me. Seems you can’t send a homicidal redhead off to do a man’s work these days. So much for equal opportunity.”

“Even with her freedom at stake, Mina couldn’t make herself kill me for you,” I said with pride, even though I could still feel the ache in my jaw from my last pistol-whipping.

“Cyrus and Mina were only the beginning. I’ll have every cultist at my disposal gunning for you. Only a matter of time before someone gets to you, my boy,” Faisal said. “Only a matter of time.”

“Could we stick to the madness at hand?” Connor said. “You were saying how Cyrus’s plan didn’t really jive with your worldview or something.”

Faisal nodded. “I understand what goes in to turning a person to our purpose, and that type of thing takes time and subtlety. I know the wheels of change are going to grind slowly for the world to fully embrace evil openly, but Cyrus is out there, and being in here, my choices on how we went about what’s best for the Sectarians in the long run were somewhat limited. So I encouraged Cyrus to go forward with Para-lyzed. All that mattered was that it would raise cultist-rights awareness and keep revenue coming in while I planned out what to do next.”

“But we’ve put a stop to that,” I said. “Cyrus knows we’re on to his little paranormal freak show. He won’t dare return there. That phase is over. So the real question is: Do you have any idea where we can find Cyrus now?”

“You could ask a little nicer,” Faisal said. “You catch more flies with honey . . .”

Faisal went quiet for several minutes and the two of us waited him out.

“Let me get this straight,” he said. “First, you took away the Sectarian Defense League, which I had worked so hard to build . . .”

“On the blood of others,” Connor added, but Faisal just kept talking.

“Then you took away my freedom by incarcerating me, and you took away my right-hand woman, Jane . . . I’ve given you the bulk of our plans, and you’re still not satisfied?”

“Not without handing us Cyrus,” Connor said. “With the art show shut down, we would have figured out most of what you’ve told us once we went through all the evidence. All you’ve done so far is save us some time. I hardly think that’s grounds for transfer.”

Faisal looked pained.

“Well, there was one thing Cyrus had been talking about,” Faisal offered, “but I can’t promise you it will lead to anything. Either way, I want your word that you’ll attempt to get me transferred. My word may be sketchy, but I know you do-gooders. You keep to what you say.”

“Help us out,” I said. The idea that there might be something out there larger than this Para-lyzed madness filled me with a sense of dread. “I promise we’ll do what we can.”

“I’d also like to be clear on something here,” he said, “because I do have a reputation to uphold. I’m only telling you this because if Cyrus does what I think he’s going to do, it’ll be even worse for business. While we share the same cause, we do not share the same ideology. I’m a pragmatist. I understand that for every little cause, there is an effect. But Cyrus? He’s an idealist. He’d rather get caught up in the doing of things, the means of it, to get to an end. I’ve never agreed with it, but people like him can prove quite useful in their own way. There was a time when he could be reigned in, controlled, but he’s just kept marching forward, reckless with his ideology, fucking up everything I worked so hard to put in motion.” Faisal cleared his throat. “You see, boys, timing . . . is everything. All these grandiose displays will be too much exposure too soon, and instead of winning people to our cause, we’ll be condemned. He’s so driven that he wants the world to know about us now, by any means necessary. I can only imagine he’s feeling a bit desperate right now, and desperate men are not to be trusted.”

“Then tell us what he’s going to do,” I said.

Faisal cocked his head and looked at me.

“How do you feel about reality television?”