Xenopath, page 12
The cage came to a sudden, jarring halt. The gate clanked open and the travellers poured out. Vaughan eased himself from the crush and stood to one side of the exit, staring about him in appalled fascination.
His initial impression was that he had strayed into the inspiration for a canvas by Bosch. Certainly the low, roseate lighting was appropriate—the furnaces of hell replaced here by the open fires of food-vendors and blacksmiths—as was the press of humanity going about their arcane and mysterious business; while tableaux of torture were absent, butchered beggars and citizens supported by crude crutches and wooden legs could easily have passed for models of the damned.
Vaughan was assailed by a dozen varied scents, from cooking food to woodsmoke, hair oil to joss sticks. If the tunnels down here were not congested enough, the congestion was not helped by the occasional meandering, khaki-coloured cow, holy and sacrosanct and thus given the freedom of the level—where in the upper levels their freedom had been proscribed long ago.
No sooner had he emerged from the dropchute station than he was jumped by half a dozen street-kids, tugging his sleeves and trousers and demanding either baksheesh or the right to furnish him with hotel rooms, drugs, or girls.
Vaughan selected a scrawny boy in shorts and a soiled vest and pointed at him. “You,” he said in poor Hindi. “You others, challo. Go!”
The boy advanced, hissing at the other kids to retreat.
Vaughan said, “Can you take me to the Prakesh Quality Plastic Company?”
The boy rocked his head from side to side. “Ah-cha. No problem, Babu. You come this way. Follow me.”
Without waiting for Vaughan to follow, the street-kid set off at a trot. Vaughan pushed his way through the crowd in pursuit, helped by his greater physical stature than those around him. It was, he thought, an alien world down here; culturally Indian, it had developed its own unique atmosphere away from the sunlight and open spaces of the sub-continent: poverty ruled, and fatalism prevailed, creating a jungle culture where the ethos of the survival of the fittest was a given.
He followed the boy through a maze of badly lit corridors. The odd thing was that, while Vaughan had expected the tunnels and thoroughfares down here to be even meaner and maze-like than those above, the reverse was true: the corridors were wide, even spacious. However, the enterprising mercantile mind of the Hindu had utilised the space to good effect: just as nature abhorred a vacuum, so businessmen down here abhorred the waste of valuable space. The margins of the byways were filled with the kiosks and stalls of food-vendors, restaurateurs, and even makeshift shacks housing destitute families, all piled two or three storeys high and accessed by precarious plastic ladders.
He caught up with the boy, who gestured him along.
At one point the kid saw Vaughan’s expression, and guessed right. He grinned. “Much space down here, no? You see, this Level One. First level, yes? So the builders, many years ago, they need space to store all material, you see? All the things they use to build up, up!”
Ten minutes later they came to a polycarbon wall scabbed over with a rash of Hindi holo-movie posters. Among them, almost indiscernible amid the gallery of overweight action heroes, was the legend: R.J. Prakesh Quality Plastics Pty, Ltd—and below the ill-painted lettering a narrow doorway.
The boy was beaming up at Vaughan and holding out his hand. “Ten baht, friend!”
Vaughan slipped him a twenty baht note and the kid dashed off in delight.
A buzzer was set into the wall, above a speaker. Over the door, staring at him, was the lens of a security camera.
Vaughan thumbed the buzzer. Seconds later a querulous voice said, “Yes?”
He leaned towards the speaker. “Vaughan, Kapinsky Investigations. I want to see R.J. Prakesh.” He hung his ID before the camera and waited.
The door clicked and he pushed it open.
He was hit by the adenoid-crunching stench of hot plastics and concentrated body odour. Gagging, he stepped inside, peering into the gloom.
He was in a narrow corridor lit by a flickering fluorescent above the door. At the far end of the corridor, a door opened and a skinny barefoot Indian in his twenties, wearing a dhoti and a vest, peered out at him. “Mr Prakesh, he very busy man,” he said. “But he will see you. Come this way, please.”
Vaughan followed him through the door, into a longer corridor just as badly lighted. The door at the end of this corridor, however, opened onto a factory floor packed with machinery—plastic extrusion devices, Vaughan guessed—worked by a sweating army of boys and girls. If the stench was bad back at the entrance, it was overbearing here, and made worse by the incredible heat of the place. Most of the kids worked in their underpants, their thin brown bodies slick with sweat. No wonder Pham had elected to escape this hell for the uncertainties of the upper decks.
The youth trotted between the hissing machines, zigzagging across the factory floor towards a raised, glassed-in gallery area. Metal steps climbed to the entrance, marked with the factory owner’s self-important title: Ranjit Jamal Prakesh, Director, Manager.
His guide indicated the steps and departed.
Vaughan climbed, already sweating and exhausted by the intolerable heat. He knocked and opened the door without waiting to be invited in, the conditions on the factory floor imbuing him with indignation.
He expected the office to be air-conditioned, but only an ancient ceiling fan laboured vainly against the humidity.
A fat, moustachioed Indian in his fifties lolled in a swivel chair, his huge bare feet propped next to a flickering computer screen at least ten years out of date.
Vaughan sat down and showed his ID. “Prakesh? I’m Vaughan. Kapinsky Investigations. I’m working on a police case and I think you can help me.”
Wide-eyed, Prakesh pulled his feet from the desk and sat up, buttoning his shirt, which had been open to reveal a bulging Buddha belly.
“Mr Vaughan. Of course, of course. You will find R.J. Prakesh always willing to aid the forces of law and order.” He beamed betel-stained teeth and said, “How can I be of assistance, Mr Vaughan?”
Vaughan flipped a pix of Pham across the desk. “I’m trying to locate this kid. I know her first name. Pham. I understand she worked here?”
Prakesh studied the picture. Vaughan considered activating his implant and quickly reading what Prakesh knew about the kid, but held off. He’d see what he could get verbally, first.
Prakesh returned the pix. “Indeed, Mr Vaughan. Phamtrat Kuttrasan. She was one of my favourites, a very good worker. No trouble. Quiet and respectful. Very good girl.”
“When did she go missing?”
“Three days ago, after a night shift. Very distressing, Mr Vaughan. I run a fair factory here. I treat my boys and girls well. Good pay and hours. I have many orphan children work for me, Mr Vaughan. Street-kids with no home and no prospects, other than R.J. Prakesh. I give them shelter, work and food.” He leaned forward. “Please tell me, she is in trouble?”
Vaughan shook his head. “She witnessed a crime. I need to question her about what she saw.” He glanced at the pix of Pham before returning it to his wallet. “What can you tell me about Pham? Did she have a family, relatives?”
“Sad story, Mr Vaughan. Her mother and father, they were killed in dropchute accident three years ago, when Pham was four. Her uncle, he could not look after her, so she came here begging for work. Mr Vaughan, I’m a successful businessman, but I also have a heart. I am not an exploiting monster. I took her in, trained her how to use the Siemman’s press. For three years she worked with no problem. Then—” Prakesh opened fat fingers in an exploding gesture. “Then phooff! She disappears.”
“This uncle. Do you have his address?”
“I do not, Mr Vaughan. The truth to tell, I did not know that she had an uncle until yesterday.”
Vaughan leaned forward. “Yesterday?”
“At noon yesterday, the uncle comes looking for Pham. He is most upset when I tell him that Pham left her dorm and has not come back.”
Vaughan nodded, sensing that he was onto something. Pham had told Abdul that she had no family, had no one in the world. “Can you describe the man, Mr Prakesh?”
“Most certainly. It was strange you see, although he was a Thai, like Pham, he was not at all like a Thai, if you understand me.”
“I’m not sure that I do.”
“He was big, Mr Vaughan. Tall and broad, like a Westerner.”
“What did he say?”
“Simply that he was looking for his niece, Phamtrat Kuttrasan. He too had a picture of her. He was most concerned about her safety.”
“He didn’t leave you an address, a contact number?”
Prakesh shook his head. “I suggested that he should do this, but he told me that he would be in touch if he needed to ask further questions. I must say, Mr Vaughan, that he struck me as very odd.”
Vaughan recalled the surveillance cam above the door to the factory. “Do you still have yesterday’s surveillance recording? I take it he entered the factory from the front?”
Prakesh said, “Indeed, Mr Vaughan. We keep recordings for a week.” He propelled his bulk in the swivel chair across the room and accessed a com-screen.
Seconds later he had called up a grainy image of a tall, smooth-faced Thai.
“Can you print out a copy of the image of his face?” Vaughan asked.
“No sooner said than done!” Prakesh obliged.
If his suspicions were correct, and this Thai was indeed the killer of Robert Kormier, then how had he traced Pham to the factory?
Prakesh pulled a glossy pix of Pham’s alleged uncle from the printer and passed it to Vaughan.
He stared at the image. There was indeed a disparity between the man’s smooth Thai features, his angular cheekbones and merciless eyes, and his broad shoulders.
Prakesh was saying, “To aid your investigations, Mr Vaughan, would you care to inspect the dorm where Pham lived? I am very proud of the living conditions of my charges. I will give you a conducted tour.”
He decided to accept the offer, if only to build a better picture in his mind of the girl he was seeking. “Lead the way.”
As Prakesh hauled himself from his seat and waddled towards the door, Vaughan tapped the access code into his handset and winced as the full force of the businessman’s mind hit him in a wave.
Contending with an overlaid set of memories and emotions, Vaughan stood and followed Prakesh from the office. As they wended their way between the crashing machines, he worked at filtering out the bright minds of the kids around him and concentrated on the Indian’s fiery cerebral beacon.
The first thing that hit him was the realisation—surprising him—that Prakesh was a good man.
He had taken the Indian’s high-flown sentiments about his charges, his altruism and concern for their welfare, as so much hot air. But R.J. Prakesh, Vaughan found, genuinely did care for the kids he employed in his factory. He ran a profitable business, yes, but he paid his children well, offered good holidays, and ensured that their working conditions were the best possible in the circumstances.
He slipped through Prakesh’s recent memories, came upon his meeting with Pham’s “uncle” yesterday.
It had taken place in the office, Prakesh seated in his swivel chair, the Thai in the seat Vaughan had occupied minutes ago.
Something about the man had profoundly unsettled R.J. Prakesh, and it was more than just the disparity between the Thai’s features and his soma-type.
Vaughan had a better picture of the Thai now, a whole body image, an impression of how the man moved and gestured—and he knew that there was something very wrong in the man’s demeanour. It was as if the Thai were an actor, playing a part, and playing it badly.
The man spoke Hindi fluently, without a trace of an accent—but his hand gestures were those of a Westerner mimicking a Thai.
Vaughan went through their dialogue, and again sensed something not quite right about the man.
Then he had it, and the realisation sickened him.
Again and again the man questioned Prakesh about the girl, Pham—where she might be now, had she mentioned leaving, where might she go if she were to venture topside?
And, again and again, the man anticipated Prakesh’s replies—hardly giving him time to answer.
Suddenly, Vaughan knew why. It was a technique—barraging a subject with questions in order to guide the subject’s mind—that he had used again and again when mind-reading criminals in his old job at the spaceport.
Pham’s supposed uncle, the killer of Kormier and no doubt of Travers too, was a telepath.
Which would explain how he had traced Pham to the factory. While chasing her from the amusement park the other night, he had read her mind.
Sweating, he deactivated his implant and enjoyed the ensuing mind-silence.
They had reached the dorm without Vaughan being aware of the fact. Prakesh was saying, “As you will be aware, the rooms here are all fully air-conditioned. Cramped, yes—space is at a premium down here. But I like to think that my children can rest in comfort and security.”
The rooms were spacious, and lined with caged bunk-beds three high. Some held sleeping children, and all were personalised with posters and possessions as varied as teddy bears, holo-units, toy guns...
Prakesh led the way to a bunk in the corner and indicated the lower berth.
The scant possessions were pitiful: a battered black doll with one eye missing, a battered holo-unit, and at the foot of the bed a pile of folded T-shirts and shorts. Vaughan smiled at the poster stuck to the wall: it was of the Bengal Tigers’ star forward Petra Shelenko.
He noticed a corner of notepaper sticking out from beneath the pillow.
He pulled it out and read the childish Thai script: Dear Mr Prakesh, Thank you, but I must go up to see the sky and the Tigers and everything else up there. I will be back one day when I am rich and happy. Don’t worry, I will find a safe place to sleep. Signed, Pham.
Vaughan stared at the note, then passed it to the businessman.
Only then did it hit him.
His pulse quickened and he cursed himself for being so slow.
Prakesh looked up. He thumbed something from his eyes. “The airborne pollutants down here are annoying, Mr Vaughan. I must attend to the filter system—Mr Vaughan?”
Vaughan reached out and took Prakesh’s pudgy hand in a fierce shake. “You’ve helped considerably, Mr Prakesh. I’m sure I’ll find Pham soon. I’ll be in touch, okay?”
He hurried off, leaving the fat Indian staring after him as he made for the exit.
He had been a blind fool. As soon as he realised that the Thai was a telepath, he should have made the connection.
If the Thai had read Pham’s mind as he chased her from the park, then he must have read her intention to spend the night in Ketsuwan Park.
Vaughan quit the factory and followed the signs to the nearest upchute station.
AFTER THE CONGESTED hell of the lower levels, Level Three seemed an oasis of space and calm. From the ’chute station he caught a southbound shuttle to Ketsuwan, an affluent residential area bordering the exclusive outer edge. The Park, a five hundred square metre area of lawns and gardens—like some vision of old England transplanted in space and time—was lighted by a series of mirrors and day-light halogens and gave the exhilarating impression of existing in the open air.
Couples and families strolled across the manicured lawns, street-kids played kabadi and soccer between the trees. Vaughan, aware of the bulk of the pistol under his jacket, made a quick circuit of the park, on the lookout both for the Thai telepath and for Pham. There were about ten entrances to the park, and he was unable to keep them all covered at the same time.
Lone men stood out among the couple and families. Vaughan stared at them, discounting them one by one. It was almost impossible to keep a watch on everyone entering the park, and on this occasion his tele-ability would be of no use, as telepaths wore mind-shields as a matter of course.
He stopped at a chai stall by a southern entrance to the park, bought a mug of spiced tea and a plate of mixed bhaji and pakora. Wolfing down his first meal since that morning, he eyed the kids begging food from the stallholder.
Discarding his mug and plate, he tapped the start-up code and his implant kicked into life.
He moved from the group, wincing, as the flares of a dozen minds cascaded into his consciousness. He worked at winnowing through the thoughts and emotions of the kids and the stallholder, accessing their short-term memories for an image of the skinny, Tiger T-shirted Pham.
He found nothing and moved off, making a circuit of the park, then crossing it, still scanning. He sorted through individual minds, one after the other, discarding hopes and dreams, fears and anguish, love and hate. He didn’t allow himself to dwell long in any one mind: that way might lead to disorientation, to the sympathetic identification with individual psyches to the detriment of his own sense of self. He’d worked with teleheads in the past who’d suffered identity trauma from empathising too readily with subject personalities. Vaughan skipped, butterfly-like, hoping to come upon an image of Pham.
He stopped. Something connected in his head, the answer to his earlier inkling that his reasoning had been flawed. Impatiently he killed his implant. Basking in mind-silence, he concentrated on his own thoughts. His logic had been skewed by the natural assumption that the assassin wanted Pham dead because she had witnessed Kormier’s killing.
He sat on the nearest bench and thought it through.
Why would the assassin want to eliminate Pham? There was no way that, from where she had been crouching in the mouth of the ghost train, she could have made out the assassin firing from over twenty metres away, on a dark night. She had seen Kormier killed—but would that have been enough to set the assassin on her trail?
Why would the assassin want to kill her? He had obviously read her mind immediately after the shooting, and then had elected to shoot her.
For some reason—that was the question at the heart of Vaughan’s consideration.
