Rune Alignment

Chapter 52

"Oh, she's asleep again," Julie said softly. "We should let her sleep. Why don't you go downstairs and get yourself something to eat in the cafeteria. The food's not bad."

Bobby watched his love sleep. He was hungry; he hadn't eaten anything this morning since it took him so long to get ready. He set the spoon of ice on top of the glass and said, "All right. After I get some lunch, I can come back up, right?"

"Yes, she'll still be here." Julie smiled at him, pulled back the curtain and left it open.

Bobby thanked her and she smiled up at him, "See you in a little while; the cafeteria in on B-one, first basement level."

He smiled again and walked toward the elevators.

"Do you believe this?" one of the uniforms muttered.

"Thompson, I want shots of everything on these walls, understand?"

"You bet. Jesus," the photographer replied softly.

Everyone stared at the walls, taking it in. Skin – animal flesh – covered very every inch of every wall. Pelts hung, stretched out as if drying, fur side against the wall, skin showing; pelts from dogs, cats, squirrels, a raccoon, others that resembled road-kill. Featherless, pebbly flesh from what had once been whole chickens, ducks, and other, smaller birds hung as well, stretched out as the others.

Eames looked up and caught a gag before it erupted. "Oh my God, look."

Everyone turned and looked at her then followed her gaze to the ceiling. The heads of the animals hung from the ceiling. It looked as though they hung from hooks screwed into the tops of their skulls and then hung from hooks screwed into the ceiling.

"Shoot the ceiling, too," Sledge muttered to the photographer.

Where is she? Where is she? I hope to God that she was not involved in that ruckus at the university yesterday. Goddamn American media won't tell us who was hurt, or who did it. What ever happened to their freedom of information act? Her car hasn't moved. It's a nice day, she probably walked to Belzberg. Or, she's still up in her little flat, safe and sound, missing me, wanting me. That big copper isn't with her, though, haven't seen him since Saturday evening; he's given up on her. My artwork put him off. He has no appreciation whatsoever, for my skill, my artistry. Damn fool, big lummox. Glad he's out of the picture. My sweet, lovely, stupid whore, where are you?

Bobby took a tray and knew immediately that this was a bad idea. He could not balance it with one hand. Just get something that won't spill, he told himself. He picked up a fork; he couldn't use a knife, wouldn't need a spoon, and moved to the food bar. Suddenly he wasn't hungry, this is too much work, he told himself. But the smell of meatloaf reached his nose and his mouth watered. "I'll have the meatloaf, please."

He reached for the plate heaping with three huge slices of meat, a mound of mashed potatoes, gravy over both, and a pile of green beans. The girl serving had smiled coyly, flirting with him, and then handed him two rolls and a bowl overflowing with cole slaw. He placed it all on his tray and slid it down the line. Bobby found chocolate cake at the end and set that on the tray as well. The tray was loaded. I can't carry this, he said to himself. He stood, looking forlornly at his tray, then to the cashier twenty feet away, and on to the tables and chairs beyond. He left his tray on the rail and walked to the girl picking at her nails, perched on the tall seat at the cash register.

"Excuse me," he said, "can you help me carry this tray? I'm at a disadvantage here." He lifted his left arm, indicating his handicap.

The girl looked up, looked at Bobby and then at his tray. "I'm not allowed to leave the register," she said. "Sorry."

Oh, great, he thought.

A woman with a boy of about seven had been filling a cup at the drink dispenser. She happened to look over as Bobby spoke to the cashier and then glanced back at the tray on the rail. She finished filling the cup, put a lid on it, took a straw, slid it through the hole in the lid, and handed the cup to the boy. She walked over to Bobby as he returned to his tray; the boy followed her, sucking on the straw.

"Can I give you a hand?" she asked him.

Bobby turned and said, "Oh, thank you so much. Yes, thank you."

The woman stepped around him and lifted the tray. "Hungry?" she asked with a smile.

Bobby blushed, looked at the floor and did a backwards two-step. "Uh, I know, it's a lot. The server was being very generous."

The lady smiled and said, "Well, you are going to need something to drink, especially with that cake. What would you like to drink? Coffee, water?"

"Oh, I'll come back for that. I don't think there's any place to set another thing on that tray," he smiled.

"Don't be silly, you can carry it with your good hand."

"True, true." Bobby looked around and spotted the milk machine. Good, cold milk, he thought. "I'll be right back," he said and moved to the get his drink.

The woman carried his tray to the cashier and set it on the rail there. The girl looked at his tray and began touching the surface of the computerized register screen. Bobby arrived and said, "This too. And that," pointing to the little boy's cup.

He set the glass on the tray, fished in his front right pocket, and retrieved his money clip.

"Eighteen forty-two," the girl said flatly.

He grasped the clip between the tips of two fingers on his left hand and tried to get to a twenty. The clip slipped, fell and he stooped to pick it up, whacking his head on the rail coming up.

"Jeeze," he said, reaching for the back of his head.

The woman chuckled and said, "You are having a time of it, aren't you? Do you want me to do that?"

"I'm sorry to be such a bother," he replied, handing her his money clip.

The woman paid, returned the clip and his change, picked up the tray and said, "Where do you want to sit?"

"Anywhere, really, you lead," he said.

"I see . . . I understand . . . certainly . . . whatever you find . . . that's not a problem . . . sure . . . thanks . . . bye." Bishop had talked to the folks at I24/7 in MCB at Interpol about Clive Donohue. She sat back in her chair and muttered, damn.

Apparently, Clive Donohue had no priors. Unlike Elliott, when the agent ran 'Clive Donohue' through their system, nothing popped; 'Elliott Baughman' had produced a litany of offences, starting young. The agent said he would continue exploring other avenues of inquiry and would get back to her. He sounds nice, Bishop thought.

So, now what? she asked herself. Ah, where does this bad boy live now? Certainly not in his car – God, can you imagine what that front seat, steering column and dash must be like? Ick.

Bishop did the standard runs through various databases and information systems. Nothing. I hate this part, she muttered to herself. Where are you, you bastard? She endeavored on.

"Thank you so much for helping me," Bobby said sincerely. "Please, join me if you like." He indicated to the other two chairs.

"Well, we don't want to intrude."

"No, please. It would be nice to have someone to talk to."

"All right, thank you. Geoffrey, sit beside me. Tell the man thank you for buying your drink," she said to her young son.

"Thank you," Geoffrey said softly, shyly.

"You are welcome," Bobby said. "Uhm, aren't you going to have anything to eat?" he asked, suddenly feeling self-conscious about the feast before him.

"Oh, no, no, we just came down to get this guy something to drink. Please go on, eat."

Bobby smiled and tried to manage the fork. He fiddled and fumbled with it as he had with the spoon in Gleason's room. He felt himself redden. Man, you should have gotten something like pizza or a burger, hand food, he said to himself.

The kind woman watched and smiled. "Please, don't take this the wrong way, but would you like me to cut up that meat? That way you can just spear the bites with the fork and swipe up potatoes?"

Bobby could just die, die! "Oh, man, I am so uncoordinated. No, thank you. I can cut it up with the fork, the trouble is . . . I, I can't get hold of the damn fork." He caught himself and shot a look at the boy, then to the boy's mother, "I'm sorry."

She smiled and shook her head. She watched him struggle. "Here, can I help you?" She reached across the table, and, like Julie had upstairs, wove the fork through his fingers and thumb. "There, it will feel more natural by the time you are feeling full. Go on, eat up." Bobby was so embarrassed.

"Thanks again."

"No problem. It's like teaching him when he was two," she said nodding to the boy on her right. "By the way, I'm Maggie, and this is Geoffrey."

Bobby chewed, swallowed and went to put his fork down, intending to extend his hand in acquaintance. "I'm Bob –,"

"No, no, don't put down your fork. Keep eating. Please."

"I'm Bobby," he said.

"We are delighted to meet you," she said, "Geoffrey, say hello to Bobby."

"Hello," he whispered.

Bobby smiled.

Everyone pulled on the latex and stepped to the side as Thompson shot photos of every square inch of walls and ceiling.

"I'm shooting this montage format so we can build a reconstructive mural illustrating the walls exactly how they are. I'll do the ceiling the same way."

"Whatever you say, just get it all," Sledge replied.

"Where do you want us to start?" one of the three officers said.

Eames looked around the small area. In addition to the bed, the room held a closet, desk, couch, chair, stereo on wooden crates, a short file cabinet with a microwave setting on top, and a double size mini-fridge beside it. "Why don't you take the closet, you start in the file cabinet, you tear apart the bed, chair, and couch?" Eames said to the uniforms nodding to each as she gave the orders. "Sledge and I will take the desk."

My God, she is so hot when she takes charge. Gotta remember that for later, Sledge thought.

The four men each moved when the tiny woman moved. Let's get this done, she said to herself.