Dead Harvest

  When I reached the lockers, it was clear I had a problem: with its stiff outer frame, the suitcase was just too damn big. No way was it gonna fit. But I wasn't about to blow my first assignment, so I decided to improvise. I'd just empty the contents of the suitcase into the locker, and drop the empty suitcase off when I returned the car and the key.

  When I unzipped the suitcase, a sudden vinegar tang tickled my nostrils, and something else as well, earthy and unpleasant. It put me in mind of Mission Street out in San Francisco, where the hopheads used to beg for change to support their habits. The case was stuffed with paper bags, each dotted with oil spots and wrapped around something the size and shape of a brick. I took one out and looked inside. A compressed block of yellow-brown powder stared back at me, confirming what my nose had known all along.

  Heroin. Musta been fifty grand's worth, maybe more. Whatever it was worth, it was more money than I'd see in a lifetime, that's for sure.

  And there was something else for sure, too: no way was I gonna stand here in full view of anybody who cared to look and unload this thing into a locker. Which meant if I didn't figure out what I was gonna do with this shit and quick, I was pretty well screwed.

  Footfalls echoed like gunshots through the concourse. I dropped the bag back into the open suitcase and wiped my hands off on my pants. Three bleary-eyed kids trotted past, dragged by their mother toward the platform, no doubt there to greet their father upon his return from St Louis. My eyes tracked them for a moment, but they never gave me a second glance. I zipped the suitcase and lugged it back through the station to my waiting car. I circled the terminal until I hit Eighth, and then I headed northeast toward Mulgheney's.

  Dumas and I were gonna have ourselves a little chat.

The walls of the narrow corridor seemed to tilt and sway by the light of Anders' match-like reflections in a funhouse mirror. I followed behind him in the darkness, dragging one hand along the wall beside me to orient myself. The air around us reeked of moisture and rot, and the concrete beneath our feet was cracked and chipped – and littered with pots and pans and empty cans of God knows what, their labels faded to sallow obscurity.

  Match burned flesh, and Anders cursed, dropping it to the floor. The match's flame guttered and died, plunging us into total darkness. My heart thudded in my chest as I remembered the eyes of the false WaiSun, their blackness so absolute it reduced all thought of light to the fleeting recollection of a half-remembered dream. I clenched my eyes against the panic and willed my heartbeat to slow.