Fletcher by David Horscroft Read Free Book Online

botched this one; sent him too far over the edge. You can’t re-amputate his toes.... But I might be able to help... I’ll need some paper, and a pen.”
    Vincent stopped the tap. “You have a plan?”
    “A theory. Time for some proof of concept.”
     
    ***
     
    I opened the door five minutes later. He froze mid-shudder as the latch turned. I spent a full minute looming over him before he opened his one intact eye. It shut rapidly, before tentatively peeling open again.
    The fact that I clearly wasn’t Vincent took him by surprise. The hope had already run its course; he knew I wasn’t an officer or a military official on a rescue mission. His face returned to a battered-yet-resigned expression.
    I dropped to my haunches, triggering an instinctive flinch. Another full minute of silence followed, while I wrote something on the pad. Eventually, the scratching of the pen levered his eyelid open again.
    “Who are you?” he whispered.
    I didn’t respond. Instead, I touched his hand—another barely-suppressed twitch—and started counting fingers.
    “Five... Nine.”
    His eye tracked me as I leaned in, tracing a finger over his face while continuing my write-and-tally.
    “Two. Two. One.”
    Confusion slowly paved the way for apprehension. A noticeable stiffness grew in his body. Now was the time to escalate.
    Rolling him onto his back, I levered open his mouth and started tapping on his teeth, one by one. I kept counting under my breath.
    The tears began at seven. He was no longer trembling exclusively with each breath; deep spasms radiated out from his core as he screwed up his remaining eye and began to cry silently. I kept counting, louder now, with more emphasis to my taps.
    The first audible sound arrived just after I moved onto his top jaw; a wet, pitiful wheeze dredged itself out of his throat. He stared at me through leaking slits, one oozing red, and coughed out a plea. The count went on.
    He grabbed my wrist as I touched the final tooth, fingers limp and barely holding on.
    “Please.”
    I feigned concern for a calculated instant, clasped his wrist with my pen hand, and looked into his eyes for three seconds, before lightly stroking his tendons. I smiled.
    “One.”
     
    ***
     
    The sound of sobbing cut off as I closed the door behind me. Vincent was rinsing his hands off again.
    “He’s been fixed. Wait an hour, then go talk. I’m sure you’ll find him to be more cooperative.”
    “Much obliged.”
    I spent a minute cleaning my own hands. The water wasn’t much cleaner than the blood and saliva, but it was arguably more hygienic.
    “So. The boy?”
    “You were right about the morgue. Some big police commissioner was found dead. Overdosed on heroin. Of course the first thought is homicide, no one uses the old narcotics anymore. Hell, people can barely get their hands on them... Hence the protection. Big-name pathologists were flown in and everything. I’m surprised you didn’t know.”
    I’d known about the incident, but I simply hadn’t put the two together. I slapped myself inwardly.
    “Was it a problem?” I asked.
    “Not at all. I have levels of authorisation most of them couldn’t count to as a team. I don’t think they made eye contact with me once after my ID was verified.”
    “And the body?”
    “Wasn’t there, but hold your horses. Noticed something strange.”
    Lies.
    I held up a finger.
    “Nothing at all?”
    “Nothing. I checked all records. The only new inhabitants for the last week were the commissioner and two old people who got shot during a botched robbery.”
    “Can’t be. I saw the record, Vincent. I saw it. New body, young adult male. Cold chamber three-zero-two. It had his picture and everything, Vince. I saw it.”
    “I’ve been sceptical. I still am. But I decided to give you the benefit of the doubt. Did some snooping. Turned up something distinctly interesting, if you’d let me finish.”
    My spirits lifted somewhat. Vincent didn’t find many things