Read Conscience of the Beagle for Free Online Page B

now. Get your hands off him, Arne.”
    Arne whirls. “Goddamn you! Can’t you just leave him alone, you bureaucratic shit!”
    I take a step backward, trip over a woman’s gutted purse.
    “What’s the matter, Tommy?” Arne croons. “You can tell me.”
    Szabo can’t speak for sobbing. Desperate to get air, he claws off his mask.
    “Take him over to the side,” I order. “It’s the deaths. The deaths are bothering him, can’t you see that?”
    Arne doesn’t move. Grabbing Szabo’s sleeve, I lead him away. At a bench, I sit him down.
    “You’ll be all right in a minute.” I look up at the others. “He’ll be okay. I’ve seen this sort of thing before.”
    Szabo’s sobs turn to exhausted gasps. “I’m sorry.”
    I tell him, “It’s all right.”
    “It gets to me sometimes.”
    “Endwrapping.”
    He nods.
    “Didn’t HF know?”
    A shrug. “I was getting better. I thought I had a handle on it. I thought —”
    His voice rises. Gains a note of panic. Before he breaks down again, I shove the piece of plastic at him. “See what you can get.”
    He squeezes the burned bomb casing a moment. He kneads it the way the woman kneaded her daughter’s dress. “Maybe I’m afraid to open up.” Szabo looks at the bubbled black surface as if accusing it of treason.
    “Nobody can blame you for that, Tommy,” Arne murmurs. “Just put it down. It’s okay.”
    “Butt out,” I tell him. “And stay away from him from now on. Homosexuality is a crime here, or haven’t you read your briefing report? Besides, there’s no death on that bomb casing. Only murder. Let him do his job.”
    Arne tears off his mask. His thin face is drawn, his eyes are burning.
    “Okay,” Szabo says quickly. “I’m sorry, Major. Milos? The major’s right. And I’ll take the casing with me. I’ll try later. I’ll try harder. I’m not getting anything right now. Sometimes it happens. Psychometry isn’t a science. Not like what Beagle does. Not like what Milos does.”
    The air in the subway tunnel stinks of dust and blood and smoke. Three hours since the explosion, and the rotten smell is starting. Szabo coughs. His eyes are wet. He wipes them.
    “Well, if you’re finished, let’s leave. I’m choking in here. And I can see it’s bothering you.”
    I don’t expect an answer, but Szabo says, “Of course it bothers me. That’s the whole point. Every place I step has a horror story.”
    “But not the right one.”
    Szabo looks miserable. He puts the bomb casing down. “No,” he says. “Not the right one.”

WHEN WE walk out into the moist sweet air of midnight, I find Vanderslice waiting. “Marvin’s very upset,” he says.
    The God’s Warrior with the large nose is standing next to Vanderslice. I wonder if they’ve been laughing at me.
    “Stomach better now?” the Warrior asks me. “Still need that Nausease?”
    Vanderslice turns and the cop’s smile vanishes. “Lieutenant Stuven? It might be a good idea to send your men down into the tunnel and take those EPAT readings now.”
    The officer snaps to attention. In the harsh light of the floods I see the glisten of sweat across the man’s forehead and down the long slope of his nose. “Yes, sir. Of course, sir. We would have been in there sooner, sir, if he hadn’t —”
    “I understand. Just get down there.”
    “Yes, sir. But you’ll —”
    Vanderslice’s voice is so soft it chills me. “I’ll explain to the Chosen, Danny. Get down there.”
    The cop pales. “Right away.” He hurries toward his men. Vanderslice shrugs. When he speaks again, his voice is casual. “Hope you don’t mind, Major. I know it’s late, but Marv wants to scream. It’s best to let him yell.”
    “Beagle,” I call.
    He steps forward.
    “You don’t need sleep. Szabo and Arne can go back to the hotel. You come with me.”
    I’ll need backup. I might need witnesses. Dangerous men never shout. They don’t have to. I’m suspicious of Vanderslice’s whisper and the way