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Chapter 5:

The station is all but dead when we get there, just a half dozen blocks east of the apartment building. The docks and riverfront businesses are all but closed, so all of the evening traffic has dispersed. And because it's still much too early for any of the bar and gaming traffic to even consider starting up, an uneasy quiet reigns. Quartz didn't raise a single word the entire time, opting to suck on that cigarette. The el-train that squeals to a stop before us is one of the older models.

Like most of the public facilities servicing old pred-only parts of the city, it's falling apart. What was once a shining, chrome plated promise of the future flying through the city has degenerated into yet another sticker-covered, graffiti-clad reminder of the past. The inside can be described as more of the same: sticky, dirty, with Bugburga wrappers, cigarette butts, and beer bottles strewn about the floor.

At least the seat we sit in, as we have the choice of the entire car, isn't ripped or covered in various, unknown fluids. I go to force the coyote into the window seat, but he insists on taking it, avoiding an argument. He sits quietly, watching the exterior roll by wordlessly. After a moment or so, the silence becomes unbearable; especially when somebody is so close. It almost feels like I have to say something, anything.

"What will you tell the boyfriend?" I ask him offhandedly.

"Huh?" He replies, most likely deep in his own world.

"Bastion, the Oryx?"

"Oh, yeah, I don't know yet. I was paid for this entire week in advance, so there isn't a lot for me to collect. I might phone him once this is all done and tell him what I know, see if he wants to reward me on a 'job well done'. Highly doubt it, though. Honestly, I was hoping the police would tell him first, considering he's one of your kind and all."

My jaw tightens at the insinuation, but, I calm down when I sort of realize he's right. Most likely he'll get the 'boys in blue' visit either tomorrow morning or sometime early in the afternoon if her parents don't get it. I'm assuming earlier, considering how high visibility this is. It's better to be told in person than find out your girlfriend is the latest in a string of vicious predator murders.

"How did you get roped into all of this?" I ask him, adding a moment later when he doesn't follow up with any questions of his own. "If you don't mind me asking."

"I told you," he replies. "I'm a private investigator."

"No, I meant, how did you get pulled into following Savannah?" I clarify, hoping to keep an edge from my words.

"Bastion called me," he explains while still watching the buildings fly by. "I have an ad in the back of most of the little locals around here. I'm sure he must have gotten it from there. Don't know how, most of the places that carry it aren't frequented by prey. Didn't bother thinking about following him, since it was easier to follow her."

"Do a lot of prey species call you?" I ask curiously, trying to be personable.

"Not a lot, but, more than you'd think," he says with a bit of a chuckle. "The way I see it is thusly: you're wronged and you don't want to go to the cops for whatever reason. Or maybe you did and they didn't do a thing. Your ball and chain's been cheating, maybe your niece went missing, you need somebody to leave you alone, what do you do? You don't hire Gary Goat or Larry Llama. They'll screw this up. 'They don't have the strength or the resolve', you say to yourself. 'No, I want something scary, something that'll get the job done. I know, I'll hire some Happy Town scum and they'll do it for me.'"

"Scum?" I ask him, taken by surprise.

"Mmhmm," he replies. "For a nominal fee, of course, depending on my services and how needful and frightened the customer is."

I'm quiet for some time, not really knowing what to say, but with some words bouncing around in my brain that I doubt would come out sounding right. The folder that the captain gave me crinkles in my vest, echoing in this metal-walled tube flying across the cityscape. I want to call him out for being a scab, or a tick sucking the blood out of his customers. But, then again, it's their right, I suppose, to do with their money as they please. Especially if the proper authorities won't help.

Finally, I ask, "Do you think that's what your customers see you as? The prey ones, I mean. Scum?"

He turns to look at me, the first time since before we boarded the train. His look is quizzical again, unbelieving.

"How long have you worked in pred-heavy areas?" He asks.

"About two and half years, ever since I joined the force. I wanted to get close to the action, but the action I got wasn't the action I wanted. Why?" I ask him, genuinely confused.

"And you don't think animals like you see animals like me like they're not even worth it? Not worth the education, the housing, hell, even the basic respect dull-toothed office workers get Downtown? Maybe that they don't need a gun drawn on them when they're trying to help?"

He did see. That makes me looks away quickly.

"No, no, of course not!" I insist, feeling defensive. "They just see you as different, just a little more like a . . ."

I search my mind for the appropriate words, but nothing comes to me. A threat, an unknown, a variable they don't understand come to my mind easily. But that isn't right, and even I know that. A ticking time bomb. That's the word my father would use, but I shouldn't say it, even if it feels correct. That can't be right, I don't believe that. Do I? Quartz seems to know it and doesn't press the point, most likely satisfied with my reaction, like before. Turning away, he puts his head back onto the cool window and blinks.

"But most of my business comes from other preds," he continues without me asking. "Because, if the cops don't care about you, who can you turn to? Not a lot of options on that front unless you wanna deal with one of the Families, so they come to animals like me; for a nominal fee, of course. You ever been to Happy Town proper? You know, down by the docks, out Fang Street way?"

I turn to him and see that he hasn't looked back to me, but I can see his eyes reflected in the mirror. That name is very familiar, even though I haven't lived in this part of the peninsula all that long. It's part of my beat, if only the better parts of that neighborhood. They talked about it during training, about how the preds were shoved into a segregated portion of the city before, what, '59? The most southern portion of the peninsula is the largest of those historically segregated areas. Happy Town. Although it's not mandatory anymore, a lot of preds remained. I've been told it's because they prefer the familiarity, but I've had my doubts.

"No," I reply honestly.

"Didn't think so."

The train pulls into the station and the conductor's voice comes over the radio to announce 'Savanna Central' over the intercom. It hardly sounds like that's what he says, but, for locals, we simply know. I stand up and allow Quartz to get out in front of me before we exit. Then I follow him down the rusting metal staircase to the street level. The square is all but devoid of its usual traffic at this time of night, though you can hear the nightlife bump all about.

The Mudd Club flanks one side of the wide square filled with milling bodies, its pig-shaped sign glowing in the darkness, while the SheePGB sits on the other, hosting vastly different crowds. In the center, people loiter about while having a smoke and talking. Muscle cars rev and squeal down the boulevard somewhere just out of sight while motorcycles rumble in their spots along the sidewalk. When the doors open, music pours out in unintelligible, but inviting, waves.

Bodies push by us after we descend the stairs onto the pavement. I've heard suggestions to lower the el-train down to street level, to push for a more 'walkable' city, but I doubt that'll ever come to fruition. We'll ring in the new century before that ever happens. Here the coyote doesn't bother covering up our chains. Most of these animals wouldn't care to see a pred in cuffs. In fact, they wouldn't even be surprised.

We attract a lot of attention passing by some of the open clubs and bars. From the more anti-establishment ones we get a mixture of disdain for me and solidarity for their arrested brethren. From the biker-oriented ones we get half nods of approval and half sneers, patriots and rebels. And, of course, from the club scenes we get questions of if we're dating, if we want to try some Nip.

It's only two blocks to the precinct, and what a hard two blocks that is. My hand is on my gun the entire time, though Quartz seems rather at ease with himself, sucking down another Bucky from his dwindling pack. So much, in fact, that I'm wondering how many of those animals have hired services like his, or him specifically, by how personable he is. Getting back into the shadow of the precinct building gives me a sense of comfort.

But I can't say the same for Quartz, who tenses at the scene unfolding before us. As we cross the street into the streetlamp-light oasis surrounding the front steps of the precinct, a squad car is being emptied on the curb. Two large officers, both of whom I can state I intensely dislike, are unloading a perp of their own. I pull on the cuffs in order to keep both the predator and the fact that we're chained together close to the hip.

Quartz seems to sense this and tries to be an inconspicuous as possible. But a blood-covered pred who stands a good five inches over me is difficult to conceal with even the best conditions. As we scoot around the limestone handrails flanked by proud stone police officers, the worst happens. As they slam the door shut, their perp still squirming in their hands, the two officers turn around and see us hastily climbing the stairs.

"Hey, hey, little Jane Doe got herself a catch," Bullworth calls out mockingly. "And look at the size of this fishy, too. A coyote? Not only are you graduating to measurable game, you're going after your own natural predator. Big balls for such a little girl."

I promise myself that I'm trying skillfully to ignore it, but the truth is that I can't and I won't. No, I stop dead in my tracks merely two steps from the top. Quartz pulls ahead of me, but stops just short of the door. The cuffs shine in the fluorescent light. Their perp, some hopped-up otter, thrashes about in his chains babbling crazily, providing a strange overture to this otherwise unnatural silence. That collar on his neck zaps and crackles, but he seems to fight through it with ease. Otters do have thick fur.

"Yes, Bullworth," I bite as I turn. "I'm doing my job; the same as I did yesterday, and the same as I did the day I started. And I see you and your pall Oxley over there got your own, too. It must be hard for beasts of your stature to bring in an otter hopped up on some pills he couldn't handle. Why don't you do the same thing I'm about to do and go inside to do your paperwork? You know, that thing called police work I once believed you could do?"

Officer J. Bullworth is an officer most renowned, a word which has many meanings, for being one of the best performers in my precinct. A bull, large even for his species' size, he generally handles problems in a singular way. His tool belt, obviously, only comes with one tool: a hammer, and his actions reflect that. Oxley, the dumber of the duo, if such a thing were possible, is a muskox who seems to fade into the ego of his partner. While quiet, he seems to be the kinder of the two. It's animals like Bullworth that make being a cop hard. Because they get into it for the wrong reason: power, not to help others.

I get this sort of harassment pretty often. Not only from Bullworth, but from others around the department. It's his that stands out, simply because it's an annoying combination of incessant, obnoxious, and childish. He's like the schoolyard bully that never really grew up. What's worse is that I can't really say anything about it to anybody. The admins won't lift a finger to help. My mother would have a fit if she knew this were happening and my father would just say, 'I told you so' and flip to the next page in his paper. At least the others have the common courtesy to just whisper in the hallways and clam up when I walk by.

"Oh-ho, so the runt has some teeth today, does she? Borrowing them from her boyfriend over there, maybe?" Bullworth says, remanding the custody of his perp into the hands of his partner. "Why don't you hurry along before your serge gets a good old earful from his future commander, Jane Doe, and I send you to work in dispatch where females belong? Or maybe I'll punt you back uptown to mommy and daddy."

He bends over at the waist to meet my eyes while still hovering generally above me, meaning to intimidate me. Usually this antic would work, but not tonight. No, tonight I've seen things I doubt would even curdle his blood. While I don't see murder in his eyes, I see something very familiar, very primordial. That, and his fingers curling into a fist. Behind, the otter's collar continues to snap and crackle as it continuously, almost comically, shocks him.

I feel a tug on my arm behind me and glance over just in time to see Quartz stepping backwards, off to the side. The door swings open above us and a lieutenant in his dress best comes out, flanked by a more modestly-dressed secretary. Both I and Bullworth give him a hasty salute, while he barely notices us at all.

The best the lieutenant can do is acknowledge us with a nod as he's pulling on his jacket. But after that, he just turns back to his secretary for her to jot down some notes. He descends the stairs without even questioning what is happening on his doorstep and begins to cross the street to where a row of personal cars are parked.

"Do your job, Bullworth, and leave me alone when I'm doing mine," I say and turn away. "I belong here, too, it isn't just for freaks of nature like you."

Quartz already has the door held open as I hope up the last few steps. A cool rush runs down the back of my neck, throwing itself off the tip of my tail. And it isn't just the air conditioning, either. Bullworth doesn't follow and Quartz lets the door swing shut behind him. This is probably the first time I've ever stood up to Bullworth, at least so directly, most likely the first time anyone has.

Bullworth runs the place as if he's anything more than a regular sergeant, a position which provides power over exactly three officers, none of which are me. But that doesn't stop him from using that power to make my life miserable. False calls to non-existent addresses, spreading gossip around the bullpen, losing or damaging my paperwork, if it has a name, he's likely done or considered doing it. Some of them unforgivable.

"Brooks?" A voice says. "You in there?"

I snap out of my adrenaline-fueled dream and realize where I am. Main floor, near the desk sergeant, my precinct in Savanna Central. Quartz is looking down at me before he snaps his fingers before the end of my snout. The reason why I'm here comes back and I look to him in stunned silence, my heart still trying to beat its way out of my chest.

"What was that about?" He asks, genuinely concerned.

I feel my face flush.

"Ugh, that?" I reply, flustered. "Nothing-- don't worry about it. It's nothing."

With that, I lead him over to one of many benches lining the front wall. Taking the cuff off of my own wrist, I put it down briskly onto the wrought iron armrest. The benches are sometimes used for temporary holding, and are appropriately bolted firmly to the floor. Quartz sees what I've done and, surprisingly, doesn't protest or give me any attitude. He does, however, see right through my excuse as if it's glass.

"Wait here, I'm going to talk to the desk sergeant and get the film sent downstairs to be developed," I explain to him.

"Hold up."

I go to turn away, but, I don't get very far. Quartz reaches out and grabs my wrist, causing me a bit of shock, my hand still to unconsciously reach for my weapon. But when I turn around, I see there's nothing to fear. We make eye contact and he lets go of my arm.

"Here," he says and slowly reaches into his coat pocket. "Take this too."

His fingers rustle around in that pocket for a moment and then he produces something surprising: another roll of film. He presents it to me and I take it from him. Afterwards, his arms relax.

"What's this?" I ask him.

"I took two rolls of photos," he tells me. "The one in the camera was what I had when I climbed the fire escape. The other was from below, when I was staking out the joint. I caught some pictures of the guy entering and of them in the window. I don't know how valuable they are, but, they're there."

"T-thanks," I say and pocket the roll, smiling uncontrollably.

"Sure," he replies. "Your life, ugh, seems hard enough. And while you're a cop, I'm not looking to make it worse."

I'm shocked. I go to thank him, an odd thought, but he's already turned away, searching for another cigarette. Bemused, I say nothing. Turning around, I walk over to the desk sergeant, a middle-aged rabbit I know named Ginny. She's reading a magazine as I walk up, though I'm pretty sure she saw and heard everything that happened since I got here, most likely more than that. And I'm going to regret every single second of it.

"Well, look whose back already," she says excitedly, wearing a smile. "I wasn't expecting you until after midnight."

"Hey, Ginny," I say reservedly and lean onto the desk, which is almost too tall for me to do so. "I need you to send some film downstairs to be developed. And I need you to take this camera to my desk. And it's an emergency, orders straight from Captain Whitebuck."

"Oh, yeah, I heard on the shortwave," she says. "Grizzly stuff, isn't it?"

She gives a chuckle and a little wiggle of her shoulders and then spins in her chair to the intercom controls. She presses it and a loud screech comes from the ceiling, making my ears lay back in pain. It's like claws down a chalkboard amplified by a hundred.

"Evidence, you have material waiting at the front desk, code fifty eight. Evidence, you have material waiting at the front desk, code fifty eight, thank you!" She says cheerily into the long microphone sticking up from the desk.

As I'm placing the two canisters of film onto her desk, the camera separate from the other pieces, Ginny stands up onto her seat and leans down across her desk. She has this look in her eyes, broadcasting that 'Gossip Girl Ginny' has something she needs to dig into, which was something I wanted to avoid. She's so excited I can almost see my reflection in her front teeth. I don't even try to turn away, there's no escaping this, at least for now.

"So, who's the perp?" She asks me, though that isn't the question she's actually asking.

"He's not a perp--yet, Ginny, he's a material witness," I explain matter-of-factly. "He provided the evidence I'm getting developed and entered into the system."

"Oh, he's not a perp, huh? Maybe you just like playing with your cuffs?" She asks knowingly. "You know, this is the first time you brought a male around. I was beginning to think you were infertile or a lizard lady. Oh, that's the word, they say, though I don't believe it, not at all. Either that or you're hoping to go to city hall and marry your job. And he's not even a buck, too! What happened to Terry?"

Oh, my god, Ginny.

"Ugh, nothing. Nothing happened with Terry, Ginny. Goodbye!" I say in reply and take a step away from the desk, wanting desperately to get away from this conversation.

No luck, though. Ginny grabs my shirt sleeve and drags me back. Looking over my shoulder, I see Quartz giving me a look like he won't, he can't, and he most definitely shan't help me. He's pulled a handkerchief with one hand and rattles his handcuffs with the other mockingly, like this is my fault. The handkerchief goes over coat and hands, where the blood has all but dried. I moan in displeasure.

"So are you into that, then, Jane, is that it?" She asks, more interested than should be healthy. "Never pegged you for a predo. Oh, sure, maybe date an elk, or a moose, or even some other prey, but a coyote? Mmm, that's some juicy stuff. Straight out of Tiger Crest."

She does that little shoulder wiggle again. She's enjoying this too much.

"No, really, Ginny, we're just working together, really," I insist to her, exasperatedly trying to pull away from her iron grip. "And right now, we need to go. Goodbye, Ginny!"

I finally slip free my shirt and beeline back across the small aisle to where Quartz is quietly chuckling to himself. Fumbling with the keys, I unlock his handcuff and then drag him onto his feet. Without bothering to cuff him to my arm, I push him across the room towards my desk in the mostly empty bullpen.

"We'll catch up later, right, Jane?" Ginny calls over the back of the desk area for everyone around to hear. "I'll get to really meet him, right, Jane? Jane?"

My face couldn't be any redder.