THE SHADOW OVER VINLAND sample: “Piecework”

The agent stationed outside the lobby doors knew how to wear his sunglasses; he had mastered that head position that said “I’m watching you” while also saying “I’m not ac­knowledging your existence.” His suit was immaculately boring and his tie was muted, and his mirrorshades expertly reflected my face at myself as I announced myself: “I’m Carrick.”

He didn’t ask for ID, and I hadn’t expected him to; he just gestured past the double glass doors with a measured jerk of his head. “Inside and down,” he said, then aimed his sun­glasses back to look at everything and nothing beyond the door. There was a municipal gas and light work van parked at the curb for extra verisimilitude.

I pushed through the doors. The apartment building lobby was warm and quiet, and the lights were off. Per standard policy, I’m sure that the building had been evacuated be­cause of a “gas leak.” The only light came from the stairs to the basement, through a utility door that had been propped open. Funny how often these things are in basements.

At the bottom of the stairs was another agent; without his sunglasses under the 40-watt bulbs, he looked dangerously close to having a personality.

“Carrick,” I said.

“Right this way,” he answered, and accompanied me. He was young, and had the lean face and long neck of a dis­tance runner. His tie was identical to that of the agent at the front door; were they buying them in bulk now? I was in slacks, a white shirt, no tie, and a blazer that went with the slacks but didn’t match it. I’m such a rebel.

We first passed a laundry room, then several closed metal doors. The last door was into an apartment, and two other agents lounged in a crackerbox living room with mis­matched furniture and a widescreen TV twenty years newer than anything else in the room.

“Carrick,” the young agent announced me.

The agent who reacted looked like he should always be smoking whenever he leaned against a wall. “We’ll let him know,” he said and motioned to his partner, and they both left through a connecting door. Their plain neckties, merci­fully, were unlike each other or any that I had seen so far. The important stuff never slips by me.

I had no idea how long the pair was going to be, so I set­tled myself into a well-used easy chair. The young agent stood near the wall but not leaning against it just to my left, hands folded in front of him. His hands looked even young­er than his face.

I looked around the room, taking in more detail. Dark faux-wood paneling. A couple of framed prints on the walls: one in full color of Yosemite, the other black and white of what might have been Coney Island in the ‘30s. Overlap­ping rugs covering the rough tile of the floor. A crumpled Burger King bag peeked out of a garbage can beside the couch.

Nothing visible here that said that a malevolent entity was on the premises, but looks can be deceiving.

The young agent said, “I’ve heard of you.”

I nodded, still looking around the room. “What’s your name?”

“McKinley. Agent McKinley.”

Ah, the young. Soon enough, the “agent” part would be such second nature that it might as well be his first name. “Been on the job long, Agent?”

“I’ve seen some stuff.”

Hedging. He probably had seen some stuff, of course, stuff that most people wouldn’t even believe was possible. But he had seen enough stuff to realize there was so much more he hadn’t seen yet. He knew that he didn’t know what he didn’t know.

He’d probably feel like that to the day he died.

McKinley swallowed almost silently, but I knew what was coming.

“So, about your arm…” His eyes flicked to the left arm of my blazer, and the black-gloved hand that protruded from the sleeve.

“What do you want to know?” I’d probably heard all of the questions before, and had guessed all of the questions that didn’t actually get asked.

“How far does it go?” asked McKinley.

I tapped a spot about an inch inside of the shoulder seam. “To right here.” It was about half an inch further in than it had been in the beginning. On the one hand—ha!—it was good that it was taking so long to grow into and take over my body. On the other hand, nothing slowed down its incre­mental progress, and that scared the shit of me every morn­ing before and after my shower as I examined in the mirror the buckling seam between healthy skin and something very, very different.

“Well,” said McKinley in a voice that said that he’d used up the one question he was going to allow himself, “at least you can put it to good use. That’s lucky.”

“Lucky for Delton, anyway” I said.

McKinley shrug-nodded, and apparently decided that that was as far as he was going to pursue the conversation. We could hear muted voices beyond the other door, too low to pick out any words.

The only natural light in this basement apartment came through a window high on the far wall, which was near the bottom of a window well. It was well into the evening, and a single ray of stray sunlight speared into the room, tinted salmon with the sunset. It hit a spot on the other wall be­tween the prints and illuminated an old nail hole in the pan­eling.

The far door opened, and I stood. Leading the way in front of the other two agents was Delton. He had maybe lost some weight since I had last seen him, but that only left him jowlier.

I put out my right hand and saw the split-second hesita­tion as he glanced at my black-gloved left hand to assure himself that he was safe from that hand. We shook perfunc­torily.

“Good of you to come,” he said without meaning it.

“Not really up to me,” I said.

…

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