Page 3 of Sullied Saints

The way he pauses, too thoughtfully, I almost regret telling him even that. He's too sharp, thinks too much like a killer and a lawman both. He wouldn’t have gotten as far as he did, taken out as many killers as he did, if he wasn’t one of the most intuitive people I’d ever met.

"You're not telling them she was my sister,” Tristan says, voice even.

My jaw tightens. He doesn't need me to say anything to know he’s right.

"You're scared of moving me from here, aren't you? You think Tregam won't like it.” A slight smile tugs his lips. “They'd dislike it less if they knew Cocooner was my little sister, if they knew I'm not the one to make Cocooner disappear like I made the others disappear."

He’s right. They might forsake him if they knew. But there’s too much the rioters might do, too much unpredictability that would go with it. Since Needler’s—Tristan’s—identity is known, it wouldn't take long before every person that ever encountered Tristan before his time as Needler, all the way back to childhood, would be the victim of some mob convinced they know where to find Cassandra. And there are enough mobs around these days.

The most they have is a sketch of her as she is now, which is a far cry from the woman recognised as Tristan’s sister, who is believed dead as a victim of the first Cocooner, anyway.

“You had a stutter as Seb,” I start. It’s not strictly important to the case, but I ask anyway, “Does that mean you’re not him anymore?”

Tristan spreads his hands. “What have I left to hide?”

How easily he seems to just shed an identity. I still haven’t decided whether he has multiple personalities, or if they are simply personas. The former would make him insane, the latter dangerous. “So, you’re just Needler now?”

His eyes seem to bore into me, an atypical green, pale in this harsh light.

“What’s Needler’s purpose?” I press. “Now you’re caught.” Now that both my hands have stopped shaking, I fold them in front of me on the table, leaning forward. “Maybe it’s to help us stop Cassandra before she kills again.”

Tristan tilts his head, a slight smile breaking the intentness of his gaze. “We’ll see. No sign of her?" he asks.

"None. But we can presume she'll strike again."

He nods slowly. "She will."

I take a breath. "You're the only one that’s ever really known her. We need help catching her."

"She will have dyed and cut her hair by now. New clothes, new name, disappeared."

"We know that,” I say. “We need what you know about her. To predict what she'll do next."

"Well, she's in a corner.” Tristan meets my eye. "So she'll fight."

***

When I came in this morning, up with the dawn to beat the protestors and the reporters, the front of the precinct resembled a festival ground the day after everyone leaves; rubbish scattered across the tarmac, strange splash patterns of something potent enough to stain the footpaths, and a general sense of emptiness.

As I leave now, it resembles something more akin to an active battlefield. There’s a line of police in riot gear, bracing those giant Perspex shields, and they’ve made a barrier along the sidewalk. From my vantage at the top of the wide steps leading into the station, I can see over the police to the small army of protestors. There’s a narrow line between them and the police, some invisible barrier as they hoist their homemade signs and placards.

The media is here too, of course. With Needler in chains somewhere behind these walls and the public that wants him to save them from the Cocooner out here, it’s irresistible to them. The people are chanting, but the calls are too disordered to morph into anything easily comprehensible. Video cameras roll and several reporters are among the crowd, taking sound bites from individuals.

Right now, I wonder if we're no better off telling them the truth, thus taking Needler down in their estimation. The truth is he betrayed them. After everything, he's not the hero they think he is. Not when it comes to Cocooner, anyway.

And he's right, we can't move him. We'll be swarmed the minute they realise who’s in the truck. And right now, we need him, whatever help he may be. One of the cameras flash in my direction, too far to be a good shot, but they’ve spotted me.

I’m not ready to face them and their questions. I wouldn’t know how to answer them, anyway. Behind me, the door back inside opens with a slight creak, and I turn to see Dean. He gives a wan smile, not holding eye contact for long before shifting his attention to the . “Shit,” he says.

A shout rises over the rest, with that tinny, static sound of a voice coming through a megaphone. The SUV parked in the middle of the street had been obscured by bodies, but I spot it now as a man climbs on top. He’s got the megaphone in his hand, and as he clambers onto the roof, something strikes me as familiar about him.

"Conrad,” Dean says. I look back at the man on the car. He's about my age, with dusky skin and short, dark brown hair tussled from the ordeal of reaching the car. Even now the people around him thump encouragingly on the car, some climbing onto the bonnet, others managing the cord coming from God knows where and going to his megaphone.

"Conrad Elis?" I ask with a frown, "The guy who was running for mayor before…" I pause, stomach sinking. "Before Cocooner murdered his boyfriend."

Dean nods. "Fiancé, actually,” he shouts, to be heard over the new roar of the crowd as they turn their backs to us and face Conrad instead. “He was the first of her victims last year, and Conrad fell out of the running. He probably would have won if he’d stayed in, what with the other contender gettingNeedled." I remember. The other mayor-in-running had been an unexpected political target of Needler, and in death, he and his party had been exposed for his disgusting ‘pastime’, which he indulged in overseas basements.

Conrad’s voice rises, and the people raise their fists, shouting along. He appears to be listing everything we've fucked up on. "…Police violence! Hypocrisy! Bribes! Wrongful arrests!” At this last one, the roar rises, the riot police shift, and when everyone subsides again, Conrad continues, “They’ve locked away the only one who made any dent in the evil of this city!"

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