Drawing Thin

1

Constable Paix Hanger had attended many crime

scenes, yet something about this one unnerved him. No blood

splattered the empty alley, no bodies adorned the back rooms of

this sad little fabric shop.

That was the problem, he

decided.

The boy was just ‒ gone.

He closed his notebook, putting

it and his pencil into his pocket. The room was odd. He'd seen

similar rooms before, this close to the Pot ‒ minimal battered

furnishings, nothing on the walls ‒ but this room held an emptiness

that pulled at his heart.

No smell of food. No personal

items lying about. Not even a toy or doll on the boy's thin

mattress.

Paix considered himself at that

age. The boy was twelve, even if he looked ten, perhaps too old for

dolls. But not even a book?

Forensics men dusted the open

back door frame and back stair railing for fingerprints while

others photographed the barren room and the child's portrait. The

family peered in from the doorway to their storefront, following

the officers' every move. The mother ‒ in her middle forties with

dark eyes and hair ‒ and a young man of sixteen, who looked like

her. Their clothes were well-made, too fine for a 2nd Street

address.

Probationary Constable Leone

Briscola stood in front of them, arms on the door-posts, blocking

the way. "You think he ran off?"

Paix flinched at the outrage

which flashed through the mother's eyes. This would make things

more difficult. He gave Briscola a sharp stare. "We don't have

enough evidence to say anything yet."

Briscola's swarthy cheeks

reddened, his dark eyes dropping at the rebuke.

Paix strode to the open back

door. Clouds covered the late December sky, yet Lady Luck had

smiled upon them ‒ it was mid-morning, with little chance of rain.

Cases like these at night in a thunderstorm were much more

difficult.

From the narrow steps, Paix had

a clear view of the entire alley. A team photographed the alley,

while another collected every item in it ‒ trash, half-eaten rats,

bits of wood ‒ each placed into its own brown paper sack, the top

folded and sealed. Labelled. Catalogued.

If this were any other

precinct, a detective or three would be ordering them around. But

Precinct 1 was stretched too thin for that luxury. Their job was to

do the preliminaries. Whatever detective was assigned would follow

up on the case tomorrow.

The alley wall across the way

looked like any other. Paix moved close to inspect it: graffiti,

but no hairs, no fibers, nothing to speak of what happened

here.

They should have cordoned off

the entire alley, and examined the back stair first. Dozens of

officers had walked these stairs, and others had trailed through

the alley while they spoke with the family inside. "Photograph

every shoe-print of every man here. And the family's."

"Yes, sir."

It was routine, but he didn't

want to leave anything to chance. Those eyes in the boy's tintype

portrait haunted him.

Paix pointed to a fresh mark ‒

a dog, stamped in red on the grimy brick wall. "Did you photograph

this?"

"Yes, Constable, but it won't

help much." The photographer, a slender, curly-haired man dark as a

Diamond, shook his head regretfully. "Colors don't show with this

film. I called for an artist."

Paix continued down the

alleyway. No signs of a struggle suggested the boy knew his

kidnapper ‒ or was lured away. He turned to face his team.

Briscola stood facing him.

"They're done with the room."

"Don't ever make a

determination in front of the family."

Briscola's cheeks reddened, and

he stared past. "Sorry, Constable."

Paix kept his voice low. "Sorry

won't mend this. It's bad enough most of the force is on the take,

or shaking down people for crossing the street wrong, or playing

target practice in the Pot. You know how rare it is for someone to

actually call us the day of a crime?" He turned away, trying to

keep his anger under control. Then he faced his partner. "You're a

good cop. But you have to keep your mouth shut. Understand?"

Briscola's head drooped. "Yes,

sir."

Paix clapped Briscola's

shoulder. "What do you see?"

The young man's face steadied,

his shoulders straightened.

It was encouraging. He hoped

Briscola would survive.

"No signs of a struggle, sir.

Nothing of his left at the scene. The family heard no noise ‒"

Briscola turned to Paix, astonished. "The boy didn't cry out."

"Notice anything else?"

"Last night was Yuletide

Center. Where are the decorations? The food? The gifts?"

Paix nodded. And the rest of

her family. Where were they?

Good thing I was assigned this

case, he thought. This woman was barely surviving. To have to

choose between bribes and food .... "What else?"

He watched as Briscola

struggled to find something, anything to say. Finally, Briscola

shook his head.

"The mother. She's hasn't given

her children a Yuletide, yet still wears a wedding ring."

Briscola's eyes unfocused,

blinked several times. Then he frowned, his mouth twisting. "She

loves her children. It's not that." He hesitated. "Recently

widowed?"

She took off her mourning

garb, yet she kept her ring.

"Yes, and by the look of things,

newly arrived to Bridges." The answer came to him in a flash.

"They're running from something."

The two officers returned to the house, and Mrs.

Bryce offered them tea. As there were only three stools, the young

man ‒ Herbert was his name ‒ lounged on his bed, watching them in

silence.

That they were offered tea

seemed encouraging. Perhaps she'd speak more of her troubles. Paix

said, "Was this your first voyage on the zeppelin?"

"No, sir," Mrs. Bryce said

stiffly. "We've traveled before." Her accent seemed familiar but he

couldn't place it.

"Did you enjoy your trip

here?"

They both flinched.

He decided to try a different

approach. "Mrs. Bryce, what brought you to Bridges?"

She glanced away. "I had

opportunity to own a business."

He peered at her. She hid

something. Why? "Anything you can tell us might help."

The woman glanced at her son.

"We owed money. Back in Dickens. We ‒ I thought we'd be safe

here."

Paix nodded. Now he recognized

the accent.

Financial refugees from Dickens

were not unheard of. A dollar from Dickens was a small fortune in

the slums of Bridges. "But why come

here

?" Fees from the

local crime family, outrageous rents with little in return ‒ this

wasn't the best play for a gentlewoman in financial distress.

She glanced away. "This was

where opportunity lay." She faced him, then set her teacup down,

her manner formal. "Will there be anything else?"

Something wasn't right here. He

handed her his card. "Madam, I'm here neither for your money nor

your favors. We want to be of service. But I don't want to further

impose on you. If you think of anything which might be helpful, or

if anyone contacts you about the boy, or if your son returns,

please let us know."

Her cheeks reddened, but she

stood: it was time for them to leave.

The men in the alleyway were packing their gear,

but gave Paix their attention when he emerged.

"I want a door-to-door search

in a six-block radius," Paix said. "Four of you come with me: we'll

take the Pot. The rest finish packing then split into teams." He

counted quickly, then pointed to one of them. "You stay here and

watch the house in case the boy returns." He raised his voice to

encompass them all. "Each team take search bags. Play it straight,

men. The boy is here somewhere, and the clock is ticking." If the

child were taken, as the mother seemed to think, every minute which

passed without finding David Bryce left less hope of him being

found alive.

And he'd been gone several

hours already.

Paix and his group strode to

the corner, then turned towards the Hedge. David Bryce might have

gone to some neighbor's house, invited in with warm food and gifts.

But the Bryce family had been in Bridges only a short time; his

mother insisted she knew of no friends here.

Paix peered up and down the

intersection before crossing 1st Boulevard. This didn't feel right.

If his hunch were true ‒ the family was indeed running from someone

‒ the boy would feel anxious, wary of strangers. He wouldn't have

left home without telling his mother.

Yet he didn't cry out. Why?

They crossed the wide,

broken-down boulevard to one of the gaps in the Hedge, then the

group slipped through.

Paix shuddered, the hair on his

arms rising. They had crossed into the Pot.

"You two," he pointed to his

right. "up three. You two," he pointed to his left, "up five. Six

blocks to each side. Meet back at the wagons when you're done."

The men shifted a bit with sour

faces, especially the ones asked to go six blocks into the Pot. But

Paix had no qualms they would follow. He waited until they deduced

his reasoning: he was senior, and had a new Probationary with him.

They nodded, and set off.

Paix was within his rights to

order, to bluster, to demand. But he never liked to work that way.

Men who understood and agreed meant men who'd follow orders ‒ and

come back alive.

The six men crept straight

across the empty wide street paralleling the Hedge. Then they moved

forward, one silent step at a time, nightsticks drawn, keeping to

the center of the street. Broken glass lined the gutters, in places

ground fine as sand. On either side, the bombed-out ruins stood

eerily quiet.

At the first intersection, Paix

and Briscola stopped, while the other men pressed on. Paix

whispered to Briscola, "Have you been in the Pot before?"

Briscola shook his head, face

pale. The paper sack in his hand made a crinkling noise.

"They will try to kill you if

they can."

A whistle rang out, high and to

the left. Briscola jumped at the sound. The rest, several yards

ahead, didn't even flinch.

Paix shouted with full force.

"A boy's gone missing. We need your help."

Silence lay heavy in the air.

Then across the street to their left, a boy emerged from a battered

yet elaborately carved corner door. The boy was seven years old and

blond, wearing the bright red jacket of his trade.

Two older boys, twelve or so

with light brown hair, followed, the familiar bulge of a weapon at

each boy's side.

Briscola let out a loud breath.

Paix relaxed, yet kept watchful. "Greetings, Memory Boy."

"Good morning, Constables."

Memory Boys remembered

everything: heard, seen, or written. Paix thought this might be a

curse rather than a blessing, although the families of these

children lacked for nothing. "What have you heard of a boy

missing?"

"Nothing," the Memory Boy said.

"What's he like?"

Paix peered around. They were

much too exposed. "Let's get out of the street."

The older boys nodded; the

group moved back against a wall. Far off ahead, two Constables

turned right, their motions wary.

"Briscola, watch the windows."

Paix crouched to the Memory Boy's height. The boy's companions ‒

from the look if it, his brothers ‒ stood watching everywhere but

them. "His name is David Bryce. He's twelve, but small: he looks

ten. Just arrived from Dickens. Dark hair and eyes, but light of

skin."

"I haven't heard of him," the

boy said, "but I'll listen."

"Thanks," Paix said. "And ask

the Clubbs to watch as well."

The boy smiled brightly.

"However would I do that?"

"This is no game,sir. Someone's

after the family, and I don't want this boy taken from the

city."

The Memory Boy's face reddened.

"I'll take care of it."

The Clubb crime syndicate owned

the only way out of this dome: the zeppelin station and by

extension, the Aperture. If the boy was taken out of Bridges, the

police would need to involve the Feds for permission to pursue him,

and no one ‒ least of all the Clubbs ‒ wanted that.

And everyone knew Memory Boys

reported the better information straight to the Clubbs. "Good lad."

He straightened. "Safe journey."

"You too," the Memory Boy said,

and the three children left.

Briscola said, "What now?"

Running across a Memory Boy had

been incredibly fortunate. But they still had a lot of work to do.

"Have you done a search before?"

"In training."

"Then you know what to do."

Briscola took one of the search

bags from the paper sack, a fist-sized muslin bag filled with

colored chalk dust then tied shut with twine. He tossed it into the

middle of the intersection, leaving a bright pink bloom on the

grimy cobblestones. "You always go right," Briscola said, as if

reminding himself.

Bemused, Paix followed him.

The two men searched the

bombed-out buildings, looking under fallen boards, behind broken

walls, down fetid basements. Eventually they reached the six

blocks, then circled around to search the other side of the

street.

No one interfered, for which

Paix was grateful.

When they returned to the pink

spot, the bag was gone. Stolen, most likely, perhaps to use as a

toy, or to color one of their filthy hovels. The two men moved

on.

Once they'd searched the six

blocks on the other side of this street, they moved to the next.

Briscola marked it with a yellow bag this time.

By the time they were finished

searching the second street it was well past midday. They returned

to Mrs. Bryce's home. The wagons ‒ and the rest of his men ‒ stood

waiting.

No one had found anything.

No one would talk with

them.

It was business as usual.