And here I was in Galina’s nice clean bed. Why hadn’t she put me in the spare room? Was Carp still in there?
Rest easy, Carper. It’s all tied off. Well, mostly. I hoped he was sleeping. I hoped he’d pulled through.
“You’re awake.” The Sanctuary’s sweet face was solemn. “I’ll have to let Theron know. He threatened to kill you as soon as you woke up.”
I cleared my dry throat. Leon came into sight behind her, expressionless, with a beer can in one hand and a bottle in the other. The copper in his hair gleamed, and Rosita was snugged safely against his back.
“Charming.” My voice was a dried husk of itself. I coughed, and Leon slid past Galina, offered me the chilly bottle of microbrew. Why he drank canned piss when there were better things around was beyond me. “How long was I out?”
“Don’t worry.” My fellow hunter settled himself on the end of the bed with a sigh, easing down as if he hurt all over too. “We found a primary evocation site at that nasty-ass nightclub. I took care of it.”
I sagged in relief. So the one at the airfield had been Shen’s backup. One worry down.
“Jill—” Galina began, but Leon interrupted her.
“Why don’t you go get her somethin’ to eat, darlin’? I’ll make sure she doesn’t hurt herself. You go call Theron too, so he can stop worryin’.” Leon’s dark eyes were steady, and his mouth was drawn in a tight line.
Oh, shit. What’s gone wrong now? “More scurf?” I hazarded, but Leon shook his head. Copper chimed in his hair. There were dark circles under his eyes.
“Naw. Town’s clean as a whistle. Go on now, Lina.” He toasted her absently with the Pabst can, and she made a face as if he’d told her to drink it.
“I’ll bring up coffee.” She cast one short, troubled glance my way, but I was too aching and muzzy-headed to decipher it. Instead I took a pull off the bottle and winced at the havoc it was going to play with my headache.
We listened to her go down the stairs. Leon shifted a little bit inside his clothes. Copper clinked, and he touched one of the amulets hung around his neck, then put his hand down with an effort. “Talked to that lieutenant. Your contact.”
“Monty,” I supplied. Thank God he’s okay.
“Big fucking mess for him to clean up. I guess this Harvill asshole came down with a serious case of the dead.” Leon’s tone was a careful nonquestion, and my silence a careful nonanswer. “Dangerous, being in bed with hellbreed.”
I shrugged. Took another pull off the bottle. Waited for him to get to the point.
“Your town should be clean, but you know how scurf are.”
I knew. I nodded. One of my earrings was lighter than the other; it had probably broken sometime or another. My skin crawled. I couldn’t wait to get cleaned up.
“That cop you brought in from that nightclub.” Leon sank a little heavier into the bed, took another long swallow from his can. Condensation beaded on the aluminum, I could hear the liquid going down his throat. Downstairs a refrigerator door opened, and Galina began to hum.
My heart turned to a stone inside my ribs. Oh, shit. “Carper? Is he okay?”
Leon sighed. “He talked Galina into letting him go home yesterday. Waltzed out, went home, and ate his Glock.”
No. Oh, no. “What?” I sat bolt upright, then wished I hadn’t because my head immediately started pounding. “What the fuck?”
“Galina blames herself. Said she never should have let him go. I was with the Weres, cleaning out that nightclub.” His shoulders hunched. “She said she figured the cop was up and walking around, and everything was tied off…”
“Carp?” I couldn’t wrap my brain around it. “Andrew? It can’t… he wouldn’t…”
Leon’s face set itself. “He wasn’t too tight-bolted, Jill. Sometimes when civilians see the nightside, they go nuts. He was in that hole run by that Asian bitch for a while and they played with him, Lina said.”
While I sat outside and worried over who would report me as not dead. “Jesus,” I whispered. “You’re sure it was suicide?” Because Kutchner’s death looked like a suicide too, but maybe someone pulled the trigger on Carp too. Because… oh, God. Carper. Why?
But I knew why. Sometimes, when you pull a civilian out of a tangle with the nightside, they don’t stay out. They go into the black hole. A peek under the surface of the normal world throws them off the back of reality, and they never return.
Leon spread one hand, made a helpless gesture. “I’m sure, Jill. That’s where I talked to that lieutenant—Montaigne. Good ol’ boy, that one. Worried about you.”
“I’m sure he was.” The words tasted bitter. I drained the bottle in a few long, long swallows. It was ashes going down. The carbs would give me a quick flush of strength, but I needed protein if I was really going to bounce back. “Jesus Christ. Carper.”
“Funeral’s this Saturday. I got it all written down if you want it.” His shoulders slumped for a moment, and so did mine. Silence rose between us, under the safety of sunlight.
He knew what it feels like to lose one of your own. Only another hunter understands. We are here to protect, and when our protection fails sometimes we don’t pay the cost. Others, less trained, less equipped to bear the strain, pay what we should.
And oh, God, it hurts.
There was nothing he could really say.
So he was quiet.
I rested the chill of the bottle against my forehead. The thick brown glass came away spotted with flecks of dirt and dried blood. A sharp bloody stone lodged in my throat, with beer carbonation trapped behind it. My eyes were hot and dry.
“He was a good cop,” I finally whispered.
Leon eased himself up to his feet. The sun brought out highlights in his hair, made his copper charms shine. The amulets around his neck clicked as he shifted his weight, and Rosita’s blued-steel barrel shone with a fresh application of oil. “I gotta get home. Some things to clean up back there. You gonna be okay?”
No. I guess so. What choice do I have? I made another one of those physical efforts to focus. It came a little easier now that I’d had some rest. “I’m not sure I’m done yet. Harvill might not have been the only bigshot involved. But I’ll keep digging.” Andrew. You shouldn’t have. Why couldn’t you have waited?
He balanced on the balls of his feet. “Good fuckin’ deal.” A nervous glance toward the door. Galina was still humming downstairs. “Thought you were a goner, darlin’.”
“I could have been.” Two steps behind an arrogant hellbreed and a stupid-ass set of Traders the whole time, and Carp paid the price. I should turn in my badge. If I had a badge. “Leon?”
He grunted, a truly male sound, and took another shot of his piss-masquerading-as-honest-beer.
I had to settle for two of the most inadequate words in the English language, words too pale to express what I needed to say. “Thank you.”
“Aw, shit, girl. We all do what we can.” His shrug was a marvel of indifference. “Be cool.” I’m sorry, his eyes said.
“You too, Leon. Get your truck looked at, will you?” Me too, I thought. I’m sorry too. I can’t call this a win. Can’t even call it a tie.
“All right. Goddamn nagging.” He waved his beer can, slopping the liquid inside, and stumped for the door. Stopped halfway there.
I waited, but he didn’t say anything else. Just squared his shoulders and walked away without a backward glance. Classic Leon.
Then again, most hunters aren’t much for goodbyes. You never know which time will be the last. Better to just walk away and carry on the conversation the next time.
If there is a next time. It’s superstition, but you take what you can get.
I pushed the covers away. Someone had taken my boots off; they were in a puddle of stink right next to the bed. But I padded in sock feet across the room, stopping when my head started to spin or my legs threatened rebellion.
The bedroom window overlooked the street. Galina’s humming stopped, and I heard lo
w voices again. Leon’s question, her soft reply. Then his footsteps, speeding up. The door to her shop jingled a few moments later, and Leon headed across the street to his truck.
My entire chest hurt, a pain that wasn’t physical. The copper in his hair caught fire. He got behind the wheel and the engine turned over.
I lifted my hand to wave, found it full of the empty beer bottle. He wasn’t looking anyway.
The air in the room changed imperceptibly. I lowered my hand.
“Just like that,” Galina said. “Jill—”
“He told me. It’s not your fault.” It’s mine. I was too far behind the game. Should have done something more, seen something more. The heavy weight of responsibility and disappointment settled on my shoulders.
Galina sighed, the sound hitching in the middle. “I shouldn’t have let him go. I thought the danger was past.”
It was and it wasn’t. “It was.” The carbonation crept past the blockage in my throat, I exhaled beer and the taste of failure onto the glass. Faint condensation swirled. “Sorry about your bed.”
She was quiet for a long few seconds. Nerving herself up to it, probably. “It’s what it’s there for. Jill—”
Christ, Galina, if you apologize one more time… “Did you say something about food? I’m starving.”
“Coming right up.” Mercifully, she left it at that. “Theron brought you some clothes. He says your house is clean, no more hellbreed. I’ve got to call him and let him know you’re awake.”
“That’d be good.” I kept my stiff back to her. Exhaled again on the window and watched the condensation fade, like a ghost. My head ached. “You got any coffee?”
“I’ll bring some up to you. You know where the bathroom is.” Again, she hesitated.
“Food, Galina.” I said it as gently as I could. “I’m not done yet.”
“You got it.” She turned quick and light as a leaf, and was gone down the stairs.
I tipped my head back, looking at the slant of the roof. Across the room, the mirror atop her antique cherrywood vanity held my reflection like a black stain. The plaster on her ceiling was in whorls, spiraling in and out.
The tears trickled from my eyes and vanished into my filthy hair. Jesus. Carp, you asshole. Why didn’t you wait for me?
When the pressure behind my eyes faded a bit and the smell of something good frying began to waft up the stairs, I tipped my head back down. The street was full of hot liquid sunshine, and there was light traffic. The Charger sat across the street, behind the empty spot that had held Leon’s truck.
It was a fine-looking piece of heavy American metal. It needed a bit of work to get it into shape, sure, and Monty would roll his eyes when I asked to requisition the car. But there was no reason to let it go into impound.
No reason at all. Except I didn’t want to drive it, now.
I turned away from the window and hobbled on my stiff legs toward the other door. Galina had a shower in there, and I needed one. Then as much food as I could stuff into the bowling ball my stomach had become. After that, on to the next thing.
And if the tears came when I was standing under the hot water, if I made a low hurt sound like a wounded animal, if I scrubbed at my flesh like it was an enemy with her pretty pink floral-scented soap, it was nobody’s business but mine. It was between me and the water, and the water wouldn’t talk. It would carry my tears along with the dried blood, the dirt, and the beer I vomited back up down below the city into the dark.
32
It felt strange to walk into the precinct house again. Nobody said a word, but conversation failed when I appeared and turned into a tide of whispers in my wake. I stalked up to Montaigne’s office, ignoring the nervous looks and whispers both.
Who among them was happy I was alive?
Who wasn’t? Which one of them had a secret and an assault rifle? And access to a blue Buick? And a connection to Harvill?
I might never know now, if he kept his head down and his mouth shut.
Monty was out, so I stepped into his office and waited. When he stamped into view, armed with a load of paper and a scowl, I had to fold my arms and school my face. A relieved grin wouldn’t help him in this mood.
He grunted. “Jesus fucking Christ. There you are.”
“You don’t look happy to see me.” I stepped aside, let him lug his papers past me. “Are you okay?”
He gave me a look that could have peeled paint. “I got to buy more Tums. I got a dead DA and two more dead cops—”
I winced internally. “Leon explained it all?”
He swept the door closed with his foot and dropped the pile of paper on his desk. “You see this? These are the forms I have to fill out. You burned down an entire goddamn airfield, Kismet. You’re a menace to property.”
“It’s better than the alternative.” I didn’t mean to sound harsh, but each word was edged. Better than some sort of poison engineered from scurf taking over my city and a high-up hellbreed waltzing through.
“Jesus, don’t you think I know?” He dropped down behind his desk and regarded me. “He saw something, didn’t he. Carper.”
You could say that. “He got tangled up in nightside business. There was a connection after all.” I swallowed. Galina’s steak and eggs still weren’t convinced they wanted to stay down. “How much do you want me to tell you, Monty?”
He considered it for a long thirty seconds, then reached down in his desk drawer. “You want a drink?” He brought out the Jack Daniels, amber liquid shaking inside the bottle. There was half of it left. Bully for him.
Oh, Monty. I nodded, not trusting my voice.
He actually rustled up two almost-clean coffee mugs, one with a badge in worn gold foil and the other with a picture of a disgusted-looking hippo on it. Both were probably from his house. He poured me a generous measure, himself a little less generous one, and we both knocked back without waiting.
That way, I could pretend the slow leaking from my eyes was a result of the booze scorching my throat and uneasy stomach.
The short silence between us no longer had sharp edges. “Ballistics on the DA didn’t come up with a goddamn thing. It’s a clean gun. Goddamn .22s are like fuckin’ cell phones, everyone’s got one.” He set his cup down. “No more disappearances on the east side. The papers are calling Harvill a fucking saint and the airfield’s blamed on a propane tank explosion.” Monty rubbed at his tired eyes.
Nice and neat. Everything smoothed over. “Bernardino’s car is parked out front. Stick it in impound.” I set my own mug down, balanced carefully on the messy stack of paper.
“You sure? I mean, what with your car and all…”
“I’m sure. I don’t want to clean the fucker out.” I licked the last traces of whiskey away. “Carp was clean, Monty.”
“And Marv wasn’t?” He set his jaw.
I opened my mouth to tell him the truth, shut it. He already knew. There was no point in putting salt on that wound. Instead, I looked past him, to the picture of his wife propped right next to a dormant computer monitor. “How’s Rosenfeld taking it?”
A single shrug, his shoulder holster peeping out from under his jacket. “Dealing, I guess. The funeral’s Saturday.”
Tomorrow. I nodded. Silver shifted in my hair. “I’ll be there. Anything else?” My cheeks stung, but I didn’t wipe at them.
“Not much. There was a warehouse fire down near the railyards. The 3700 block of Cherry. Whole place was burned down. Some interesting wreckage in there, but not anything to go on.”
“Hm.” I contented myself with a noncommittal noise. Cold air blew against my wet cheeks, drying them.
“Other than that, quiet as the western front out there. No weirdness. Just garden-variety rapes, murders, and larceny.”
“Glad to see everything’s back to normal.” I straightened. “Thanks for the drink. I’ll be in touch—I need another pager, too.” Since my last two have died inglorious deaths.
“Jesus H. A menace to property.�
� He waved me away. “Go burn down something else, will you? I’d hate to get bored.”
“Have a nice evening, Monty.” I turned on my heel and headed for the door.
“Jill?”
I stopped, one hand on the doorknob. The noise from outside—phones ringing, people talking, breathing, working—faded. “What?”
I don’t know what I expected him to say. Why would he thank me? But at least he knew, now. There wasn’t the nagging doubt.
It’s cold comfort. Sometimes knowing doesn’t help. Sometimes understanding doesn’t even help. It just drives the knife in deeper.
He cleared his throat. “Glad you’re around. Now get the fuck out of my office.”
A police funeral has its own etiquette. In some places, bagpipers play. Here in Santa Luz there’s the official ceremony, and then the wake, usually in the back room at Costanza’s Pub downtown.
Hunters don’t go to those.
Saturday dawned bright and fresh. I hadn’t slept yet, but I’d made sure I was wearing my tiger’s eye rosary and my dagger earrings. I’d hosed off my trench coat, so it was at least clean, if torn and a bit shabby.
He had a full escort of blues, and they laid him to rest in Beacon Hill’s lush greenness, under the trees. I stood in the shadow of a century-old oak in the south corner of the cemetery, watching, my hand against the treetrunk.
Monty was there, and Rosenfeld. Rosie’s hair was on fire under the fierce desert sun; she wouldn’t stand under the portable awning. The glitters of her dress uniform were sharp enough to cut diamonds.
The scar puckered hungrily, tasting the tang of misery and grief riding the air. Mikhail’s headstone is in the northern half of Hill, where there was a good view of the rest of the valley, a light scum of smog lingering against the rising towers of downtown.
I know that view like the back of my hand.
There was Lefty Perez from Vice, and “Fuckitall” Ramon. Other familiar faces—Anderson, McGill, “Shooter” Kirby and Rice, all from the Vice Squad. Sullivan and the Badger from Homicide, the Badger’s gray hair pulled severely back, shoulders square. Carson and Mathers from Homicide too, and Frank Capretta. Some rookies, and some blues, all dressed their best. Piper and Foster, from Forensics. Other faces I put names to, matching them up slowly.
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