by Simon Hawke
Suddenly, something bright and gleaming came swooping down from above with a beating of metallic wings.
"Modred! Modred!"
"Ramses!" He held his arm out, like a falconer, and the gold and silver, sculpted paragriffin perched on it. "What is it? Is something wrong?"
"I have a message from Kira," Ramses said. "Your cover's blown! Lt. Loomis was at the house, looking for you, with a reporter named Ginny Fairchild. Kira pretended she was Paul's girlfriend, so Loomis wouldn't be suspicious. She said Ms. Fairchild called someone at Scotland Yard and found out they didn't have an Inspector Michael Cornwall. So now Loomis wants to question you."
"Wonderful," said Modred wryly. "What else could possibly go wrong?"
"Kira also said to tell you that Loomis took Paul with him to question more adepts."
"What? That fool! I told them to go home and get some rest!"
"Paul said something about having some things to do with Loomis that would probably take all night," said Ramses.
"Damn it! Was Merlin already there when you left?"
"No, it took me a while to find you. I just followed all the sirens and the flashing lights—"
"Never mind that. He'll be there by now and he'll know something's gone wrong. Listen, Ramses, get back to the house and tell them I've gone to find Paul and Loomis. Tell them to stay where they are until they hear from me, understand?"
"I understand."
"Good. Off with you, now!" He swung his arm to help launch the enchanted sculpture into the air and it flew off with a musical tinkling of wing scales, like the sound of airborne windchimes.
"Where to now?" asked Champion, breathing heavily.
"You had best head back to your stables, my friend," said Modred, patting him on his lathered neck. "You've done enough for one night."
"But what will you do?" Champion asked. "You'll need transportation. And I heard Wyrdrune say that his energy was depleted from teleporting."
"The way he teleports, I'm not surprised," said Modred. "Don't worry about me. I'll find my own transportation."
At that moment another police car turned into the street ahead of them and came toward them. Its siren bleeped briefly and its flashing lights came on.
"You there! Stop where you are!"
"Ah," said Modred. "It seems that problem's just been solved. How very considerate of them."
He sat astride Champion's back and raised his hands.
The two officers came out of the patrol car and approached him cautiously from either side, their pistols drawn.
"All right, you! Get down off there!"
"Hey," said his partner, "wait a minute, Al. It's that English cop, Cornwall!"
"Inspector Cornwall?" said Al.
"What seems to be the trouble, gentlemen?" asked Modred. He dismounted, placing Champion's body between himself and Al's partner.
"I'm sorry, sir, but we have had a report that one of our units was in pursuit of a . . . that is a unicorn, isn't it?"
"He's all lathered up, Al," said his partner from the other side. "He's been running hard."
In a smooth, quick motion, Modred reached out and grabbed Al's pistol, taking hold of the barrel from the bottom and levering it up and out, snatching it sharply out of his grasp before he could react.
"Hey! What the—"
He punched the startled cop in the solar plexus and grabbed him as the breath whistled out of him, twisting him around in front of him and putting the pistol to his temple.
"Thanks for the ride, boy," Modred said to Champion. He clicked his tongue twice and yelled, "Hah!"
The unicorn tossed its head and bolted.
"Drop your weapon!" Modred commanded the other cop.
"Are you crazy? What the hell are you doing?"
"I said, drop your weapon! Now!"
Only the cop didn't drop his weapon. He raised it and aimed, holding it steady with both hands. "Forget it, Cornwall," he said. "I don't know what game you're playing here, but it won't work."
"I said, drop it!"
"Not a chance," the cop said, shaking his head. He kept his gun trained on them. "You ain't gonna shoot. You're bluffing."
"Your partner won't appreciate it if you call my bluff," said Modred.
"You shoot my partner, I shoot you. Simple as that."
"Not quite," Modred replied. His eyes suddenly flared with blue light and twin beams of thaumaturgic energy shot out from them, striking the cop's gun. The man cried out and dropped it, doubling over and clutching his burned hands to his stomach. His gun fell to the street, a molten lump of useless metal.
Modred shoved the officer named Al away from him, covering him with his own gun. "I can't afford to waste any more energy on the likes of you," he said. He raised the pistol. "You give me any more trouble and I'll put one in your leg."
He moved over to the patrol car and checked to see that the key was in it.
"You won't get away with this, Cornwall," Al said. "I don't know what in hell you think you're doing, but you're not gonna get away with it."
"Your partner is going to need medical attention for those burns," said Modred. "I'm sorry, but I had no choice. He's a good man. He was quite right not to give up his gun. Only he should have taken the shot."
He got into the car.
"You ain't no cop," said Al. "Who the hell are you?"
"Believe it or not, Al," said Modred, "I'm on your side. Though at times, I find that rather difficult to believe myself."
He drove away and left the two cops in the street.
It was nearly dawn and Loomis was getting punchy from all the coffee he'd been drinking. Paul sat in the rear of the patrol car, his head tilted back against the seat, his eyes shut. Several times, Loomis thought he'd fallen asleep. The man was exhausted.
Word had gotten around quickly and it seemed as if they'd alienated, if not infuriated, the entire adept population of Santa Fe. And it would have been even worse, Loomis thought, if they'd known that Paul was reading their minds. He hadn't said anything about it, of course, and Ginny had reluctantly agreed to keep her knowledge of Paul's gift to herself, but Loomis had a feeling that it wouldn't be very long before the word got out. As Ginny had said, it wasn't exactly the world's best-kept secret. There were people in town who knew about it, which was how Ginny had found out, and with Paul's involvement in the case being general knowledge, it wouldn't take a great intellect to put two and two together. The people who knew would talk and when the adepts found out about it, all hell would break loose. Paul would probably wind up the target of a class action suit. He would certainly lose all his friends. It seemed he'd lost a lot of them already.
Several of the adepts they'd visited were up and dressed, having been awakened by telephone calls from colleagues, warning them to expect a visit from the police. They'd been allowed in grudgingly by most of them, but several had refused to open their doors and told them angrily that they wouldn't be allowed in without a warrant. Loomis hadn't bothered trying to get their cooperation. He had merely marked their names off on the list, so that he could obtain the proper warrants in the morning. He could easily have forced the issue and not bothered with warrants, but that would have only made things worse. He knew that time was running out on him and the hopelessness of his task was beginning to overwhelm him.
There were not only local adepts to question, but those who had recently arrived in town for the convention. The necromancer could be any one of them. And if Cornwall was right about the cult angle, there could be more than one killer. Or maybe Cornwall was just blowing smoke, because he was the killer himself, though for some reason, Loomis didn't really believe that. He wasn't sure why he didn't believe it, but his instincts told him that whatever Cornwall was up to, he was playing an entirely different sort of game. Only what the hell was it? The strain was beginning to tell on Loomis. He couldn't think straight.
"Things will never be the same again," Paul said suddenly from the backseat. Loomis had thought he was asleep. He
sounded bone-weary. "Even if we find the killer—"
"When we find the killer," Loomis interrupted.
"Whatever," Paul said listlessly. "The end result will be the same. We may stop the killings, but we'll still be left with an atmosphere of suspicion and distrust that won't dissipate for years."
Loomis shook his head. "I just don't know about these friends of yours," he said. "You'd think they'd be anxious to help us find the killer. One of their own, who'd betrayed them and everything they stand for. You'd think they'd understand and want to bend over backward to help."
"That's just the trouble," Paul replied. "They do understand. They understand only too well. They understand that these killings have driven a permanent wedge between them and the people of this town. And they're afraid."
"Afraid? Afraid of what? If they're innocent, what the hell have they got to be afraid of?"
"What all of us have to be afraid of," Paul replied. "They're afraid of what people will think. This whole thing has only served to remind people that adepts are different. Profoundly different. Not that it was anything they didn't already know, but it's one thing to know something intellectually and another thing to have it forcibly brought home to you by something like these killings. It only serves to remind them that magic is a two-edged sword. It can be used for the benefit of humanity, but at the same time, it can be a force—a deadly and frightening force—that ordinary people are utterly helpless against. I can see it in their minds. The fear and the uncertainty. Most of them have grown up in an age where adepts are respected and valued members of the community, but there isn't one of them who doesn't know about the early days of thaumaturgy, when Merlin first bean to spread the knowledge. The fear, the suspicion, the distrust, the old, superstitious paranoias . . . They all had to learn about it during their first days of schooling in the arts. Learn the responsibility that goes with the discipline. Believe me, there isn't one of them who hasn't thought about using their ability to illegally enrich themselves, or to gain advantage over others or manipulate them. It's a strong temptation. And when they're confronted with something like this, someone who has completely given himself over to the dark side of the art, who's set himself above the law and above morality, it really hits them where they live."
"All the more reason why they should want to cooperate," said Loomis.
"It isn't that they don't want to cooperate, Joe," Paul replied. "Try to put yourself in their place. When a cop goes bad and there's an Internal Affairs investigation, is every member of the force anxious to cooperate? Or do they feel personally threatened, because if one cop goes bad, then it means that every one of them is suspect?"
Loomis sighed. "I guess I see what you mean. But I just wish that—"
Suddenly the radio came on.
"Cornwall calling Loomis. Cornwall calling Loomis. Talk to me, Loomis. Are you out there?"
"What the hell . . .?" Loomis grabbed the mike. "This is Loomis. Cornwall, where the hell are you calling from?"
"From a police car I've just stolen," Modred replied.
"What?"
"I was forced to steal it at gunpoint, I'm afraid, but rest assured, neither of the officers concerned was seriously injured."
"What the hell are you talking about? What do you mean, seriously injured?"
"One of them sustained some burns on his hands when I was forced to disarm him. He'll have to wear bandages for a while, but he'll be all right."
"My God, you must be out of your mind!" said Loomis with disbelief. "Where the hell are you?"
"Well, now, I can't tell you that, Joe," said Modred. "Your entire department can hear me on this band and they'll be looking for this car. I don't want to hurt anyone if I can help it."
"Jesus Christ. Now you listen to me, Cornwall—"
"No, Joe, you listen to me. You must stop what you're doing immediately. You're in more danger than you realize. Is Paul with you?"
"Yeah, he's right here. Look, Cornwall, I don't know what the hell you think you're doing, but you've stepped way over the line! So far, I've got you on impersonating a police officer, two counts of assaulting a police officer, assault with a deadly weapon, battery, grand theft, obstruction of justice, and at least half a dozen other charges. Ginny Fairchild tells me she checked with Scotland Yard and they've never even heard of you. Now I don't know how you got Chief Inspector Blood to cover for you, and I don't know what you're up to, but I want some answers and I want 'em now, you got me?"
"If you want answers, Loomis, then I'll give them to you. But I'll do it on my terms."
"Damn it, Cornwall, you're in no position to dictate any terms! You attacked two of my officers and you stole a police car! If you don't want to be shot on sight, you'll give it up right now!"
"If you want answers, Loomis, you'll have to get them on my terms. I'm only going to say this once and then I'm signing off, so listen carefully. I'll meet you down by the river in fifteen minutes, where you found the body of the second victim. If I see any other police cars in the area, you won't find me. Come alone, just you and Paul. Is Sgt. Velez still driving you?"
"Yes, he is."
"Drop him off somewhere. Just you and Paul. No one else. Remember, I'll be monitoring your calls. Is it a deal?"
Loomis scowled. "Okay, it's a deal. We're on our way." He released the push-to-talk switch on the mike. "I don't know what the hell your friend is up to, Paul, but he's just bought into a real pack of trouble. Pull over, Velez."
Sgt. Velez pulled over to the curb. "Sorry about this, Velez," Loomis said. "I'll have someone pick you up."
"No problem, sir."
Velez got out and closed the door. Loomis slid over into the driver's seat. Paul got out from the back and moved up front with him.
"If there's anything you want to say to me," Loomis said as he got in, "I suggest you tell me now."
Paul hesitated, Loomis thought, just a fraction of a second too long. "I'm as confused about all this as you are, Joe."
Loomis stared at him. "Okay, Paul. Have it your way." He picked up the mike and pushed the talk switch. "Attention all units. This is Lt. Loomis. I trust you all heard that last transmission. I want everybody to stay well clear of the designated meeting point, is that understood? Repeat, all units keep well clear. That's an order. I mean it. Don't anyone go playing hero. I will not appreciate it."
He ordered a pick-up for Velez and replaced the mike on its hook. "Let's hope that satisfies your friend," he told Ramirez.
"Joe," said Paul, "I know it looks pretty bad right now, but believe me, Michael isn't the killer."
"I believe you, Paul."
"You do?"
"Yeah. Don't ask me why. I just know it in my gut. Same way I know you're holding out on me. I think he's on the level about wanting to stop the killer, but not because he's a cop. This is something very personal for him, isn't it? Only I'm not about to stand for any personal vendettas in my town. The law's going to take care of this, not your friend Cornwall. If that's his real name."
"He's the only one who can take care of it, Joe," said Paul softly.
"Yeah? We'll see about that."
He took out his Smith & Wesson revolver and broke open the cylinder. He pushed the extractor rod and dumped the six .38 Special cartridges into his palm, put them in his left breast pocket, then took out a speedloader and smoothly inserted six copper-jacketed, hollowpoint .357 Magnum rounds into the chambers. He closed the cylinder carefully, holstered the gun, then took the .38 Specials out of his breast pocket one at a time and carefully inserted them into the empty speedloader.
"Joe . . ." said Paul uneasily. "You're not going to . . ."
"I'm taking him in," said Loomis, turning the speedloader upside down in his palm and locking the rounds in. "And don't tell me I can't hold an adept who can teleport. I'll have his mouth taped up, his hands restrained so he can't even move his fingers, and his eyes blindfolded. I'll personally wrap him up like an Egyptian mummy if I have to, but I am taking him in. An
d if he resists arrest, I am surely going to shoot him."
He stuck the speedloader back in its belt pouch and pulled away from the curb with a rattle of gravel in the wheelwells.
"Joe . . . you can't. You mustn't. You don't know what's at stake."
"I'm getting real tired of hearing that," said Loomis. "Suppose you tell me what's at stake, Paul? Who the hell is Cornwall? And what's he got to do with this necromancer?"
Paul took a deep breath. "I swore I wouldn't tell," he said. "But I'm afraid I have no choice . . ."
The lock on Paul's office door presented no problem to an experienced cat burglar like Kira. She had it open in a matter of seconds.
"I can't believe we're doing this," said Broom. "If we get caught—"
"We won't get caught if you keep quiet and stand watch," said Kira, closing the door behind them. "Now stay over here by the door and let me know if you hear anybody coming."
"What happens if somebody sees me?"
"They're not going to see you through the door," said Kira with exasperation. "Besides, so what if they do see you? You're a broom, for God's sake. Just put your arms down at your sides and lean against the wall. They'll think the janitor just left you there. I'm the only one who's got to worry about being seen. And they're not going to see me. I have done this sort of thing before, you know. Compared to some of the jobs I've pulled, this is a piece of cake. Now just stand here by the door and let me know if you hear anybody coming."
"What'll I do if I hear somebody?"
Kira rolled her eyes. "You say, 'Somebody's coming.' Okay? Think you can do that?"
"You don't have to be sarcastic," Broom said.
Kira shook her head and went past the secretary's desk to the door of Paul's inner office. It, too, was locked, but the simple bolt presented no problem. She was inside in a moment.
"Kira!"
"What? Is someone coming?"
"No. I just wanted to make sure you could hear me in there."
"I can hear you. Now keep quiet!"