The last wizard

by Simon Hawke

  Manly grimaced. “It almost sounds as if she’s working her way up the Washington social ladder.”

  “A social-climbing serial killer?” Massoglia said.

  “Not just a serial killer, Detective, a necromancer,” Manly said. “That’s the worst kind of serial killer there is. You know anything about how this man died?”

  “Killed by magic,” said Massoglia. “The runes she cuts into ‘em have something to do with a spell, right? She immobilizes ‘em somehow, or puts ‘em in a trance or something, then sets to work. Grisly business.”

  “A lot more grisly than you think,” said Manly. “She doesn’t really need the runes. It’s more of a formal ritual. She uses black magic to drain off and consume the victims’ life energy. Literally drinks their souls.”

  “Christ,” said Bard.

  “Christ has nothing to do with it,” said Manly grimly. “Each time a necromancer kills this way, he—or she—becomes stronger, able to work more powerful magic. This isn’t something just any adept can do; it requires highly advanced skills. This is the most dangerous kind of killer there is. You try to arrest a perpetrator like this, if they so much as blink or twitch their lip, you shoot first and worry about the investigation later. If you’re wrong, you might do time, but at least you’ll be alive.”

  Bard and Massoglia looked at one another. “Uh… the Bureau’s taking over this case, right?” Bard said uneasily.

  Manly smiled and gave a small snort. “Yeah, right,” he said, nodding. “You give me everything you’ve got, and I mean everything, right down to your gut hunches, and then you’re strictly investigative support. That means any more bodies like this turn up, you secure the scene and call me right away. Beyond that, you don’t do anything without checking with me first. I mean that. I don’t care if you come across a suspect matching the exact description and holding a bloody knife in her hands, with ‘I did it’ tattooed on her forehead. You stay the hell away and call me. Or you might wind up like this. “ He indicated the body. “Understood?”

  “Understood,” said Massoglia softly. Bard merely nodded.

  “We’re already way behind on this one,” Manly said. “If you people hadn’t dragged your heels—”

  “Hey, look, we reported this as a magic crime from the word go,” said Massoglia.

  “Yeah, well, somebody in your goddamn department dropped the ball,” said Manly, “and if I find out who it was, I’ll hang him out to dry, and I don’t care if it was. the chief himself. This jurisdictional rivalry crap stops now. You don’t play politics with murder. Especially this kind of murder.”

  But Massoglia wasn’t through yet. “You’ll get no argument from me. But I’ve got a question,” he said.

  “Shoot,” said Manly.

  “You’re telling us a killing like this requires very advanced-level skills. I gather we’re talking more than a mid-level sorcerer here. You Bureau guys are all at least level six, so I figure we’re talking even more than that, right? How does that fit with the description we’ve got of the suspect being in her late teens to early twenties? You can’t even get certified before you get out of grad school. To reach advanced sorcerer level, even if you’re gifted, you’ve gotta be, what, late thirties to mid-forties, at least?”

  Manly nodded. Massoglia was no slouch. Manly wasn’t about to tell him everything he knew. The word from the Commission was to keep information on a strict need-to-know basis. He answered guardedly, “That’s true, but someone like that could probably use magic to alter her appearance for a limited time.”

  “Could a male appear female?” Bard asked.

  “Possibly. It would use up a lot of energy, though. High spell cost. More likely, an older female would make herself look younger.”

  “So we can regard the physical description of the suspect as unreliable?” Massoglia asked.

  “To a point,” said Manly. “But she would have had to look that way when the victim met her, so that’s what you go on for now. Find out where the victim was for the last twenty-four hours of his life. Find out where he connected with her. That may give us something.”

  “We’re already on it,” said Massoglia. “We’ve established prior whereabouts on all the previous victims. Chances are this one is similar. It looks like she’s working the bars in the better restaurants in town. So far, never the same one twice, though.”

  “Okay, I want to see the full report,” said Manly. “And all your notes. I’ve got a lot of catching up to do. “ “This one’s going to be a real bastard, isn’t it?” said Bard.

  “That, Detective, is probably the understatement of the year,” said Manly.

  Chapter 9

  Makepeace was halfway through filling out the paperwork for the rental car when he started to calm down and think twice about what he was doing. He went ahead and finished anyway, because it couldn’t hurt to have another vehicle handy, especially since there was no telling what had happened to the car Simko had taken to Dragon Peak, but he realized that going after Victor would be a mistake. And Victor himself would probably agree. Assuming he was still alive, which was probably not a very safe assumption at this point.

  He went out to the car and simply sat in it for a while. The hotel was just a couple of blocks away. He probably could have rented it through the registration desk and had it brought around instead of dashing to the lot on foot. He wasn’t thinking clearly. He still felt tense, but what was needed now was caution and deliberation. Don’t expend any thaumaturgic energy unless absolutely necessary. Save it for when it’s really needed. The others would be arriving soon and they would want to know what he and Victor had learned before they took any action. And his going out there now would only compound the problem.

  Talon had already been warned. Victor had done that, the poor fool. He had wanted one last shot at glory, and it had probably cost him his life. Talon would have no reason to keep him alive. He could easily turn him inside out, find out everything he knew, and then there would be no point to keeping him around. Victor was either dead, or else he was a mindless zombie. Most likely dead. If Talon had chosen to possess him, he would have had Simko make the dinner meeting and doubtless try to kill Makepeace. So then, why hadn’t he done just that?

  And the obvious answer immediately presented itself. Victor had suicided. One of those little cyanide capsules they issued, or whatever it was they used these days. That would be completely in character for Victor Simko. A pro right to the end. Poor Victor. He had so looked forward to those days of leisure on the beach, with his sun-bronzed girls and cool, tropical drinks. It was not to be. Makepeace found it strange and ironic that he was as affected as he was. He and Victor Simko were not exactly friends. They had not seen each other in years. They had not kept in contact until that day Simko had suddenly appeared in Lovecraft’s. But in a way, it was sort of friendship, based on a mutual respect and past shared sins. The link between them had been Modred, back in the days when he was still caught between two worlds—the magical world that had receded into the mists of Avalon and the mundane world that he had always sought a place in and never really found.

  Makepeace understood that all too well. Except he had been lucky. He had made his peace with the past—with all the several pasts that constituted his life—and found a place in the esoteric world of academia, which often provided a home for those who couldn’t quite fit into the more mundane world, the world of nine-to-five and time clocks and business suits and corporate power plays and “Screw you, Jack, I’ve got mine. “ Which was not to say that the world of academia was free of its own political maneuverings and internecine conflicts, but there were ways to opt out of those games by simply doing your job and not being a threat to anyone. Gonzo had known how to do that, by staking out a territory that was uniquely his and not intruding on anyone else’s turf. A popular professor whose classes always filled, a harmless and engaging eccentric who brought some cachet to his department and had no ambitions beyond simply being there the next semester. D
o that for a few years, smile and be polite to the right people, give respect to those who crave it, whether deserved or not, avoid being too controversial—just enough to be colorful—keep your hands off the undergraduates, and, after a while, they grant you tenure and leave you pretty much alone.

  And that was, Makepeace realized, exactly what he had done himself. He had played it safe. He had avoided rocking any boats—except the one of social convention, which was permissible as long as you did not go overboard—and he had settled nicely and comfortably into the fiction his life had become. And then, one day, it all changed.

  In some ways, that change had been a long time coming, but at the same time, it had not come suddenly. It had gradually flowed over him, like a tide, and though he had tried to resist the undertow, it had steadily pulled him in. First there was Modred. They had first met during the dark days of the Collapse, in Europe. There had been a lot of work for Modred in those days. It was a violent time and Modred spoke the language of violence with an elegant eloquence.

  They knew each other right away. Each of them had thought he was the last one left. They had no ties of blood, but it was like meeting family. And Makepeace had allowed himself to be pulled into Modred’s world. Not fully, not all the way… just enough to have his hands soiled so that, like the lady of the Scottish play, he would never get them really clean again. Then came the awakening of Merlin and, with it, the gradual end of the Collapse. More work for Modred during the time of the transition from anarchy to order. That was when Morpheus, his nom de guerre, came to the attention of the people Victor Simko worked for, people who could not employ him openly, but who did not hesitate to work through intermediaries such as Simko and himself. And then, the final touch… the runestones. And the knowledge that the Dark Ones were awake once more.

  Even then, he had remained on the periphery. The runestones had not chosen him; he bore no real part of the risk entailed. He was a supporting player, nothing more. He had not even told Wyrdrune and Kira who and what he really was. But the runestones knew. He felt it. The spirits who animated the enchanted gems could not help but know. He wondered what they thought of him.

  He started the car and pulled out of the lot. He felt awful. He never should have allowed Victor to go out there alone. So then, why had he? Why hadn’t he stopped him? What had happened was his fault. He could have stopped him. He should have stopped him.

  He tried desperately to recall if Simko had been wearing the watch before. He could not remember. Could he have kept it in a case hidden in his luggage and only taken it out and put it on when he left for Dragon Peak? If he had known Talon would be able to detect it, surely he would never have risked taking it. But perhaps he would have risked it. Victor had always worked close to the edge. Makepeace could not recall seeing the watch before. The thaumaturgically animated chips were small, the field weak, thought Makepeace; perhaps he could have failed to sense it. And then, suddenly it occurred to him that he had failed to sense the T-scanner in the elevator that took him to the penthouse at the ITC headquarters in New York.

  The knowledge struck him so hard and so suddenly that he pulled over to the side of the road, just before the driveway leading into his hotel. That had never even occurred to him at the time. The emanations from that scanner in the elevator should have been stronger than what the watch put out, still too weak for a human adept to detect, but he had failed to detect it

  Why?

  And then it hit him. He was sitting in a car powered by a thaumaturgic battery. A battery that put out T-emanations. Relatively weak ones, but T-emanations just the same.

  And he was getting nothing.

  He pulled the car into the hotel driveway and parked it. He felt confused. What did it mean? As he got out of the car, several men in suits suddenly converged on him.

  “Dr. Makepeace? Dr. Sebastian Makepeace?” A badge flashed quickly.

  “Yes?”

  “We have orders to place you under arrest, sir.”

  He blinked, glancing around at them. “What?” And then it hit him. Wetterman. He had left him hanging on the phone. Wetterman had probably panicked, thinking he was going out to Dragon Peak. Well, that was what he had almost done, so he could hardly blame him. “Could I see some identification, please?” he asked politely.

  The badge was flashed again, held up this time so he could see it clearly. It was in one of those billfold things, badge on one side, ID on the other. Tucson Police Department. Not BOT.

  “On what charge am I being detained, Detective Wiley?” Makepeace asked.

  “Parking in a handicapped spot,” the cop said with a perfectly straight face.

  Makepeace raised his eyebrows. “But this isn’t a handicapped parking space.”

  “Sure it is. See the sign?”

  There was no sign. Makepeace shrugged. “Very well. Are you going to handcuff me or something?”

  “No, I don’t think we need to do that, sir. I’m going to read you your rights now. You have the right to kill about an hour or so in your hotel room, or in the bar, if you prefer. You have the right to enjoy our pleasant company and not give us a hard time about it, because we’ve been on our damn feet ever since the call came from the Bureau that something big was going down and a bunch of VIPs were flying in who had the authority to commandeer the whole damn department. We’re all tired and hot and edgy and we could sure do with a couple beers, if it’s all the same to you. You understand your rights as I’ve explained them to you?”

  “Yes, I do, but I thought you weren’t supposed to drink on duty,” Makepeace said with a smile.

  “We’re not, but you’re not going to see that, are you?”

  “I didn’t even see the sign,” said Makepeace, raising his eyebrows.

  The cop grinned. “Come on, I’ll buy you a brew. And maybe you could tell me just what the hell is going on here.”

  They went inside and took a booth in the corner of the hotel bar. While they were waiting for their beers, Detective Wiley introduced the other plainclothes cops, Tyler, Glener, and Smith, and explained that they were part of a detail of combined Bureau and TPD personnel assigned to meet the plane at the airport. A call had come in from New York and the senior Bureau agent on the scene—the district chief, no less—had immediately sent them to the hotel with orders to find Makepeace and detain him, gently and with utmost courtesy, until the plane arrived. Unless he resisted, in which case they were supposed to swarm him like a bunch of linemen taking down a quarterback.

  “I would’ve felt funny about that,” said Wiley, “seeing as how they said you were in your sixties, but looking at you now, I can see you’re a pretty tough old bird. I would’ve done it if I had to.”

  “Did they also happen to tell you I was an adept?” asked Makepeace.

  “No, but I figured that, since this whole thing is an ITC case. They just gave us your name and a description. “ He smiled. “You weren’t too hard to spot. And I didn’t figure you’d go casting spells at a bunch of cops. We’re supposed to be on the same team. I just don’t know what game we’re playing. I figure you were about to go off half-cocked on something and they wanted you chilled for a while till you could calm down. But you seem pretty calm to me.”

  “I am now,” said Makepeace.

  The others sat silent, content to let Wiley do the talking, but they were all watching and listening intently. “You suppose you could tell me what this is all about without violating security or something?” Wiley asked.

  “How much do you know?” asked Makepeace.

  “Well, I know it’s magic crime, since the Bureau is involved, but if the ITC is calling the shots, it must be pretty major. I figure it’s necromancy, since we had a bulletin about that a while back, but we haven’t had any reported cases of that in Tucson, so my guess is it’s a manhunt. The crime went down someplace else, but your suspect is here. Is that close?”

  “Remarkably,” said Makepeace. “What do you know about the Dragon Peak Enclave?”


  “Drug rehab center and natural preserve run by a religious foundation,” Wiley said. “They do pretty good work, by all reports. Well-connected in this town. Never been out there myself.”

  “You know somebody named Brother Talon?”

  “Heard of him. He’s supposed to be the chief honcho out there. Good reputation, but he doesn’t get into town much, if at all. You saying he’s the suspect?”

  “There’s no suspicion about it,” Makepeace said. “Talon is the deadliest necromancer you could possibly imagine. My partner went out there. And I don’t think he’s coming back.”

  “I see,” said Wiley, nodding. They all understood that “So you were going after him. But you changed your mind. That car had rental plates and you were coming back to the hotel. Had time to count ten and decide to wait for backup, huh?”

  Makepeace nodded. “That’s about right. There’s too much at stake for me to take the bit between my teeth.”

  “I can understand how you’d want to, though,” said Wiley sympathetically. “It’s tough when your partner’s going down. How come he went out there alone?”

  “Because he was a fool,” said Makepeace bitterly. “And I was a greater fool to let him.”

  “So an ITC team is coming in and they’re going out to Dragon Peak to make the bust,” said Wiley. “And I guess we locals are supposed to provide backup and support, is that it?”

  “Essentially,” said Makepeace. He saw no point in telling them that there wasn’t going to be any arrest. They probably wouldn’t understand and he didn’t feel like explaining it.

  “Dragon Peak is technically out of our jurisdiction,” Wiley said. “That’s the Pima County Sheriff’s Department.”