Disciples of the Serpent: A Novel of the O.C.L.T.

by Williams, Sidney

  Bullfinch ignored the order and grabbed a glass from the table, flinging it behind him in the man’s general direction, sending liquid flying. The Italian had to raise an arm to deflect it, delaying the withdrawal of a sleek and compact black weapon his jacket had concealed.

  But only by a few seconds.

  O’Donnell dropped her handbag onto a small table beside her apartment door and surveyed the upheaval in her living room. She wished it was the product of a ransacking. That would make a nice excuse, but the damage was all her fault, the result of neglect and distraction. Opened mail and magazines cluttered her coffee table, newspapers and blankets the sofa. A couple of plates from recent meals complete with crusts and crumbs also decorated the coffee table. She didn’t want to step into the kitchen and confront the sink’s stockpile.

  She just shrugged off her coat and scarf and headed for the bedroom. The bedclothes were a tangle, but otherwise the space was clear. She allowed herself to spill forward onto the mattress in a swan dive, burying her face in the pillow upon impact. She needed a shower and something to eat, but for the moment, resting the load of bricks her head had become superseded everything else.

  She felt the weight not just of weariness but of the situation. Was this the inevitable she’d trained herself to accept? The commissioner’s assault had been disturbing. The ire suggested she wouldn’t be finding her way back into good graces and her normal position quickly.

  She rolled onto her back, realizing the exhaustion was not going to drag her into the instant sleep she’d expected. What she’d been assigned seemed important. Lives had been taken, yet the gnawing feeling that she’d been thrown off course wouldn’t relent, and she had to prepare herself for the worst outcome of this case.

  All she’d worked for, the trajectory she’d achieved in spite of pessimism seemed suddenly tenuous. And what would her father, God rest his… think of her working on the strange squad? He’d been a pragmatic man. He’d have understood taking an assignment as a lifeline amid turmoil. If strange became the new normal, however, that would feel like an affront to his old school world view and belief in methodical and sober police work.

  It would be an affront to her own as well, long term. She had to remind herself a rational explanation would emerge from this craziness. She needn’t work about a lasting threat to her perception. Time for a drink.

  She pulled herself off the bed and was headed toward the cabinet where her scotch was stored when she felt something drawing her to the window. She didn’t usually bend to compulsions, but the urgency seemed strong, stronger than the draw of scotch. Maybe she had she spent too long at weird central.

  She padded across the carpet to draw back the curtain and spot something moving somewhere in the distance, somewhere over what ought to be the River Liffey. A bit of gray sky remained. She could glean only a hint of the shape, but it was large enough to disturb.

  “Based on this venom, Irish artifacts and legends and my personal experience the last few of years coupled with my luck, I’d say a giant serpent.”

  Her heart fluttered as she recalled the professor’s words. Had his fear already been fulfilled?

  She rubbed her eyes and forehead, trying to shake any fatigue and make sure she wasn’t drawing something out of rolling clouds. Then she looked again, and the movement continued, a convoluted twist of what looked like long, narrow appendages.

  She felt mesmerized for a moment, and in the next she felt the need to open her window and move toward whatever was out there. Because it wanted her to, wanted her to come its way.

  Her mobi sounded.

  She reached for her forehead again and realized she was in bed, not standing at the window. She’d never risen to head for the scotch. Being at weird central was having an impact on her psyche.

  She kicked the cover back now and headed to her discarded things to dig out the still-chirping phone.

  “There’s a disturbance reported from the professor’s hotel at Parnell and…” came Rees’ voice.

  “I know where it is. Is the professor all right?”

  “Not known. I’m heading that way.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  Eighteen

  Bullfinch dodged to his left, dropping to his knees and wincing as they thudded into the carpet, which didn’t offer as much padding as he would have liked. As the shock reverberated up his thighs, he willed himself not to be slowed. Bullets whizzed past, thudding into a chair near the window.

  He saw little round holes in the upholstery, and bits of stuffing popped out, a preview for his blood and internal tissue. To be avoided.

  He twisted the cane he’d managed to get a hand around, and with a whish he yanked the handle, extracting the blade that had been buried deep in the hollow shaft.

  As the Italian panned his gun barrel to the professor’s current location, Bullfinch gave a backhanded flip of that shaft, sending it spinning in the man’s direction. That forced a raised forearm to deflect it, and before he could regain his aim, Bullfinch launched from his knees, plunging forward.

  He slammed a forearm into the gun arm, and jabbed the blade into the assailant’s abdomen, going just under the lower rib. He couldn’t afford delicacy. He drove it in as far as he could manage then slid it out with a streak of blood along the steel. He gave the man a shove into the room’s dresser before bolting for the door.

  He stopped just short of the hallway and peeked out, checking each direction for backup before heading for the stairwell. A slug bit into the door facing just as he cleared the space. In spite of all, the man had held onto his weapon.

  Cursing the pain still pulsing up his legs, Bullfinch hustled through the stair door and started the trip down. His heart had stepped up its rate, striving to meet the demands of his acceleration. Two at a time, down the stairs, around the first turn, then two at a time to the next level.

  He exited into the hallway, pausing for breath as the door sighed closed, relishing the reprieve but knowing he couldn’t hesitate. He scanned the corridor, and, sighting no accomplices, he exhaled and pushed off a second later, heading past room doors, letting the blade arm slide down to his side so that he didn’t look like a marauding pirate. He thought about knocking, a quick rap on each door to generate some attention and chaos, but he didn’t want to endanger other guests. His assailant might not care about acting in pubic or taking out other targets.

  Should he risk the lift?

  He calculated the odds. It seemed unlikely that it would ding open on just the right floor where another gunman waited, ready to fire, but he’d learned it was best to assign the good luck to the people chasing you while figuring yours would be bad.

  He waited a few heartbeats.

  Then he peeked back into the hall.

  Empty.

  He waited a few more heartbeats.

  Waiting would be in his favor. The Italian’s wound had been deep. The man might fight on for a while, keep pursuing his mission, but the more blood lost, the weaker he’d grow.

  Bullfinch wished he’d had the presence of mind to grab for a cell or the tablet. Hopefully Crease had picked up enough of what had happened to call for local help.

  He thought he heard the stair door open. Had the attacker decided to try this floor rather than pursuing him downward?

  Time to risk the elevator.

  He moved past the floor’s vending area and walked on to the lift doors where he knuckled the Down button, keeping his sword pressed against his leg.

  He had no ideal course here except away from the known attacker.

  The lift arrived empty. One bit of luck. After a breath, he stepped in and pressed the ground floor button with his sword hand. He’d leave the building, find a way to contact the Aisteach and wait for backup.

  Just had to ride down a few floors.

  Ding.

  The elevator stopped two floors below. He moved to the elevator’s back corner and kept his hands at his sides, positioning his body to block the view of the sw
ord. And the doors sighed open as he inhaled and held the breath.

  A middle-aged couple in heavy coats and scarves stepped on after a second of observing him. American tourists ready to look for a spot for dinner, a heavy man and his thin, graying wife. He let the breath go and stared straight ahead as they entered and found spots to stand on the opposite side of the car.

  He noticed the woman size him up. He must look disheveled.

  He ignored her gaze. Let them wonder what he was up to. If anyone stepped on to further the attack, he’d put himself between the couple and the bad guys, and they’d be thankful he was on hand.

  And the car’s descent resumed with just a second of hesitation then came the smooth glide, and they watched the numbers on the small screen click their descent.

  For two more floors.

  Ding.

  Wait.

  The doors opened on a man in his twenties. He seemed German based on a few hints of fashion and overall style. Longish black hair spilled from under a knit cap, and he wore a body-hugging gray sweater over tight jeans. He could’ve been a skier who’d somehow been transported to the wrong hotel.

  Whush.

  Doors slid back into place.

  Bullfinch studied the kid from the corner of his eye. He sensed something not quite right about him.

  The descent continued.

  Bullfinch stared straight ahead.

  Then the German kid turned. He had a blade up the tight left sleeve of the sweater. He slipped it out.

  Nineteen

  Traffic near Parnell backed up on connecting streets, throngs of honking cars and vehicles stretching back along narrow arteries leading to the thoroughfare. From what she could pick up on the radio, O’Donnell surmised someone had slammed into a bus near Parnell Square.

  She finally wheeled into a one-way the wrong way, steering up the narrow street with her foot light on the gas until headlights splashed through her windshield. She yanked the wheel left and bounced onto the sidewalk then, braked and shoved the gearshift into park.

  Ignoring the horns and curses, she climbed out and started a jog in the direction of Bullfinch’s hotel, which should have been only a couple of blocks. Her coat whipped around her, and the chilly night wind scraped at her cheeks, but it seemed the most expedient method. She pressed her mobi to her ear after thumbing Rees’ recent call for a re-dial.

  “Any word? I’m almost there?”

  “Uniforms are in the building. They haven’t picked up any sign yet of the professor.”

  He hesitated a moment, getting a message from somewhere else.

  “Oh, God, there’s blood in his room.”

  Her heart felt like it had been jabbed with a burst from a defibrillator. God, no, don’t let the man be hurt. She’d started to respect the old guy in their time together and realized how deep his knowledge ran.

  Aside from personal feelings, they needed him for whatever insanity was up. Clearly someone else felt that too.

  She jogged on along the narrow street, avoiding irregularities in the sidewalk and reaching almost a sprint as she approached the wide and clogged Parnell. She began to thread her way through the traffic snarl, sliding between bumpers and over one fender, weaving to the opposite sidewalk then pausing only long enough to get her bearings before bolting in the direction of the hotel.

  She might wind up with another shooting on her record, but she’d be damned if any partner of hers was going to be harmed without someone facing consequences.

  “Sich nicht vom Fleck rühren,” the young man said to the American couple. Then he lunged toward Bullfinch.

  Bullfinch raised his blade and parried, putting himself between the attacker and the tourists.

  The sword blade clanged against the knife and Bullfinch twisted his wrist, knocking the smaller blade aside and delivered a knee to the young man’s groin. He absorbed it with an expression of pain but wasn’t neutralized. He came back slashing.

  Bullfinch drove an elbow into the man’s cheekbone, buying a couple more seconds.

  Then another ding sounded, and the doors sighed open.

  “Get out of here!” he shouted.

  But the couple couldn’t move.

  People stood facing the opening.

  Behind those waiting for the car, a thick collection of bodies spread across the lobby. Conversations in various languages rose into a hubbub over the area. It was a peak hour, people on their way to dinner or evening events, people arriving, people headed for the hotel bar. That might be useful.

  Bullfinch drove with his blade, an aggression that surprised the young man and made him step backward. As he jerked backward in retreat, Bullfinch was already moving in the other direction, splitting the wall of people in the elevator opening, ignoring their gasps, then weaving through the guests behind them, heading for the exit. Maybe that wasn’t the best decision, but he might manage to lose himself if he could get outside.

  “Call security,” he said as he brushed past a young man in a dark suit who looked like hotel staff.

  “Security,” he repeated to a woman as he went zigging past a couple of American girls in brightly colored jackets. “Security, now!”

  He dodged past men in suits, ducked past more couples and clusters of people, and then slid through the sliding doors at the mouth of the lobby and out into the chill wind.

  A short, well-dressed man with dark hair stood on the sidewalk in the entry drive where cabs and vans could unload. Somehow—perhaps it was simply something in the way he presented himself, the display of confident authority in spite of his size—Bullfinch knew he was there for him.

  He made a slash with the sword as the male approached. An arm rose in a reflexive defense. The blade raked across the thick fabric of the coat sleeve. The man gave a slight grunt, but the blade was deflected without doing harm.

  Bullfinch looked into the man’s cold dark eyes. If he’d read confidence before, he detected a disturbing indifference now, more determination than he’d seen in the Italian or the German. This was a man who’d act dispassionately and was prepared to kill. He didn’t have time to study the expression further.

  The man ducked under Bullfinch’s outstretched blade and slammed a fist up into the older man’s jaw, a smash that sent pain radiating all the way through his teeth and snapped his head back.

  He grabbed for the lapel on the man’s coat, hoping to slow him or deflect him, but he didn’t find purchase. The man continued forward, intent on sending him to the ground with a re-distribution of weight.

  “Hold it.”

  O’Donnell stood several paces down the hotel’s semi-circular drive, a nasty-looking black handgun leveled in front of her between both hands, aiming their way.

  “You’ll blow your friend away,” the man warned.

  But Bullfinch dove to the side as the man was distracted.

  O’Donnell’s weapon blazed in the next second, and the sound echoed around them.

  It was enough to make the man hesitate even though he wasn’t hit.

  Bullfinch straightened and launched himself in O’Donnell’s direction.

  In the next second, as he glanced backwards, tires screeched. A vehicle had arrived--one they’d hoped to shove him into no doubt. The short man dove into the back seat and the vehicle reversed down the driveway.

  O’Donnell’s gun blazed again, but the vehicle shot away from the curb and into the night.

  “Sure. They get a clear roadway,” O’Donnell said.

  Twenty

  Bullfinch insisted he’d had enough rest at 8 a.m. when he joined O’Donnell for a meeting with Rees.

  “Patrols weren’t successful in finding the van,” Rees said, as they settled in his office.

  “The Italian?” Bullfinch asked.

  “Checking hospitals and the like, but nothing so far. He crawled away to lick his wounds. We might have a decent image of the German on hotel security cameras, but you can bet they’re hired hands. They won’t know who they were really working for
if we find them.”

  “The Americans would call it a clean getaway,” Bullfinch said. “Clearly a lot of resources are on hand, at least to employ freelancers.”

  “They know you’re here and want you off their trail,” O’Donnell said. “What does that tell us?”

  “Worried about what I might know or what I might recognize.”

  “We’ll keep our eyes out,” Rees said. “Meanwhile, I’ve got other news for you and the professor. Overnight, the analysts figured out Professor Burke’s destination. He was bundled for the rain, made it hard.”

  “Where?” O’Donnell asked.

  “A little shop near the Trinity campus actually. It belongs to a gentleman named Peter Redmond.”

  O’Donnell looked toward the professor. “Up for some browsing?”

  Bullfinch flexed his arms a bit.

  “Certainly. It’ll work out the stiff muscles. I don’t think we have any time to waste.”

  At the counter, a blonde girl was detailing an antique candelabrum with silver polish when they jangled the shop door bell. She looked up and offered a smile that faded slightly as she stared at guests who somehow didn’t look like antiques collectors.

  “We’re looking for Peter Redmond,” O’Donnell said, approaching the counter. “In yet?”

  “He’s in his office.”

  Before O’Donnell could flash a badge, Bullfinch flipped open his computer tablet.

  “You work here every day, young lady?”

  “Nelda. Most. When I’m not in class.”

  “You recognize this gentleman?”

  He displayed a full-screen photo of Burke.

  “Dr. Burke. He’s a friend of Mr. Redmond’s.”

  “He been in lately?”

  “The other day. He was in a bit of a hurry.”

  O’Donnell tipped her head in respect for Bullfinch. If Redmond had any hesitancy, she’d removed his option for denial.