by Butcher, Jim
Murphy glanced at her aikido trophies and nodded. “Okay,” she said, “I can understand that, I think. So we’re looking for the wizard version of Mister Miyagi.”
“Or,” I said, lifting a finger, “more than one wizard worked on this at the same time. Pooled their power together and used it all at once.” My pounding head, combined with the queasy stomach and the caffeine, was making me a little woozy. “Teamwork, teamwork, that’s what counts.”
“Multiple killers,” Murphy drawled. “I don’t have one, and you’re telling me there might be fifty.”
“Thirteen,” I corrected her. “You can never use more than thirteen. But I don’t think that’s very likely. It’s a bitch to do. Everyone in the circle has to be committed to the spell, have no doubts, no reservations. And they have to trust one another implicitly. You don’t see that kind of thing from your average gang of killers. It just isn’t something that’s going to happen, outside of some kind of fanaticism. A cult or political organization.”
“A cult,” Murphy said. She rubbed at her eyes. “The Arcane is going to have a field day with this one, if it gets out. So Bianca is involved in this, after all. Surely she’s got enough enemies out there who could do this. She could inspire that kind of effort to get rid of her.”
I shook my head. The pain was getting worse, heavier, but pieces were falling into place. “No. You’re thinking the wrong angle here. The killer wasn’t taking out the hooker and Tommy Tomm to get at Bianca.”
“How do you know?”
“I went to see her,” I responded.
“Dammit, Harry!”
I didn’t react to her anger. “You know she wasn’t going to talk to you, Murph. She’s an old-fashioned monster girl. No cooperation with the authorities.”
“But she did talk to you?” Murphy demanded.
“I said pretty please.”
“I would beat you to crap if you didn’t already look like it,” Murphy said. “What did you find out?”
“Bianca wasn’t in on it. She didn’t have a clue who it could have been. She was nervous, scared.” I didn’t mention that she’d been scared enough to try to take me to pieces.
“So someone was sending a message—but not to Bianca?”
“To Johnny Marcone,” I confirmed.
“Gang war in the streets,” Murphy said. “And now the out-fit is bringing sorcery into it as well. Mafioso magic spells. Jesus Christ.” She drummed her heels on the edge of the desk.
“Gang war. ThreeEye suppliers versus conventional narcotics. Right?”
She stared at me for a minute. “Yeah,” Murphy said. “Yeah, it is. How did you know? We’ve been holding out details from the papers.”
“I just ran into this guy who was stoned out of his mind on ThreeEye. Something he said makes me think that stuff isn’t a bunch of crap. It’s for real. And you would have to be one very, very badass wizard to manufacture a large quantity of this kind of drug.”
Murphy’s blue eyes glittered. “So, whoever is the one supplying the streets with ThreeEye—”
“—is the one who murdered Jennifer Stanton and Tommy Tomm. I’m pretty sure of it. It feels right.”
“I’d tend to agree,” Murphy said, nodding. “All right, then. How many people do you know of who could manage the killing spell?”
“Christ, Murphy,” I said, “you can’t ask me to just hand you a list of names of people to drag downtown for questioning.”
She leaned down closer to me, blue eyes fierce. “Wrong, Harry. I can ask you. I can tell you to give them to me. And if you don’t, I can haul you in for obstruction and complicity so quick it will make your head spin.”
“My head’s already spinning,” I told her. A little giggle slipped out. Throbbing head, pound, pound, pound. “You wouldn’t do that, Murph. I know you. You know damned well that if I had anything you could use, I would give it to you. If you’d just let me in on the investigation, give me the chance to—”
“No, Harry,” she said, her voice flat. “Not a chance. I am ass deep in alligators already without you getting difficult on me. You’re already hurt, and don’t ask me to buy some line about falling down the stairs. I don’t want to have to scrape you off the concrete. Whoever did Tommy Tomm is going to get nasty when someone comes poking around, and it isn’t your job to do it. It’s mine.”
“Suit yourself,” I told her. “You’re the one with the deadline.”
Her face went pale, and her eyes blazed. “You’re such an incredible shit, Harry.”
I started to answer her, I really did—but my skull got loose and shaky on my neck, and things spun around, and my chair sort of wobbled up onto its back legs and whirled about precariously. I thought it was probably safest to slide my way along to the floor, rubbery as a snake. The tiles were nice and cool underneath my cheek and felt sort of comforting. My head went boom, boom, boom, the whole time I was down there, spoiling what would have otherwise been a pleasant little nap.
Chapter Twelve
I woke up on the floor of Murphy’s office. The clock on the wall said that it was about twenty minutes later. Something soft was underneath my head, and my feet were propped up with several phone books. Murphy was pressing a cool cloth against my forehead and throat.
I felt terrible. Exhausted, achy, nauseous, my head throbbing. I wanted to do nothing so much as curl up and whimper myself to sleep. Given that I would never live that down, I made a wisecrack instead. “Do you have a little white dress? I’ve had this deep-seated nurse fantasy about you, Murphy.”
“A pervert like you would. Who hit your head?” she demanded.
“No one,” I mumbled. “Fell down the stairs to my apartment.”
“Bullshit, Harry,” she said, her voice hard. Her hands were no less gentle with the cool cloth, though. “You’ve been running around on this case. That’s where you got the bump on the head. Isn’t it?”
I started to protest.
“Oh, save it,” she said, letting out a breath. “If you didn’t already have a concussion, I’d tie your heels to my car and drive through traffic.” She held up two fingers. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Fifty,” I said, and held up two of my own. “It’s not a concussion. Just a little bump on the head. I’ll be fine.” I started to sit up. I needed to get home, get some sleep.
Murphy put her hand on my neck and pressed me back down on the pillow beneath my head, which was, apparently, her jacket, because she wasn’t wearing it. “Stay down,” she growled. “How did you get here? Not in that heap of a car, I hope.”
“The Beetle is doing its phoenix impression,” I told her. “I’ve got a loaner. Look, I’ll be fine. Just let me out of here, and I’ll go home and get some sleep.”
“You aren’t in any shape to drive,” Murphy said. “You’re a menace. I’d have to arrest myself if I let you behind a wheel in your condition.”
“Murph,” I said, annoyed, “unless you can pay up what you owe me already, right now, I can’t exactly afford a cab.”
“Dream on, Harry,” Murphy said. “And save your breath. I’ll give you a ride home.”
“I don’t need a—” I began, but she got up from her knees and stalked out of her office.
Foolishness, I thought. Stupidity. I was perfectly capable of moving myself around. So I sat up and heaved myself to my feet.
Or tried to. I actually managed to half sit up. And then I just heaved.
Murphy came back in to find me curled on my side, her office stinking from where I’d thrown up. She didn’t, for a change, say anything. She just knelt by me again, cleaned off my mouth, and put another cool cloth over the back of my neck.
I remember her helping me out to her car. I remember little pieces of the drive back to my apartment. I remember giving her the keys to the loaner, and mumbling something about Mike and the tow-truck driver.
But mostly I remember the way her hand felt on mine—cold with a little bit of nervousness to the soft fingers, sma
ll beneath my great gawking digits, and strong. She scolded and threatened me the entire way back to the apartment, I think. But I remember the way she made sure she held my hand, as though to assure herself that I was still there. Or to assure me that she was, that she wasn’t going anywhere.
There’s a reason I’ll go out on a limb to help Murphy. She’s good people. One of the best.
We got back to my apartment sometime before noon. Murphy helped me down the stairs and unlocked the door for me. Mister came running up and hurled himself against her legs in greeting. Maybe being short gives her better leverage or something, since she didn’t really wobble when Mister rammed her, like I do. Or maybe it’s the aikido.
“Christ, Harry,” she muttered. “This place is dark.” She tried the light switch, but the bulbs had burnt out last week, and I hadn’t had the cash to replace them. So she sat me down on the couch and lit some candles off of the glowing coals in the fireplace. “All right,” she said. “I’m putting you in bed.”
“Well. If you insist.”
The phone rang. It was in arm’s reach so I picked it up. “Dresden,” I mumbled.
“Mister Dresden, this is Linda. Linda Randall. Do you remember me?”
Heh. Do men remember the scene in the movie with Marilyn standing over the subway grating? I found myself remembering Linda Randall’s eyes and wondering things a gentleman shouldn’t.
“Are you naked?” I said. It took me a minute to register what I’d said. Whoops.
Murphy gave me an arch look. She stood up and walked into my bedroom, and busied herself straightening the covers and giving me a modicum of privacy. I felt cheered. My slip had thrown Murphy off better than any lie I could have managed. Maybe a woozy Harry was not necessarily a bad Harry.
Linda purred laughter into the phone. “I’m in the car right now, honey. Maybe later. Look, I’ve come up with a few things that might help you. Can you meet me tonight?”
I rubbed at my eyes. It was Saturday. Tonight was Saturday night. Wasn’t there something I was supposed to do tonight?
To hell with it, I thought. It couldn’t have been all that important if I couldn’t even remember it. “Sure,” I told her. “Fine.”
She mmmmed into the phone. “You’re such a gentleman. I like that, once in a while. I get off at seven. All right? Do you want to meet me? Say at eight?”
“My car exploded,” I said. My tongue felt fuzzy. “I can meet you at the Seven-Eleven down the street from my apartment.”
She poured that rich, creamy laughter into my ear again. “Tell you what. Give me an extra hour or so to go home, get a nice hot bath, make myself all pretty, and then I’ll be there in your arms. Sound good to you?”
“Well. Okay.”
She laughed again, and didn’t say good-bye before disconnecting.
Murphy appeared again as soon as I hung up the phone. “Tell me you didn’t just make a date, Dresden.”
“You’re just jealous.”
Murphy snorted. “Please. I need more of a man than you to keep me happy.” She started to get an arm beneath me to help me up. “You’d break like a dry stick, Dresden. You’d better get to bed before you get any more delusions.”
I put a hand against her shoulder to push her back. I didn’t have that kind of strength, but she backed off, frowning. “What?”
“Something,” I said. I rubbed at my eyes. Something was bothering me. I was forgetting something, I was sure of it. Something I said I would do on Saturday. I struggled to push thoughts of drug wars and people driven mad by the Third Sight visions given them by the ThreeEye drug, and tried to concentrate.
It didn’t take long to click. Monica. I had told her I would get in contact with her. I patted at my duster pockets until I found my notepad, and took it out. Fumbled it open, and waved at Murphy.
“Candle. Need to read something.”
“Christ, Dresden. I swear you’re at least as bad as my first husband. He was stubborn enough to kill himself, too.” She sighed, and brought a candle over. The light hurt my eyes for a moment. I made out Monica’s number and I dialed her up.
“Hello?” a male child’s voice asked.
“Hi,” I said. “I need to speak to Monica, please.”
“Who’s this?”
I remembered I was working for her on the sly and answered, “Her fourth cousin, Harry, from Vermont.”
“’Kay,” the kid said. “Hold on.” Then he screamed, without lowering the mouthpiece of the phone from his lips, “MOM! YOUR COUSIN HARRY FROM VERMONT IS ON THE PHONE LONG-DISTANCE!”
Kids. You gotta love them. I adore children. A little salt, a squeeze of lemon—perfect.
I waited for the pounding in my head to resolve into mere agony as the kid dropped the phone and ran off, feet thumping on a hardwood floor.
A moment later, there was the rattle of the phone being picked up, and Monica’s quiet, somewhat nervous voice said, “Um. Hello?”
“It’s Harry Dresden,” I told her. “I just wanted to call to let you know what I’d been able to find out for y—”
“I’m sorry,” she interrupted me. “I don’t, um…need any of those.”
I blinked. “Uh, Monica Sells?” I read her the phone number.
“Yes, yes,” she said, her voice hurried, impatient. “We don’t need any help, thank you.”
“Is this a bad time?”
“No. No, it’s not that. I just wanted to cancel my order. Discontinue the service. Don’t worry about me.” There was an odd quality to her voice, as though she were forcing a housewife’s good cheer into it.
“Cancel? You don’t want me looking for your husband anymore? But ma’am, the money—” The phone began to buzz and static made the line fuzzy. I thought I heard a voice in the background, somewhere, and then the sound went dead except for the static. For a moment, I thought I’d lost the connection entirely. Blasted unreliable phones. Usually, they messed up on my end, not on the receiving end. You can’t even trust them to foul up dependably.
“Hello? Hello?” I said, cross and grumpy.
Monica’s voice returned. “Don’t worry about that. Thank you so much for all of your help. Good day, bye-bye, thank you.” Then she hung up on me.
I took the phone away from my ear and stared at it. “Bizarre,” I said.
“Come on, Harry,” Murphy said. She took the phone from my hand and planted it firmly in its cradle.
“Aww, Mom. It’s not even dark yet.” I made the lame joke to try to think about something besides how terribly my head was going to hurt when Murphy helped me up. She did. It did. We hobbled into the bedroom and when I stretched out on the cool sheets I was reasonably certain I was going to set down roots.
Murphy took my temperature and felt my scalp with her fingers, careful around the goose egg on the back of my skull. She shined a penlight into my eyes, which I did not like. She also got me a drink of water, which I did like, and had me swallow a couple of aspirin or Tylenol or something.
I only remember two more things about that morning. One was Murphy stripping me out of my shirt, boots, and socks, and leaning down to kiss my forehead and ruffle my hair. Then she covered me up with blankets and put out the lights. Mister crawled up and lay down across my legs, purring like a small diesel engine, comforting.
The second thing I remember was the phone ringing again. Murphy was just about to leave, her car keys rattling in her hand. I heard her turn back to pick up the phone, and say, “Harry Dresden’s residence.”
There was a silence.
“Hello?” Murphy said.
After another pause Murphy appeared in the doorway, a small shadow, looking down at me. “Wrong number. Get some rest, Harry.”
“Thanks, Karrin.” I smiled at her, or tried to. It must have looked ghastly. She smiled back, and I’m sure hers was nicer than mine.
She left then. The apartment got dark and quiet. Mister continued to rumble soothingly in the dark.
It kept nagging at me, even as I fe
ll asleep. What had I forgotten? And another, less sensible question—who had been on the line who hadn’t wanted to speak to Murphy? Had Monica Sells tried to call me back? Why would she call me off the case and tell me to keep the money?
I pondered that, and baseball bats and other matters, until Mister’s purring put me to sleep.
Chapter Thirteen
I woke up when thunder rattled the old house above me.
True dark had fallen. I had no idea of what time it was. I lay in bed for a moment, confused and a little dizzy. There was a warm spot on my legs, where Mister must have been until a few moments before, but the big grey cat was nowhere to be seen. He was a chicken about thunderstorms.
Rain was coming down in sheets. I could hear it on the concrete outside and on the old building above me. It creaked and swayed in the spring thunderstorm and the wind, timbers gently flexing, wise enough with age to give a little, rather than put up stubborn resistance until they broke. I could probably stand to learn something from that.
My stomach was growling. I got out of bed, wobbled a little, and rooted about for my robe. I couldn’t find it in the dark, but came across my duster where Murphy had left it on a chair, neatly folded. Lying on top of it was a scattering of cash, along with a napkin bearing the words “You will pay me back.—Murphy.” I scowled at the money and tried to ignore the flash of gratitude I felt. I picked up my duster and tugged it on over my bare chest. Then I padded on naked feet out into the living room.
Thunder rumbled again, growling outside. I could feel the storm, in a way that a lot of people can’t, and that most of those who can put down to nerves. It was raw energy up there, naked and pulsing through the clouds. I could feel the water in the rain and clouds, the moving air blowing the droplets in gusts against the walls of the house above. I could sense, waiting, the fire of the deadly lightning, leaping from cloud to cloud above and seeking a path of least resistance to the patient, timeless earth that bore the brunt of the storm’s attack. All four elements, interacting, moving, energy flashing from place to place in each of its forms. There was a lot of potential in storms, that a sorcerer could tap into if he was desperate or stupid enough. A lot of energy to be used, up there, where the forces of ancient nature brawled and tumbled.