by Butcher, Jim
Linda Randall had been planning on blackmailing someone. I took a staggering mental leap and figured it was Victor, or someone out at his house during the party. But why? I didn’t have any pictures now, only the information I’d gotten from Donny Wise. I couldn’t afford to wait around. I had to pursue the lead he’d given me if I was to get to the bottom of this, and find out who had killed Linda.
How had I managed to get into all of this trouble in only a few days? And how in the world had I managed to stumble across what appeared to be a complex and treacherous little plot by chance, out at the house in Lake Providence, on a separate investigation entirely?
Simple answer—it hadn’t been an accident. It had all been by design. I had been directed there. Someone had wanted me out at the lake house, had wanted me to get involved and to find out what was going on out there. Someone who was nervous as hell around wizards, who refused to give out her name, who had carefully dropped phrases that would make me believe her ignorance, who had to rush out quickly from her appointment and who was willing to let five hundred dollars go, just to get me off the phone a few seconds faster. Someone had drawn me out and forced me into the open, where I had attracted all sorts of hostile attention.
That was the key.
I gathered up my staff and rod and stalked out the door.
It was time to talk to Monica Sells.
Chapter Twenty
The cabby dropped me off a block away from Monica Sells’s house in the suburbs. I was running out of time, out of Murphy’s loan, and out of patience, so I didn’t waste any daylight in walking down the street toward her place.
It was a cute little house, two stories, a couple of young trees in the front yard, just now starting to rival the house for height. There was a minivan in the driveway, and a basketball goal, well used. The lawn was grown rather long, but all the recent rains left a good excuse for that. The street was a quiet one, and it took me a moment to realize that most of the houses on it were not occupied. FOR SALE signs stood in many of the yards. Sparse curtains draped over empty, gaping windows, like cobwebs. There wasn’t a lot of birdsong, for a street with so many trees, and I couldn’t hear any dogs barking as I walked along the sidewalk. Overhead, clouds were thickening, building up for another thunderstorm.
Taken all together, it had the feel of someplace blighted, a place where a black wizard had set up shop. I swung up through the Sells yard and to the front door.
I rang the bell, and waited.
There was no answer.
I knocked. I leaned on the doorbell.
Still no answer.
I tightened my jaw and looked around. I didn’t see anyone, so I turned back to the door, preparing to use a spell to open it.
Instead, the door swung open, maybe six inches. Monica Sells stood inside, peering out at me with her green eyes. She was dressed in jeans, a plain flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and her hair was covered by a bandanna. She wore no makeup. She looked both older and more appealing that way—I think maybe because it was a more natural look for her, something that was closer to the sort of person she really was, rather than the nicer clothes and jewelry she’d worn when she visited my office. Her face went pale, her lips bloodless.
“I don’t have anything to say to you, Mr. Dresden,” she said. “Go away.”
“I can’t do that,” I said. She started to swing the door shut, but I jammed the end of my staff into the doorway, keeping it from closing.
“I’ll call the police,” she said, voice strained. She leaned against the door, trying to keep me from coming in.
“Do it,” I growled, and then I played a hunch, “and I’ll tell them about you and your husband.” I was taking a shot in the dark, but what the hell. She didn’t know that I didn’t know what the hell was going on.
My instincts paid off. I heard her suck in a breath and felt her resistance on the door sag a little. I put my shoulder to the door, leaned into it hard, and she stepped back from me in surprise. I don’t think she’d expected me to physically force my way into her house. Hell, I hadn’t expected me to do that. I hadn’t realized how angry I was until I saw the look of panic on her face when she looked up at me. I don’t know what I looked like, but it must not have been friendly.
I stopped. I closed my eyes. I took a deep breath, and tried to get a handle on my anger. It wouldn’t profit me anything to lose control.
That was when she went for the stunner.
I heard her move, opened my eyes in time to see her snatch a black plastic case the size of a cellular phone from the piano and lunge toward me. Her face was pale, frightened. Blue lightning danced between the two tines of the stunner as she shoved it at my stomach.
I swept my staff, upright, from right to left, and the buzzing device went past me, along with her lunge, striking the doorframe behind me. I slipped past her, into the living room, turning to face her as she recovered and turned around.
“I won’t let you hurt them,” she snarled. “Not you, not anyone. I’ll kill you before I let you touch them, wizard.” And then she was coming at me again, fury replacing the terror in her eyes, a grim determination to succeed that made me think of Murphy for a second. For the first time, she was looking me in the face. For the first time she forgot to keep her eyes averted from mine, and in that second, I saw inside of her.
Things seemed to slow down for a moment. I had time to see the color of her eyes, the structure of her face. To recognize where I had seen them before, why she had looked familiar to me. I had time to see, behind her eyes, the fear and the love that motivated every move she made, every step she took. I saw what had moved her to come to me, why she was afraid. I saw her grief, and I saw her pain.
And the pieces all fell into place. Knowing the emotions that drove her, the terrible love that she was showing even now, it all seemed perfectly obvious, and I felt stupid for not figuring it out days ago.
“Stop,” I said, or tried to say, before she thrust the stunner at my chest. I dropped staff and rod alike in a clatter of falling wood, and caught her wrist in both of my hands. She pushed the stunner up at my face, and I let her do it.
It got to within about three inches of me, the light bright in my eyes. Then I drew in a breath and puffed it out onto the stunner, along with an effort of will. There was a spark, a little puff of smoke, and then it went dead in her hands, like every other electronic gizmo seemed to do whenever I came around. Hell, I was surprised it had taken as long as it did to stop working. And even if it hadn’t, it wasn’t any trouble for me to hex it into uselessness.
I continued holding her wrist, but the driving tension behind her arm had eased away to nothing. She was staring at my face, her eyes wide with shock from the meeting of our gazes. She started shaking and dropped the useless stunner from limp fingers. It clattered to the floor. I let go of her, and she just stared at me.
I was shaking, too. A soulgaze is never something pleasant or simple. God, sometimes I hated that I had to live with that. I hadn’t wanted to know that she had been abused as a child. That she’d married a man who provided her with more of the same, as an adult. That the only hope or light that she saw in her life was in her two children. There hadn’t been time to see all of her reasons, all of her logic. I still didn’t know why she had drawn me into this entire business—but I knew that it was, ultimately, because she loved her two kids.
And that was all I really needed, that and one other connection, the nagging resemblance to someone that I had noticed in her at my office. The rest fell into place from there.
It took Monica Sells a moment to recover herself. She did it with remarkable speed, as though she were a woman used to drawing on a mask again after having it knocked off. “I…I’m sorry, Mr. Dresden.” She lifted her chin, and regarded me with a fragile, wounded pride. “What do you want here?”
“A couple of things,” I told her. I stooped down to recover my staff, my rod. “I want my lock of hair back. I want to know why you came to
me last Thursday, why you dragged me into this mess. And I want to know who killed Tommy Tomm and Jennifer Stanton and Linda Randall.”
Monica’s eyes grew even duller, and her face paled. “Linda’s dead?”
“Last night,” I told her. “And someone’s planning on taking me out the same way, the next chance they get.”
Outside, in the far distance, thunder rumbled. Another storm was in the works, slowly building. When it got to town, I was a dead man. It was as simple as that.
I looked back to Monica Sells, and it was all over her face—she knew about the storm just as well as I did. She knew about it, and there was a sort of sad and weary frustration in her eyes.
“You have to go, Mr. Dresden,” she said. “You can’t be here when…You’ve got to go, before it’s too late.”
I stepped toward her. “You’re the only chance I have, Monica. I asked you once before to trust me. You’ve got to do it again. You’ve got to know that I’m not here to hurt you or your—”
A door opened in the hallway behind Monica. A girl, on the gawky end of preadolescence, with hair the color of her mother’s, leaned out into the hallway. “Mom?” she said in a quavering voice. “Mom, are you okay? Do you want me to call the police?” A boy, perhaps a year or two younger than his sister, poked his head out, too. He was carrying a well-used basketball in his hands, turning it in nervous little gestures.
I looked back to Monica. Her eyes were closed. There were tears coming, trailing down her cheeks. It took her a moment, but she drew in a breath and spoke to the girl in a clear, calm voice, without turning around. “I’m fine,” she told them. “Jenny, Billy, get back into the room and lock the door. I mean it.”
“But, Mom—” the boy began.
“Now,” Monica said. Her voice was strained.
Jenny put a hand on her brother’s shoulder. “C’mon, Billy.” She looked at me for just a moment. Her eyes were too old and too knowing for a child her age. “C’mon.” The two vanished back into the room, closed the door, and locked it behind them.
Monica waited until they were gone, and then broke down into more tears. “Please. Please, Mr. Dresden. You have to go. If you’re here when the storm comes, if he knows…” She buried her face in her hands and made a quiet, croaking sound.
I stepped closer to her. I had to have her help. No matter how much pain she was in, no matter what kind of agony she was going through, I had to have her help. And I thought I knew the names to invoke to get it.
I can be such a bastard sometimes.
“Monica. Please. I’m up against a wall. I’m out of options. Everything I have leads here. To you. And I don’t have time to wait. I need your help, before I wind up just like Jennifer and Tommy and Linda.” I sought her eyes, and she looked up at me without turning her gaze away. “Please. Help me.” I watched her eyes, saw the fear and the grief and the weariness there. I saw her look at me as I leaned on her, and demanded more out of her than she could afford to give.
“All right,” she whispered. She turned away and walked toward the kitchen. “All right. I’ll tell you what I know, wizard. But there’s nothing I can do to help you.” She paused at the doorway and looked back at me. Her words fell with the weight of conviction, simple truth. “There’s nothing anyone can do, now.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Monica Sells had a cheerful, brightly colored kitchen. She collected painted cartoon cows, and they ranged over the walls and cabinet doors of the room in a cheerful, bovine sort of indolence. The refrigerator was covered with crayon drawings and report cards. There was a row of colored glass bottles on the windowsill. I could hear wind chimes outside, restlessly stirred by a cool, rising wind. A big, friendly cow clock on the wall swung its tail back and forth, tick, tick, tick.
Monica sat down at the kitchen table. She drew up her legs beneath her, and seemed to relax by a few degrees. Her kitchen, I sensed, was her sanctuary, the place where she retreated when she was upset. It was lovingly maintained, sparkling clean.
I let her relax for as long as I could, which wasn’t long. I could almost feel the air building up to greater tension, the storm brewing in the distance. I couldn’t afford to play with kid gloves. I was just about to open my mouth, to start pushing, when she said, “Ask questions, wizard. I’ll answer them. I wouldn’t even know where to start, myself.” She didn’t look at me. She didn’t look at anything.
“All right,” I said. I leaned against the kitchen counter. “You know Jennifer Stanton, don’t you? You’re related to her.”
Her expression didn’t change. “We have our mother’s eyes,” she confirmed. “My little sister was always the rebel. She ran away to become an actress, but became a whore instead. It suited her, in her own way. I always wanted her to stop, but I don’t think she wanted to. I’m not sure she knew how.”
“Have the police contacted you yet, about her death?”
“No. They called my parents, down in St. Louis. They haven’t realized, yet, that I live in town. Someone will notice soon, I’m sure.”
I frowned. “Why didn’t you go to them? Why did you come to me?”
She looked over at me. “The police can’t help me, Mr. Dresden. Do you think they would believe me? They’d look at me like I was some kind of lunatic, if I went to them babbling about magic spells and rituals.” She grimaced. “Maybe they’d be right. Sometimes I wonder if I’m going crazy.”
“So you came to me,” I said. “Why didn’t you just tell me the truth?”
“How could I?” she asked. “How could I walk into the office of someone I didn’t even know, and tell him—” She swallowed, and squeezed her eyes shut over more tears.
“And tell me what, Monica?” I asked. I kept my voice soft. “Who killed your sister?”
Wind chimes tinkled outside. The friendly cow clock went tick, tick, tick. Monica Sells drew in a long, shuddering breath and closed her eyes. I saw her gathering up the frayed threads of her courage, knotting them up as tightly as she could. I knew the answer, already, but I needed to hear it from her. I needed to be sure. I tried to tell myself that it would be good for her to face such a thing, just to say it out loud. I wasn’t sure I bought that—like I said, I’m not a very good liar.
Monica squeezed her hands into tight fists, and said, “God help me. God help me. It was my husband, Mr. Dresden. It was Victor.” I thought she would dissolve into tears, but instead she just hunched tighter into her little defensive ball, as though she expected someone to start hitting her.
“That’s why you wanted me to find him,” I heard myself say. “That’s why you sent me out to the lake house, to look for him. You knew he was there. You knew that if you sent me out there, he would see me.” My voice was quiet, not quite angry, but the words pounded around Monica Sells like sledgehammers throwing up chips of concrete. She flinched from each of them.
“I had to,” she moaned. “God, Mr. Dresden. You don’t know what it was like. And he was getting worse. He didn’t start as a bad man, really, but he kept getting worse and worse, and I was afraid.”
“For your kids,” I said.
She nodded, and rested her forehead on her knees. And then the words started spilling out of her, slowly at first, and then in a greater and greater rush, as if she couldn’t hold back the immense weight of them any longer. I listened. I owed it to her, for walking all over her feelings, for forcing her to talk to me.
“He was never a bad man, Mr. Dresden. You have to understand. He worked hard. He worked so hard for us, to give us something better. I think it was because he knew that my parents had been so wealthy. He wanted to give me just as much as they could have, and he couldn’t. It would make him so frustrated, so angry. Sometimes he would lose his temper. But it wasn’t always so bad. And he could be so kind, sometimes, too. I thought that maybe the children would help him to stabilize.
“It was when Billy was about four that Victor found the magic. I don’t know where. But he started getting obsessed with it. H
e brought home books and books. Strange things. He put a lock on the door to the attic, and after dinner he’d vanish up there. Some nights, he wouldn’t come to bed. Some nights, I thought I could hear things, up there. Voices. Or things that weren’t voices.” She shuddered.
“He started to get worse. He’d get angry, and things would happen. Little things. The drapes would catch on fire at one edge. Or things would fly off the walls and break.” She turned her haunted gaze toward her cute, tacky cows for a moment, as though assuring herself that they were still there.
“He’d scream at us for no reason. Or burst out laughing for no reason. He…he saw things. Things I couldn’t see. I thought he was going crazy.”
“But you never confronted him,” I said, quietly.
She shook her head. “No. God forgive me. I couldn’t. I had gotten used to being quiet, Mr. Dresden. To not making a fuss.” She took a deep breath and continued. “Then, one night, he came to me and woke me up. He made me drink something. He told me that it would make me see, make me understand him. That if I drank, I would see the things he saw. That he wanted me to understand him, that I was his wife.” This time, she did start crying, tears that coursed silently down her cheeks, the corners of her mouth.
Something else clicked solidly into place, where I’d already thought it would go. “The ThreeEye,” I said.
She nodded. “And…I saw things, Mr. Dresden. I saw him.” Her face screwed up, and I thought she was going to vomit. I could sympathize. To have the Third Sight suddenly opened to you like that, not knowing what it was, what was happening to you; to look on the man you had wed, who had given you children, and to see him for what he truly was, obsessed with power, consumed by greed—it had to have been hell. And it would remain with her. Always. She would never find the memory fading, never find the comfort and solace of years putting a comfortable padding between her and the image of her husband as a monster.