Good Guys

by Steven Brust

  “Very smart,” said Marci. “But I could have cast the spell myself.”

  “You take the joy out of life, girl. You are a joy-out-of-life taker.”

  Susan made a snorting sound, then turned to Marci and said, “So, fill us in?”

  Marci nodded. “Well, I’ll tell you first of all, I don’t think the medical examiner will ever figure it out.”

  “Oh?” said Donovan.

  “Caisson disease.”

  “I don’t think that’s ever come up in my medical billing job.”

  “Decompression sickness,” said Susan. “The bends.”

  Marci nodded. “They won’t find it in a post-mortem without looking, and they won’t look, because the guy probably wasn’t diving anytime within the last couple of days.”

  “So,” said Donovan, “there is a spell that just does that to someone?”

  “So it seems.”

  “Damn.”

  “That’s an awful sudden manifestation,” said Susan.

  Marci nodded.

  “What would the symptoms be?” asked Donovan.

  “I don’t know. There are a whole catalog that could have happened. What finally killed him would probably have been an arterial embolism or damage to the spine. I think. I’m not an expert; I just learned about it when I went diving with my family one summer.”

  “Joint pain,” said Susan. “Arms, legs, maybe both. Maybe a skin rash, maybe dizziness.”

  “But,” said Donovan to Marci. “You can tell that’s what it is?”

  “Yes.”

  “That,” said Susan, “is pretty amazing.”

  “Painful?” said Donovan.

  “A case bad enough to kill? Oh yes,” said Hippie Chick.

  “More painful than drowning beneath a layer of ice?”

  Susan looked at him quickly. “I don’t know how you can measure something like that, but certainly more drawn-out. Why?”

  “Progression,” said Donovan. “I need to get back home. I have some things to check, and then a Skype call to make.” He stood up. “I want to run. Hippie, can you get the check and expense it?”

  “Sure.”

  “The sound protection should stay up for half an hour or so. I’m leaving now so I won’t hear you talking about how smart I am.”

  He headed out the door and back to his arrival spot in a deep shadow of the parking garage, there to take him home. Well. A goddamned clue. About fucking time, he thought.

  7

  COMMUNICATION

  Donovan was still awake, trying to work things out, when the phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID and answered.

  “Hey, Donny. Is this a secure line?”

  “Uh. No.”

  Jeff’s chuckle came through the phone. “Yeah, that was a joke. There’s no such thing.”

  Donovan felt his mouth twitch. “Did you learn something, Jeff?”

  “Yeah. Lawton-Smythe used Verizon. They don’t keep their records more than a year. But Blum had T-Mobile, and they keep their records for more like seven years.”

  “Sweet. Could you hack in?”

  “No.”

  “Shit.”

  “But I managed to forge a court order and give them a dummy email address to send the records to. It was easier.”

  “Really? Easier?”

  “In this case, yeah. They don’t look at those too closely anymore, because of how many they’re getting. You just sort of digitally show up, wave it, and say, ‘Gimme.’ I couldn’t create a ‘gov’ email address, but I figured if I made a ‘usa.gov.’ one they wouldn’t look too close. And I am now, by the way, part of the ‘Department of Justice Interstate Highway Intervention Task Force.’ In fact, I’m all of it.”

  “You are a smart, smart man. What did you find?”

  “Two calls from Lawton-Smythe to Blum. First one April 9, 2011, second one February 23, 2015. Each one lasted about ten minutes.”

  “That’s what I needed! You are a god among criminals.”

  “Does that mean I get paid?”

  “If I have anything to say about it. Email me your bill and I’ll kick it upstairs and prepare to make a stink.”

  “You the man, Donny.”

  “You can put that in the email, too.”

  “Can you give me a hint what this is about?”

  “They were both murdered, and I haven’t found a connection between them.”

  “Until now.”

  “I still haven’t. You have.”

  “Well, there you go. Now what?”

  “Now I have two more names.”

  “How about if I wait until I’ve been paid for this one?”

  “Jeff—”

  “Jesus Christ, Don. You know I can get arrested for this? The authorities have no sense of humor about people forging court orders. How much of this do you want me to do for nothing?”

  “Yeah, okay. That’s fair. I’ll get on it.”

  “Cool. Talk to you soon.”

  Donovan disconnected, and composed an email to the Black Hole. He had certain skills, but they did not include finding the right note between demanding and pleading when submitting a requisition for a third-party payment. It took him more than two hours, and when he was done he poured himself a drink.

  “Shit,” he announced to the empty room. Then, “I should get a cat.” It wasn’t the first time he’d had the thought.

  As he drank his vodka, he mentally worked on putting things in order—in other words, on what he was going to tell Becker. Becker would want answers he didn’t yet have, but part of the job was keeping the boss informed, and a lot of it had come together in the last few hours.

  There were still too many unanswered questions when he received a phone call. His first thought was that it was awfully quick work for Budget and Oversight, but it was Becker. When Becker used the phone it meant he wasn’t at work, and if he wasn’t at work that meant something had happened.

  “Good evening, Mr. Becker. I’m not ready for you yet.”

  “I have news, Mr. Longfellow. I’ve gotten an answer from Artifacts and Enchantments.”

  “An answer? What was the question?”

  “Are there any traces of an artifact that can perform a time-stop.”

  “Oh, right. That. And the answer is ‘yes,’ or you wouldn’t have an answer.”

  “That is correct.”

  “All right. It’s good to have confirmation. Are there details about its history and all that?”

  “They’ll be along.”

  “Good. I’ll have something solid for you soon. Now, about our victim.”

  “Benjamin Lundgren, thirty-six years old, married, one daughter, eleven. He deals in insurance instruments. Please do not ask me to explain what an ‘insurance instrument’ is; I have no idea.”

  “Is he a sorcerer?”

  “Very minor. In 2010, he committed vehicular manslaughter while driving under the influence, yet nothing ever came of it. We are fairly certain he used his skills to accomplish that, although he may have done it with nothing more than money. We also know that he regularly uses sorcery to seduce women.”

  “That is, like, really creepy, Mr. Becker.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “All right,” said Donovan. “Give me some time to sort it out, and I’ll call you back.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  “What time is it there?”

  “Two AM.”

  “Mr. Becker, I’m going to go to bed early, and rest my brain, then get up tomorrow morning and work this shit out. How about you do the same.”

  Pause, then, “Very well, Mr. Longfellow. It is important we don’t waste time on false trails. A little extra time to ensure we’re going in the correct direction would not be amiss.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Becker,” said Donovan, wondering if the irony came across on the phone, and if it would matter if it did.

  “Good night, Mr. Longfellow.”

  * * *

  Matt pulled the earbud to give hi
s ear a rest and to think. Well, he told himself. That is all very interesting. I’m starting to think old Donny didn’t lie to me. Strange.

  If Don was going to bed, he, Matt, would do the same, as soon as he figured out where. A hotel room would be nice, but the money in his pocket wouldn’t cover it. He glanced at the cash register, but shook his head: not someplace he’d been hanging out for hours. And, No. Stop it. You don’t do that anymore. Good guy, remember? Good guys don’t terrorize poor bastards who work in restaurants. He frowned. Drug dealers, now. Drug dealers are another matter. He felt just a hint of quickening of his heart, and the bitter taste in his mouth as he thought about being in action again.

  He put a few bucks on the table, got up, paid the check, and stepped out into the night like he owned it.

  * * *

  Chicago was rough, no question. It got to me; I admit that. But once I was back in my room, it hit me how close I was to my goal. Just one more between me and Whittier. Just one. I wasn’t supposed to be thinking about that—I knew it was important to concentrate on one target at a time. But so close!

  Next stop was New Orleans. I had twice been to the French Quarter with my—on vacations, and it was wonderful. The French Quarter isn’t New Orleans any more than the Strip is Las Vegas, but I’d loved it, and looked forward to going back.

  Of course, with those thoughts going through my head it shouldn’t surprise you that I had trouble sleeping that night—the first time since I’d started this.

  After tossing and turning for most of an hour, I got up and looked at the file. I paged through it, studied his picture, read up on who he was. Then I put the file down and stared out the window. I could see planes landing and taking off. I’d be on one tomorrow, after another meeting with Charlie. Perspective is a funny thing. There was an airplane, over there, and here I was watching it. Inside were passengers staring out, seeing the lights of the Hilton. And tomorrow I’d be in one of those, maybe looking back this way at someone looking out at me.

  I decided that, when my brain started doing that, it meant it was ready to shut down. I got back into bed and fell asleep.

  * * *

  Camellia Morgan stared out of her office window. Below her were tiny cars and tinier people and busses that looked like toys and the other buildings along the Paseo del Prado.

  They had all gone home now—Hodari to Hong Kong, Fat Harold to Cairo, Sir Thomas to Prague—and she had carried her point. The challenge now was to make it work.

  Technically, she had been elected to her position six years ago, when Yamauchi retired. In fact, the election was a formality—Yamauchi had all but declared her his heir, and the board had never even considered anyone else. She had earned the position—no one questioned that. And now she had to keep earning it, every day: not to keep the confidence of the board, but for her own self-respect.

  The investigation was running, yes—and in the hands of those best able to find answers. But.

  But there were those things she hadn’t told the investigators. At the top of the list was just how widespread the attacks were.

  She sighed and watched the cars and the bicycles and the pedestrians, each one a bubble, the bubbles occasionally interacting, but fundamentally isolated, like each department, like each section of each department—the product of an organization that had been burned too badly by openness and trust, and now could never trust again.

  There were nine pictures on the wall of the Executive Branch, taken right from the wall of the previous Executive Branch, on the top floor of the old Edificio de Oficinas Álvar Núñez Cabeza de Vaca in the financial district. The pictures were of varying quality, and showed four men and five women, with their names and the years of their births and deaths. The youngest had died at the age of thirty-one, the oldest at the age of seventy-one, and they had all died in 1944. And though cause of death wasn’t listed, Camellia knew it very well: They had all died of trust. Trust in fellow sorcerers, trust in the good intentions of the Mystici, trust in the incredulity of Franco’s secret police. They had died sacrificing themselves in a last effort to save the Foundation. It had changed things: The Foundation had been forced to reach out to other countries, especially the English-speaking world, and to fill its ranks with those who could protect it, and one another. It had worked—the Foundation had survived the war that had destroyed so many other institutions and people. But the effects lingered.

  She and Yamauchi had spoken of it a great deal. He called it hankon soshiki—scar tissue. As he neared the end of his life, he’d said that her greatest task would be to determine when the Foundation had healed enough to replace the scars, and how to remove them. And now, when the attack was focused, not on them, but on the Mystici, and the protocols were actively interfering with the investigation, wasn’t this the perfect time?

  Unless Hodari was right.

  Yamauchi had no patience for vacillation, or half measures. He had been slow, patient, and methodical, but when he determined a course of action he saw it through to the end. That was how the Foundation had survived the confrontation with the Church in ’69, and how they’d rescued the Mystici from their own folly in ’74.

  So, yes, she would not rush into a decision. But a decision would have to be made, and it was her duty to make it, and then abide by the consequences.

  She picked up her office phone and punched in a number.

  * * *

  The call was answered after four rings with the word, “Camellia!”

  She put the phone on speaker, hung up the receiver, and sat back in her chair and said in English, “Hello, Elsa. You’re on speaker.”

  “Is anyone else there?” Elsa’s accent was middle-class London slightly tinged with Yorkshire.

  “No. How are you? How is your new hip?”

  “Perfect. No pain, no loss of mobility. Of course, that wasn’t all medical science.”

  “I’m pleased for you.”

  “Thank you, dear. And you? How is everything with my ancient enemies?”

  Camellia no longer laughed when Elsa said that, but still smiled. “Better, I think, than with you.”

  “Yes,” said Elsa, her voice suddenly serious. “The murders. You are following up on them, I trust?”

  “That is what you don’t pay us enough to do, dear.”

  “Camellia, is this about money? Because if it is—”

  “No, no. I just can’t resist putting in a dig now and then.”

  “Then how can I be of service to the Foundation today?”

  “All of the attacks are directed against operatives or associates of the Mystici.”

  “Yes. We are quite aware of that.”

  “Then help us out. Do you see a final target? Can you get an idea of motive? Anything?”

  “You know I’m not permitted to give you any details of our personnel, clients, or activity.”

  “Yes, but this time it’s different, don’t you think?”

  “How?”

  “Scale.”

  “By definition, that is a difference of degree, not kind.”

  “At some point, quantity transforms into quality, Elsa. This is big. This is stretching our resources. We need help. And I shouldn’t have to remind you that this is in both our interests. The Foundation is not the enforcement arm of the Mystici, and if you treat us as if we were—”

  “I cannot release confidential information. That has been the agreement since we started funding you. If there is something you wish that does not require releasing confidential information, name it and I’ll see what I can do.”

  Camellia stood up and stared out the window. The shadows from the trees of the meadow cast complex shapes onto the plaza. Sometimes she imagined the patterns formed codes that revealed the true nature of the universe. She was not altogether certain they didn’t. She turned back to the phone.

  “As a matter of fact, there is one thing you can do.”

  “Yes?”

  “Swear to me, Elsa Jane Merriweather, swear to me by b
oth your power and your powers, that these killings aren’t your doing, that the Roma Vindices Mystici are not behind this, and that you don’t know who is.”

  There was a pause, then, “I so swear, by both my power and my powers.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Camellia, I don’t know how you could think … we’re the non-violent ones, for heaven’s sake!”

  “And also the ones ready to lend a hand to anyone with enough—no, sorry. We won’t go there. Thank you for the assurance. I’ll be in touch.”

  Camellia hung up the phone, then went back and stared out the window some more. Well then, she thought. At least there’s that.

  * * *

  Well, damn, thought Matt. One guy supplies magic, the other uses it, and they’re going around killing people.

  He took the earbud out, disconnected the cell, and stood up. The motel was cheap—though not inexpensive—but it had been warm, and he’d slept better than he had expected. It was just after 10:30 in the morning.

  He showered and dressed in the same clothes he’d worn yesterday—the only clothes he had. Had he gotten enough from that drug dealer to at least get new socks and underwear? He had. Good. He’d do that first, even before breakfast. But then, breakfast. A lot of it. Eggs over easy, hashed browns, bacon, French toast, and a waffle. He was going to eat a big breakfast. Then he would—what?

  Then he’d need to do some things he didn’t know how to do. Well, that was okay; he’d find out. At least it wasn’t dangerous. Public libraries were rarely dangerous.

  He left the room key card on the dresser and headed out.

  This city stinks, he thought. Why do I like it so much?

  * * *

  “Good morning, Mr. Becker.”

  “It’s afternoon here, Mr. Longfellow.”

  “Right. I’ve managed to put some of it together. Let me ask you something. Do we have any spies inside the Mystici?”

  “No, Mr. Becker. So far as I know, we do not.”

  “Would you know if we did?”

  “I very likely would not, but I do know a great deal about our resources, and I am fairly confident.”

  “All right. Do they have any spies inside the Foundation?”

  “It is possible.”