by Eileen Wilks
Halfway through the transcription of an interview with the daughter of victim twenty, she got a nudge . . . a teeny little poke that set up a vague itch between her eyes. She frowned and skimmed back through a couple other accounts . . . and called up the database someone at headquarters had set up. It held the basic stats about all the victims. A quick sort of that database turned the itch into a quiver, like a bird dog on point. She switched to her browser and asked Google for some statistical data. It obliged.
Knuckles rapped on the windshield. She jumped, wished she hadn’t, and popped the trunk. She opened her door and started to get out.
“Sit, sit,” the man who’d knocked on her windshield said. “The day I need help with my bag from someone I outweigh by a hundred pounds, I’m retiring.” He wheeled his suitcase back toward the trunk.
He didn’t outweigh her by a hundred pounds. Seventy, maybe, and alas, not all of it was muscle. Abel Karonski looked like he’d been born middle-aged and rumpled. Rumpled hair, shirt, skin. The hair was brown and thinning on top, the skin was pale verging on pasty, and the shirt was white with a reddish stain not quite covered by his tie. Strawberry jam, probably. For breakfast Karonski liked to have a little toast with his strawberry jam.
She felt as much as heard his suitcase thump into the trunk. A moment later he slid into the passenger seat and slammed his door. “Any word on your mom?”
She shook her head and started the car.
“You want me not to talk about her?”
“I’m trying to keep all that stuffed away. Stay focused on the job. It helps if I can focus on the job.”
“Okay.” He patted her shoulder. Karonski wasn’t a toucher, so from him, that was a hug. “So tell me why you were thinking so hard you didn’t see me until I banged on the windshield.”
Lily put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb. This was made easier by the way Mike’s Toyota blocked oncoming traffic. “I finally noticed something. Maybe you already spotted it. All forty-six of our likely or confirmed victims are adults. Twenty have adult children. Twenty-two of them are fifty years and up. That’s almost half. In the general population, only one in nine people is over fifty.”
“Huh. That means something. I don’t know what, but something.” He chewed that over and nodded. “Schools. I didn’t see any mention of them in your report. Have you asked what grade school or middle school the vics went to?”
Excitement fluttered in her gut. “That’s good. That’s a good possibility. I’ve got some info on colleges, but they didn’t all go to college. We didn’t ask about lower grades.”
“You drive. I’ll call Ackleford.” He took out his phone. “We headed to the Bureau’s office?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I need to let you know that . . . Ackleford. This is Karonski. I’ll be there in fifteen or so. I know you can’t wait to see me again, but . . . heh-heh. Good to know you’re still the same shining wit I remember, though what you suggest is anatomically impossible. Listen, I’ve got something for you to do to fill the empty minutes till I get there.”
Lily listened to Karonski’s instructions with half an ear as she began winding through the concrete maze that led away from the airport. After a pause Karonski shook his head and said, “My, but you do get cranky when you’re short on sleep. Just how short are you?”
She’d tried to send Ackleford home earlier. He’d waved her off.
“That’s what I thought,” Karonski said. “After the press conference . . . hell, yeah, I’m holding a press conference. One thirty. Ida’s arranging it, so you don’t have to sully yourself by talking to any damn reporters. Once that’s done, I’ll try to struggle on without you while you catch some shut-eye.” A pause. “Because I want you on nights, that’s why.” Karonski glanced at Lily, his eyes crinkling with amusement. “Because I’ve got other shit for her to do. Yeah, yeah, but I’m the son of a bitch in charge, so you’ll have to live with it.” Another pause. A chuckle. “You do that.”
“He wouldn’t go home when I told him to,” Lily said.
Karonski put his phone back in his jacket’s inside pocket. “You’re genetically compromised in his eyes, being as how you lack that magic Y chromosome. In spite of that, he damn near complimented you. Wanted to know why I didn’t leave ‘that Yu chick’ in charge nights, seeing that you’re halfway competent.”
“You actually like him, don’t you?”
“Smartest asshole I know. He’s pissed because he didn’t think of the age slant or about checking where the victims went to school. Made it hard for him to argue that he was doing fine on almost no sleep.”
“So why are you holding a press conference? The piranhas of the press haven’t tumbled to the story yet.”
“Two reasons. First, they’re tumbling, even if they haven’t put anything on the air yet. Ida’s fielding calls about that bulletin to the hospitals. Won’t be long before someone opens his big, fat mouth to a reporter. Second . . .” His voice turned grim. “We’ve got to. Your mom lost her memory back to when she was twelve. That’s the most years any of the victims lost, with the possible exception of the one who’s in a coma. Maybe that’s what went wrong with her. Maybe she lost too many years. Even if that isn’t what happened, what if there are others like her? We need people to check on their friends, their relatives, their neighbors.”
“Hell.” Lily’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “People who live alone. I didn’t think of that. I didn’t think.”
“Yeah, so take a good thirty, forty seconds and beat yourself up about that. Or you can do like Ruben and save it for a later brood, when you’ve got more time for that sort of thing.”
So Ruben hadn’t thought of the possibility, either. That was some comfort. But Lily knew she’d missed that horrible possibility because she was distracted. Because it was her mother who was the first victim. Her mother who’d lost the most . . . so far. “I’m glad you’re here. What did you have in mind for me, since you want the Big A in charge at night?”
“You tell me.” Plastic crinkled as he opened a pack of peanuts. “You’ve got your own investigation to handle.”
“Right now, I don’t have anything. Nothing the Bureau can’t do better and faster. The only angle I can see is to keep looking for what connects the victims, and that takes manpower. That’s the Bureau’s thing.”
“Guess you need some thinking time, then.” He crunched down on a handful of peanuts. Chewed, swallowed. “Heard from the coven yet?”
“They didn’t learn anything at the restaurant, which isn’t surprising. Whatever spell or rite caused this wasn’t performed there, so there weren’t any traces from it for them to find. They’re going to work with one of the victims, though. She’s Wiccan, so she isn’t weirded out by having witches chant over her. They hope to find out something about what was done to her. What caused all this.”
“You don’t sound hopeful.”
“If Sam doesn’t have a clue, is the coven likely to figure it out?”
“If this had been a magical attack, I’d say no. If it’s spiritual, like the dragon and Seaborne say . . . Lily, you’ve got to stop thinking of this the way you would a magical attack.”
“I don’t have a way of thinking about spirit.”
“Spirit is . . .” He flopped his hand back and forth. “It can be good. Can be evil, too. I’m betting this shit lands on the evil side.”
“Do you believe in evil?”
“Yep. Do you?”
“I don’t know,” she said slowly. “Evil like the devil? Not so much. Evil like some—some vile, insentient force? Maybe.” She thought about it. “Death magic. The way that feels . . . I guess I do think evil is real.”
“If evil exists, then good does, too.”
“Do we have to talk about this?”
“Yes. Have you thought about the fact that your Gift doesn
’t protect you from spiritual energy?”
Her mouth opened. Closed. Her stomach went hollow. “No. No, I hadn’t thought of that.”
“You’ll need to draw on what you know about good to protect yourself. Religion is no guarantee of protection, but it helps. You don’t have a faith, a spiritual practice, so you need to think about what you do believe in. What you know in your gut about goodness.” He crunched down on another handful of peanuts. “Do dragons have a spiritual practice?”
“I—I don’t know. The subject hasn’t come up.” She thought that over, frowning. “Sam said spirit was capricious and personal and universal. That it was often spoken of in terms of good and evil. He said he couldn’t define it and didn’t understand it.”
“I like him.”
“What?”
“The dragon. He’s arrogant as hell, but too smart not to realize that and allow for it. In my branch of Wicca, we call spirit the great mystery. Buddhist koans point toward spirit. That’s all you can do, point in the general direction. You can’t corral it in words. You can’t use spirit the way you use magic or electricity. You can channel it, but you can’t use it, and to channel it, you have to submit to it. Not surprising Sam doesn’t understand spirit. Dragons are not good at submission.” He glanced at her, his mouth twitching up. “You aren’t, either. Plus, you want rules. Spirit doesn’t follow them. Not exactly.”
“Not exactly? What does that mean, not exactly?”
“Probably what your dragon meant when he called it capricious. There’s what you might call guidelines—religions are full of ’em—but they don’t come with guarantees. You can follow the hell out of the guidelines and get a different result from one time to the next.”
Great. She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. “Cullen said we need a saint. Drummond said I was supposed to get one. I may have found him, but I lost him again.”
“That homeless guy in your report.”
“Hardy. I don’t know if that’s his first name or last.”
“He hummed ‘Mother and Child Reunion’ at you.”
“And how did he know that song would fit? God told him?”
“Not impossible.”
“I am so not happy with the God-talk.”
“Then call it spirit instead.”
“Which can be either good or evil . . . though I still think the simplest explanation is that Hardy’s connected to the bad guys, and that’s how he knew about my mother.” She brooded on that a moment. “That’s where I need to start, I guess. I need to find Hardy. Whether he’s a saint with a mysterious source of knowledge or a bad guy, he knows things I need to know.”
“Glad you got that figured out.” More rustles from the plastic bag. “Damn. That’s all my peanuts. We’d better have lunch delivered PDQ. Don’t have much time. Mexican okay with you?”
“Fine, but I don’t see—”
“I don’t intend to talk to the press on an empty stomach. You shouldn’t, either.”
“Me? You don’t need me to—”
“Sure I do.” He tossed her a heartless grin. “Your face is better known than mine. Prettier, too. You’re gonna be right beside me at that press conference.”
THIRTEEN
TRAFFIC was unusually annoying on I-5. Rule drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and did not curse or contemplate a judicious culling of the herd. Not much.
The slow creep was aggravated by the fact that he couldn’t switch lanes aggressively. Impatience was not sufficient reason to risk losing the car tailing him. He glanced at the woman beside him. Nettie had asked him to let his guards follow in another car for the ride into the city. He was still waiting to find out why she’d wanted the privacy. He’d used the drive to tell her more about the situation, but that was nothing that his guards couldn’t hear. She hadn’t said anything they couldn’t hear, either.
Nettie was reading Lily’s report now, her head down, a pair of readers perched on her nose. It was a strong nose that went well with the copper skin and bladed cheekbones that were her heritage from both sides of her family. Benedict was half Navajo; her mother was full-blood.
Her hair was a throwback to Rule’s great-grandmother on his father’s side, or so Isen claimed. Not at all Navajo, that hair. Today she’d braided the unruly mass that, let loose, would have spilled in frizzy waves to her waist. As a teen, Nettie had hated her hair. She’d chopped it all off in medical school and kept it short until, when she turned thirty, it began turning gray. Somehow that change reconciled her to it. She’d worn it long ever since.
Rule had known his niece since she was in diapers. He’d studied women for years. He knew hair held meaning for women, that it affected how they saw themselves. He had no idea why its turning gray had made Nettie like hers. He was glad it had, but he didn’t understand it.
He eased forward another few feet. His phone chimed that he had a new text. He reached for it.
“You are not going to read text messages while driving,” his passenger informed him. “And yes, this speed still qualifies as driving.”
“Of course not.” Rule held the button down briefly without looking at his phone. “Read the text, please.” The automated voice complied. The text was from Lily, who wanted him to know that Abel—whom she insisted on calling Karonski, that being the preferred cop mode of address—was holding a press conference in thirty minutes. Abel wanted her to perform with him.
“That’s the damnedest thing.” Nettie shook her head. “Your phone reads your texts to you? Not that you should be using it at all when you’re driving.”
“I don’t do it at highway speeds.”
“You shouldn’t do it at all. And I don’t want to hear about your super-duper lupi reflexes. Even if you can avert a crash at the last minute, you shouldn’t put yourself in that position. Or me. Or the drivers around you.”
He wasn’t feeling charitable toward the drivers around him at the moment. There were too damn many of them. “I wouldn’t risk you.”
“Try not risking yourself, too. May I see your toy? How do you get it to talk to you?”
He handed her his phone and instructed her briefly in how to access Siri. Nettie had one of the oldest still-functioning cell phones in existence. It was another point of bafflement for Rule. She was no Luddite, yet she disliked cell phones and refused to upgrade.
While she played with Siri, they eased forward a bit faster. Maybe the bottleneck was breaking up at last.
Nettie handed him back his phone. “Maybe I should break down and get a smartphone.”
“I’ll get one for—”
“No, you won’t. Note that I said maybe I should. Not you. Feeling especially Leidolf and territorial today, are you?”
“I was feeling generous. Now I’m feeling annoyed.”
“Surely you know that lupi claim territory by giving presents? Leidolf’s especially obvious about it, but you all do it.”
That shut his mouth. Did he do that? Did his father? “The way you claim territory by constantly correcting me?”
Nettie chuckled. “It’s not constant, but if you’re going to be wrong so often—”
“Careful.”
“Not to mention prickly. What’s wrong?”
Rule gave her a look.
“You’re worried about Lily’s mother, of course. I know that. But I was raised by a champion brooder. I know a good brood when I see one. Something else is eating at you.”
“If I’d wanted to talk about it, perhaps I would have found a way to introduce the subject myself.”
“Did I ask if you wanted to talk about it?” Though her words were as tart as ever, her voice was gentle. She reached out and squeezed his arm. “Do you know what’s bothering you?”
Rule sighed. “I’ve found a new level of pettiness in myself. I’m not happy about it.”
She made a humm
ing noise that was supposed to encourage him to keep talking. When he didn’t, she did. “I’m not just being nosy, Rule. I’m wearing my shaman hat. If we’re dealing with a negative spiritual incursion—”
“A what?”
“A negative spiritual incursion into our world. Or you could call it the dark side of the Force. Or an evil god.”
“You mean the Great Bitch.”
“Actually, I don’t. Not necessarily. First, not all gods are Old Ones. Second, wouldn’t your mantles have reacted if her power was used directly against Julia Yu?”
“I think so, but if Friar is using an artifact, the power isn’t coming from her directly.”
“I don’t know much about artifacts.” Nettie thought about that a moment, then said, “Directed, focused spiritual power—to me that speaks of those we’ve traditionally called gods. But whether we’re dealing with a god or an artifact, spiritual power is involved, and spirit is different from magic.”
“So everyone keeps saying, without defining that difference.”
“Spirit can’t be pinned in place with a definition, but the difference . . . I can take a stab at that. Magic is inanimate and morally neutral, like electricity. Spirit is morally active and volitional.”
“It’s alive?”
“Not precisely. Spirit is what life is built from. That’s why Lily’s Gift doesn’t block it.”
“You need to tell Lily that.”
“Do I? All right.”
“Sam said that humans speak of spirit in terms of good and evil. Is that what you mean by morally active?”
“Close enough. My point is that if there’s a lot of really bad spiritual juju around, we have to be careful about our spiritual hygiene.”
He snorted. “Spiritual hygiene.”
She shrugged. “Evil infects. It’s like a virus. We encounter all kinds of viruses and bacteria every day—and spread them, too, without meaning to. Most people, most of the time, don’t get sick beyond a head cold or stomach upset. Similarly, most people, most of the time, fight off most of the infections caused by evil. But if we encounter the spiritual equivalent of the plague, we’re in trouble.”