His Father's Eyes - eARC

by DAVID B. COE

  He didn’t answer right away. “So I was right about her.”

  “Yes, you were.”

  “I’ll have Rolon and Paco bring you a car. Any requests; I have a nice collection.”

  “Something understated. I don’t want to be noticed. Paco’s lowrider would be a bad choice.” I paused, knowing I would regret this. “I could also use a firearm. A Glock 22 would be great—the .40. Failing that, any nine millimeter will do.”

  “All right. Where are you?”

  “I’ll be waiting for them in the parking lot of the Chandler Airport in half an hour.”

  “They’ll be there,” he said, and ended the call.

  I didn’t like relying on Amaya for help. It was bad enough that I was working for him, and that I had to conceal our arrangement from Kona. But I didn’t know where else to turn; few of my friends had extra cars lying around, not to mention extra pistols. Unfortunately, I had the sense that each time I called the man for help or a favor, I was cementing a relationship of which I really wanted no part.

  But like the approach of the phasing, this couldn’t be helped. I needed a car, and fast. I set out on the lengthy trek to Chandler’s little municipal airport. As I walked, I tried to work out how best to use the remaining hours before the phasing began. I had much of the day left, but that didn’t seem like enough time; not even close.

  I wasn’t ready to face Patty and Witcombe again, which left Dimples. And I’d thought of a way I might track him down.

  I reached the airport in good time, and had to wait a few minutes before Paco and Rolon showed up. They pulled into the parking lot with a bit more fanfare than I would have liked, Paco’s lowrider rumbling like some hotrod in a Sixties beach-party movie. Rolon trailed him, driving a cream-colored, late-model Lexus sedan. I could tell already that Amaya’s loaner was going to spoil me for any car I’d ever be able to afford.

  They got out of their respective cars and waited as I joined them. I eyed the Lexus.

  “Nice car.”

  “You sure you don’t want the lowrider?” Paco asked, grinning. “She’s pretty fast.”

  “Too much car for me,” I said.

  He laughed.

  Rolon reached into the pocket of his sports jacket, pulled out a Glock just like the one I’d lost, and held it out to me. “From Jacinto. He says to keep it.”

  I took the weapon from him, but shook my head. “I’ll bring it back to him once I have a chance to retrieve mine or buy a new one.”

  Rolon turned grave. “Don’t, amigo. He’ll be insulted, and he’s not a man you want to piss off, you know?” He shrugged. “Besides, it’s not like he’ll miss it. He’s got enough to arm . . .” He glanced at Paco, grinned again. “Well, he’s got plenty.”

  “All right,” I said, slipping the weapon into my bomber pocket. “Tell him I said thanks.”

  “The magazine’s full,” Rolon said. “And it’s the high capacity; seventeen rounds.”

  “Good to know. Again, thanks.”

  Rolon tossed me the fob. “Jacinto also told me I should offer my help.”

  I was already reaching for the door handle on the Lexus, but I stopped now. “What?”

  “I can ride with you. Help you with what you’re doing.” He flashed the familiar grin once more, exposing a single gold tooth. “I shoot good, and I can craft a bit.”

  “Not to mention, you’re built like a brick shithouse.”

  Paco laughed. After a moment Rolon did, too.

  “Yeah, not to mention that.”

  I pulled off my bomber and held up my bandaged arm. “This may not look like much,” I said, “but I nearly died last night. And the guys I’m going up against today aren’t likely to be any more gentle.”

  “You trying to scare me, Fearsson?”

  “I’m trying to be straight with you. You’re not volunteering for an easy day off from whatever it is Amaya has you doing.”

  His grin vanished. “It’s Mister Amaya. And I wasn’t interested in a day off. He told me to go with you because he thinks I can help. If you don’t want me riding along, say so.”

  I opened the driver’s side door of the Lexus and slid into the seat. “Hop in. I’m driving.”

  He flashed another smile and said something to Paco in Spanish that I didn’t catch.

  A moment later he got in the car.

  I was taking a moment. Leather seats that molded themselves to my body, a steering wheel that felt like an extension of my hands, an interior that was more spacious than rooms in some five-star hotels. Yeah, I never wanted to drive anything else. And I hadn’t even turned the key yet.

  After studying the dashboard for about three seconds, I realized there was no key. This was one of those push-button-start luxury models. I started it up, the purr of the engine as sexy as Saorla’s voice. What can I say? I like nice cars.

  “So where are we going?” Rolon asked as I steered us out of the airport lot.

  “Back to the doggie’s single-wide.”

  He nodded, leaned forward, and clicked on the radio. It was already set to a Latino pop station. He grinned at me and cranked the volume. It wouldn’t have been my choice, but he’d brought me a car and a new Glock. I couldn’t complain.

  CHAPTER 20

  The weremyste community in Phoenix was small compared with the general population of the metropolitan area. There might have been a thousand active mystes in all, and we tended to know each other. Not always, of course. I hadn’t been aware that Regina Witcombe and Jacinto Amaya were mystes, nor had I known about Patty. But people as famous as Witcombe and Amaya were bound to be exceptions, and I assumed that those who dabbled in dark magic would have kept to the shadows as well. The rest of us, though, had at least a passing familiarity with our fellow runecrafters, be it because we hung out at the same bars, or because we saw each other every month at the Moon Market, a floating marketplace where mystes could buy herbs and oils, crystals and talismans, and just about any other goods purported to lessen the effect of the phasing.

  I was hoping that the werecreature community worked the same way.

  I drove us into Buckeye and down to Gary Hacker’s single-wide. We parked by Hacker’s truck and got out. Rolon already had his SIG Sauer in hand. I pulled out the Glock. The structure and yard looked exactly as they had the day before, and the air conditioner was still rattling. But something about the place gave me pause. Or paws. Yesterday, Hacker had appeared at the door almost as soon as I pulled up to his home. Today it was too quiet; thinking this made me feel once more like an actor in a bad movie.

  Rolon and I exchanged glances. I pointed at myself and then at the door to the single-wide. He nodded and followed me, gripping his pistol with both hands.

  I knocked once on the door and called, “Hacker?”

  No answer. I tried the knob. The door was locked. I pounded again.

  “Wha’ the hell?” I heard from inside. He sounded fine. Hung over, but fine.

  I glanced at Rolon again. He had lowered his weapon.

  “It’s Jay Fearsson. Open up.”

  “Go away. I’m not riskin’ bein’ turned again.”

  “I have Rolon with me, Gary, and he’s perfectly willing to tear the door off your house if he has to. Now open up. We won’t stay long.”

  I heard uneven footsteps, and then the click of a door lock. The door swung open, revealing Hacker, unshaven, puffy-eyed, and a not-so-healthy shade of green.

  He pointed a shaking finger at Rolon. “You did this to me. You and that goddamned trank. I’m still sore where the dart hit me, and I feel like I’ve been on a six-day bender.”

  “Let us in, Gary.”

  He glared at me. “Why the hell should I? The two of you ruined my yesterday; today’s goin’ to be no better.”

  “Rolon’s with me. And that means Jacinto wants you to help us.”

  His expression curdled, but he backed out of the doorway and waved us in.

  I entered. Rolon followed me, closing the door behi
nd him. Hacker had dropped himself onto his couch; he looked like he was about to be sick.

  “So, what? More questions about the people who spelled me?”

  I shook my head. “No. There’s another were I need to find and I thought maybe you’d know him. He’s a big guy, tall and wide. Dark curly hair, bushy beard and moustache.” I closed my eyes, trying to recall the image of him I’d seen in my scrying at Sweetwater Park. “I think he may have a tattoo on his left shoulder. A hawk, or maybe an eagle.” Opening my eyes again, I said, “Do you know of anyone like that?”

  “A were, you say?”

  “That’s right.”

  “The tattoo is an angel, I think. But yeah, I know him. His name’s Bear. Least that’s what he calls himself.”

  I wanted to say that I’d been calling him that, too, but I kept it to myself, asking instead, “He have a last name?”

  “Martell. I think his real name’s Carl, but don’t hold me to that.”

  “All right. Do you know where he lives?”

  “Not too far from here. Avondale, I’m pretty sure.”

  “Thank you, Gary. That’s helpful.”

  I reached for the door, ready to leave.

  “That’s it? That’s all you wanted to know?”

  “It’s all I’m willing to risk asking. Someone’s watching one of us—you or me. We learned that the hard way yesterday. And besides, I think I know what the guy who spelled you looks like.”

  “You do?” Gary asked, his eyes widening.

  “Yeah. Take care.”

  Rolon and I left the mobile home and got back into the Lexus.

  “You still have that tranquilizer gun?” I asked, as I backed up and got us turned around.

  “Sí, it’s in the trunk. Jacinto told me to bring it. Why? You expecting more doggie trouble?”

  “No, I’m pretty sure this next guy shifts into a bear.”

  While I drove to Avondale, Rolon used his smartphone to track down an address for Carl Martell. Bear lived in a working-class neighborhood on the west side of the town. His house was small, and similar places stood shoulder to shoulder with his. Kids played in one yard; an older couple sat on a narrow porch in front of the other, eyeing us with understandable mistrust. Rolon managed to retrieve the trank gun and slip it under his jacket without drawing too much attention to himself, but still I thought the old woman was going to run inside and call the police.

  Lacking a better plan, we walked to Martell’s door and knocked. “I’ll do the talking,” I said, my voice low.

  “You’re the boss, amigo.”

  After a few seconds, the door swung open and Martell stood before us in a black Nickelback T-shirt and baggy cargo shorts. “Yeah, what do you—” He stared at us, his mouth hanging open, one mammoth hand clenched. I knew he could see the magic on us; I was counting on that getting us in the door.

  “What do you guys want with me now?” he asked, his gaze flitting back and forth between us.

  “Just to talk, Carl.”

  He squinted, chewed his lip. “Do I know you?”

  “No. But I know a bit about you, and we need a word.”

  “What about?”

  “Inside,” I said.

  He crossed his arms over his massive chest. “What about?”

  Rolon reached into his jacket, probably for his pistol, but I held out a hand, stopping him.

  “About Jeff.”

  “Who the f—?” His face went white. “Shit,” he whispered.

  “Let us in.”

  He nodded and pushed open the screen. Rolon and I stepped into the house. Bear closed the door and faced us. Big as he was, he appeared terrified; I swear I thought he was going to cry.

  His place stank of cigarette smoke and was sparsely furnished: There were a couple of chairs and a coffee table, but otherwise the living room reminded me more of a playroom. He had a nice stereo system and a good-sized flat-screen TV set on the wall between his speakers. Closer to the front door was a rack of compact discs that must have been five feet high. Martell was a music fan.

  “You guys must know that it wasn’t my idea to kill Jeff. I mean, I swore to Palmer that I’d do it, but I didn’t know . . . I thought it was going to be different—after I mean.”

  I stopped surveying the room and focused on Bear. “You knew that Palmer was going to kill him.”

  “Well, yeah, sure. I mean, that’s how blood spells work, right? You know that as well as—”

  He clammed up, his eyes narrowing as the realization hit him. He even took a step toward me, but as soon as he did, Rolon drew his pistol. Bear halted.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “Not who you thought we were,” I said. “But I guess that’s pretty clear by now, isn’t it?” I gestured toward the nearest chair. “Sit down.”

  “Not until you tell me who the fuck you are, as if I don’t know already. Cops, right?”

  There were laws against lying about such a thing, and on this day in particular I wasn’t in the mood to run afoul of the police. Any more than I already had. “I’m a private detective,” I said. “Jay Fearsson. I’m helping the police with an investigation.”

  “And him?” Bear asked, eyeing Rolon.

  “A concerned citizen,” Amaya’s man told him. “Now, sit.”

  He glanced again at Rolon’s .45 and sat.

  “How did you get hooked up with Palmer?” I asked.

  Bear stared back at me and said nothing.

  “I can make you talk, cabronzote,” Rolon said. He held up his weapon. “I don’t even have to use this.”

  “It won’t come to that,” I said. “Bear wants to help us, because he realizes now that he’s in over his head.” He remained silent, but he wasn’t glaring at me anymore. In fact, he refused to look at me at all. I pressed on. “You thought they were going to make you more powerful, didn’t you? You thought you’d have control over when you shifted. You probably even imagined that tonight would be easier for you because of the spell Palmer cast. And Jeff, he was collateral damage. An old homeless guy, living alone? No one was going to miss him, and it’s not like his life was that great, right?”

  Still nothing.

  “C’mon, Jay,” Rolon said. “Let me soften him up a little. Just enough to get him talking. We’re wasting time here.”

  I didn’t know if Rolon was serious, or if he was playing a role, trying to get Bear to answer my questions. Either way, though, he was helping. Martell might have had a few pounds on the guy, but he seemed to understand that he was no match for him in a fight. He’d gone pale.

  “Yeah, all right,” I said.

  Rolon took a step in Bear’s direction. That was all it took.

  “No, wait,” Bear said, holding up his hands.

  “Hold on.”

  Amaya’s man glanced my way; I could tell he was disappointed.

  I recited a spell in my head. The three of us, the room we were in, and a thick blanket. The idea was to mute the sound of our voices so that anyone listening in—namely Saorla—wouldn’t be able to hear us. I repeated the elements three times and released the magic.

  “What was that?” Rolon asked.

  “A muffling spell,” I said. “The last time I had a conversation like this, it reached the wrong ears. This time it won’t.”

  Bear frowned.

  “How did you meet Palmer?” I asked.

  He chewed his lip for a few seconds, his gaze settling again and again on Rolon and his SIG Sauer. “He found me,” he said. “I’m not entirely sure how. But he knew I was a were, and he said he wanted to help me.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know exactly. Just a few months, though. Not long.”

  “And what’s his first name?”

  Bear’s brow furrowed. “What?”

  “Palmer’s first name: What is it?”

  “That is his first name,” Bear said, frowning at me like I was the dumbest guy on the planet. “Palmer Hain.”<
br />
  “All right. My mistake. Go on.”

  “Well, it’s like you said. He made it sound like a great idea. I’d be able to control when I shifted, maybe skip a phasing or two if I wanted. That sounds pretty good. I was ready to go for it right away. But then he starts putting me off, you know? One week to the next I don’t know when we’re going to do the spell. I’m eager, but he’s suddenly hard to reach. First he’s my best friend, and then he’s nowhere, right?”

  “But that changed this week,” I said, prompting him.

  “Yeah. Last week, actually. He calls me and says he’s sorry, that he’s been really busy helping out other weres. But he’s ready for me now, and I’m to meet him somewhere in Paradise Valley.”

  “Sweetwater Park?”

  He nodded. “I met him there, and we just talked. He told me about the spell and what was involved. He told me then that we’d . . . well, that we’d have to kill a guy to do it. At first I was, like, ‘Whoa! No way, dude!’ But he promised me the guy wouldn’t feel anything, that he’d spell him first. And he said it would be nobody, right? A homeless guy who didn’t have a family or friends or anything to live for.” He twisted his mouth and blinked a couple of times, trying not to cry. “I suppose that sounds really lame. Truth is, I wanted to do the spell. I don’t like being a were, at least not most of the time. I was happy to go along with it.”

  “So what happened after the spell?”

  “After?” he repeated, sounding surprised that I didn’t want him to describe the murder itself. I didn’t bother telling him that I’d seen it in my scrying stone. “Palmer turned me, and then turned me back.” He grimaced. “Then he did it again, and a third time.” One of his hands strayed to his chest and rubbed at his heart, perhaps remembering the way it felt when that arc of golden magic hammered into him. “You’re both weremystes; I can see the magic on you. So you wouldn’t know what it feels like being a were. It hurts like hell. And having someone force a shift on you a few times—that’ll mess you up pretty good.