Marked Fur Murder
Page 28
Fimsby shook his head. “When somebody like you makes a mistake, people die. Maybe by the thousands.”
“Or maybe they don’t,” Ben said. “Maybe they get saved by the thousands. Maybe somebody like me pushes a hurricane away from landfall, or convinces a tornado to go around that trailer park. That must have crossed your mind.”
Fimsby’s voice was unrepentant. “I couldn’t take the chance.”
“No? Well, life is chance, Doctor. Just because you don’t know the outcome doesn’t mean you refuse to roll the dice. And even if they aren’t as reliable as mathematics or chemistry or physics, there are still some things worth gambling on.”
Ben looked over at me. I blushed. I never blush.
“Thunderbirds are a lot more human than you seem to think,” Ben said. “You assume we’re just going to pass judgment on you because we can. Because we think we’re above you. Well, I don’t feel entitled to pass judgment on anyone except maybe another chef, and even then I’ll give them a lot of leeway. I may have a supernatural heritage, but I have a human one, too. You might be a murderer, but I’m not. I’m nobody’s executioner.”
“Speak for yourself,” Teresa said coldly. And I do mean coldly; the temperature was dropping like umbrella prices in a drought. “You’ve as much as admitted your guilt, which is all the proof I need. But Ben’s right: We’re not the monsters here. So I’m going to give you more than you gave Anna: a choice.”
“Which is?” he asked.
“Turn yourself in to the authorities and confess.”
“And if I don’t?”
Teresa smiled. It was a very wintry smile. “Then I’d advise you to spend the rest of your life in a submarine at the bottom of the ocean, because that’s about the only place I won’t be able to find you.”
Fimsby just sat there, his shoulders slumped. And—eventually—he nodded.
I pulled out my phone. I already had officer Forrester on speed-dial.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Fimsby had used a gas-powered needleless syringe to inject the drug into Anna when they were both in the water. He’d concealed the injector inside a pool noodle, one of those floating Styrofoam tubes people use as flotation devices. A playful poke with the end of a fluorescent orange toy had been easy to get away with, and the injector used an orifice only 0.18 millimeter in diameter to deliver the paralytic to her subcutaneous tissue in a fraction of a second. Once the drug went to work he just had to make sure she was facedown, then toss the hair dryer in.
To his credit, Fimsby didn’t make any outrageous claims about supernatural beings to the police. He knew how that would sound, and there was no way for him to prove his allegations—Ben and Teresa certainly weren’t going to help him. He told Forrester he’d killed Anna over a lovers’ quarrel—believable, considering the public fight the Metcalfes had that night—and in a way, it was even true. All scholars have a deep love of the subjects they study, and Fimsby had studied weather. He’d stared deep into the eyes of storms, admired the elegance of snowfall and the passionate fury of lightning. In his mind, Anna had taken all that away from him—so he’d taken her life in return. As is often the case in love gone wrong, at least one of the parties involved did nothing other than exist, and wound up being punished for it.
Love beats death. But death usually gets a few nasty punches in first.
“I’m proud of you,” I told Ben. We were curled up together on the couch in my office, Whiskey at our feet. Tango was prowling around somewhere outside. “You proved him wrong, you know. You didn’t just talk the talk, you walked the walk. You are one talking walker.”
“Thanks. You have no idea how hard that was—really, I just wanted to toss him into the sky and drop him from about a thousand feet. Maybe hit him with a few thunderbolts on the way down.”
I snuggled into his shoulder. “But you didn’t. You did the right thing, and he’ll still pay. Not a lot of weather in prison.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Ben’s voice was hard. “I have the feeling every single hour he gets in the yard will be subject to sudden, unseasonable downpours.”
I didn’t answer that. He was still angry, and had every right to be. He’d let it go in his own time.
“It’s been a rough morning,” I said. “Still planning on going to school?”
“Yeah, I think so. Feels like the right thing to do, you know? Anna did her best to learn about her abilities, and I should do the same. She just picked the wrong person to confide in.”
I nodded. “And you’re sure Teresa is the right one?”
“Hell, no. Like you said, she doesn’t know nearly as much as she claims. But she does know more than me, and she’s willing to share. There’s more to it than that, though.” He shifted position so he could look me in the eye. “She’s right about us Thunderbirds having enemies, she just got the details wrong. If our people are coming back to the world, we’re going to need to band together. That means leadership, that means planning—or the next Fimsby that comes along might take out more of us. Might even be working for some three-letter government agency.”
“Okay, valid concern. If, you know, anyone can actually convince a bureaucrat of the existence of the supernatural.”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. But better to be united and informed than alone and ignorant. The next Thunderbird that suddenly wakes up to what they can do might not be as responsible with their powers as Anna was, and all it takes is one confused newbie to make all of us seem like monsters. We’re going to have to do something about that.”
“So that’s the new career you’re training for? Finding and training fledgling Thunderbirds?”
“Something like that. We’ll see how it goes. For now, I’m happy to spend my days cooking, my nights with you, and getting in touch with my roots when I have the time. Which, when you think about how time works in Thunderspace, is pretty much unlimited.”
“I think you mean feathers, not roots.”
“I think I mean I’m going to be too exhausted to come up with proper metaphors.”
I grinned and snuggled back under his arm. “Then that’ll be my job. You whip up thunderstorms, I’ll come up with clever ways to describe them.”
“I can’t wait.”
“Metaphor Girl! With her lightning-quick wit, her thunderous vocabulary, and her whirlwind of meteorological references!”
Whiskey lifted his head. [You might want to add deluge of verbosity. In the interest of accuracy, you understand.]
I squinted at him. “Are you saying I talk too much?”
[Not at all. I’m saying that compared to you, a babbling brook only mutters sporadically.]
Ben laughed. “You’re not exactly the speechless type yourself, Fido. And by the way, what the hell was that thing you turned yourself into that freaked Firstcharger out so badly?”
[It’s a Hungarian breed called a komondor. Thickest, heaviest coat of fur of any canine breed.]
“Looked kind of like a four-legged, albino Rastafarian,” Ben said.
[They’re sometimes called mop dogs because of their appearance. Those long cords are a kind of natural armor, protecting them from attackers like wolves. They can take up to two and a half days to dry after a bath.]
“Well, you definitely got a reaction out of her. Which was the plan, right?”
I shrugged. “Why would you think that? That would be mean and petty and pretty much impossible to prove.”
He laughed again. “Uh-huh. I think I should get going. I’ve got a little time between now and lunch, and I plan on packing a full day of instruction into it.”
I sighed and moved over to let him up. “Okay, okay. But if she works you too hard she’ll have to answer to me.”
“Walk me to class?”
“Ooh. Only if I get to carry your books, too.”
Ben called Teresa on the way out the front door to let her know he was on his way. “Yeah, I’ll meet you in the graveyard. What? Over by the statue of the bear. No, the bear.
I can barely hear you, either. No, barely, not—never mind.” He disconnected with a grimace. “Damn phone isn’t working. Lots of static, and now I’m not getting a signal at all.”
I frowned. “Weird. That’s what happened last night, when I tried to call you about the serpent. I wonder if it caused it, somehow.”
[Entirely possible,] Whiskey said as we walked past the swimming pool. [Powerful spiritual entities have been known to interfere with electronic devices.]
“By accident or on purpose?” I asked.
[Both. But let’s be alert; we’re still uncertain what this Rainbow Serpent’s intentions are.]
We entered the graveyard and almost immediately saw Eli, who flapped his way over to us and landed on his customary perch, a nearby headstone. “Well, it’s about time. I thought I was going to have to wait all morning.”
“Had this little matter of sending a killer to jail,” I said. “What’s up?’
“What’s up,” Eli rasped, “is your cat. And what she’s up to is making trouble. In my Crossroads.”
I’ve noticed that when there’s a problem he wants me to solve, Eli usually refers to the Crossroads as the responsibility of yours truly. When he’s genuinely annoyed, though, ownership reverts to him.
“My sweet little kitty?” I said. “Getting up to no good? Heavens to Betsy.”
“Heaven’s not where she’s headed if she keeps acting like this,” Eli growled.
“It can’t be that bad,” Ben said. “What’s she been doing, using a grave as a litter box?”
“No. She’s laying siege to a portal. It’s more psychological warfare than anything else, but she needs to stop.”
“Which portal?” I asked.
“The one to the snake afterlife.”
I frowned. “I’ll take care of it.”
I pretty much had most of the major portals and their locations memorized. The one that led to the serpentine paradise was over by the north fence, an unassuming little brass plaque set flat into the ground. Tango was crouched directly in front of the grave, staring intently into empty air as if she were watching a mouse hole.
The hole she was so focused on only came into existence when someone—a skinny, scaly, legless someone—wanted to use it. Then a white oval opened in the earth, looking a lot like an eye, and a bright orange snake slithered out.
Well, attempted to, anyway. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t expecting the black-and-white streak that pounced on its head with both paws. Those paws passed harmlessly through its immaterial body, true, but the experience still must have been disconcerting. The snake reacted by wriggling violently away, which led to a prolonged pouncing attack by Tango, who looked just about exactly like a cat trying to catch the little red dot of a laser pointer.
“Tango,” I said. “What in the world do you think you’re doing?”
[How terribly feline. When in doubt, terrorize something.]
I shook my head. “Tango, you can’t just scare the crap out of a bunch of dead snakes as a form of therapy, or to attract the attention of a gigantic, weather-controlling Australian—wait, did I remember to bring my notebook with me? No, I left it in the office.”
“She’s right,” said Ben. “As usual. Fear isn’t a great tool. Has a tendency to backfire on you, for one thing.”
[Yes, truly courageous. Perhaps you could work your way up to battling dead iguanas, or possibly live worms.]
“Yes?” I said. “When he shows up, what then?”
Whiskey made a gruff little noise that I knew from prior experience was the equivalent of him clearing his throat. [If I may? There are two major flaws with your “strategy,” as you refer to it. First, snakes are not known for their strong family ties, so it’s unlikely any of them will “go running to Daddy.” Second…]
[I can’t. I thought it was possible to sum up the many, many problems involved with luring an immensely powerful supernatural entity via unprovoked assault on other members of its species in a single, pithy statement, but I find the task is beyond me. I shall be forced to wait until the disastrous aftermath of the inevitable apocalypse, and then say: “My second point? This.”]
[It is not “all good.” Very few parts are even somewhat good—]
KRAKKABOOOOM!
Thunder. Very close, very loud. Ben’s head snapped in the direction of the explosion, and then he was sprinting toward it. Whiskey, Tango, and I were right behind him.
We crested a rise and skidded to a stop. Below us, in a shallow valley between two gentle, grave-studded hills, were Teresa Firstcharger and the Rainbow Serpent. It was rearing up like a cobra, and she was standing her ground and hurling lightning bolts at it.
The lightning didn’t seem to be doing much more than bouncing off the thing’s brilliantly colored scales. In fact, the snake didn’t seem to be all that upset, though it’s hard (unless said snake comes with a rattle on its tail or a spreadable hood) to read a snake’s emotional state.
Mostly it was just staring down at Teresa, its tongue flickering out of its mouth in her direction. Maybe it was trying to figure out how tasty she’d be.
I glanced over at Ben, who looked like he was about to leap into the fray but had no idea what to do. “Lightning’s not working,” I said. “Cold might be a better approach.”
He grinned at me. “Cold-blooded opponent, right. Let’s just turn down the thermostat…”
He reached toward the sky with one hand, his fingers outstretched like he was trying to grab on to something, and a frigid wind blew in from nowhere. The clouds overhead turned slate gray, and within seconds heavy white flakes were tumbling through the air.
I looked around. Where was Eli? One misbehaving kitty and he was on my back, but a huge carnivorous snake appears and he’s nowhere to be found? I really hoped the serpent hadn’t started with a little crow appetizer before the main course …
The snow seemed to be confusing it, at least. It lowered its head and studied Teresa face-to-face. It was close enough now that one swift strike would put her down its gullet, and that combined with the complete ineffectiveness of her lightning was enough to unnerve her.
She transformed.
I’ve seen Whiskey shift into other forms and even seen Teresa change from bird to human, so I should have been prepared—but there’s something very different about watching someone go from human to not. It was deeply disturbing, bothering me on some atavistic level; as feathers sprouted from her skin and her face reshaped itself into a huge, cruel beak, I wasn’t so much fascinated as transfixed. That’s what your boyfriend can do, a part of my brain was yelling at me. That! Right there!
Except he couldn’t, not yet. Maybe that was one of the very first lessons she’d planned to teach him—Metamorphosis 101—but since he hadn’t actually attended any classes yet and the teacher was in danger of being eaten, it was sort of up in the air as to whether or not B
en would ever get to be—well, up in the air.
She launched herself skyward with a tremendous beat of her enormous wings. The serpent had more than enough time to snatch her in mid-flight.
But it didn’t. In seconds she was out of its reach, and it barely seemed to notice. Its head swiveled around as it tasted the air, looking almost like a kid trying to catch snowflakes on its flickering tongue.
When it spotted Ben, it froze.
But only for an instant. It lunged in his direction, and all I had time to do was scream. (I didn’t, though. Not really much of a screamer.)
It stopped directly in front of him, face-to-face like it had with Teresa, its tongue flicking in and out even faster. Oh, this wasn’t good—
And then something large and hairy launched itself past Ben and at the serpent: Whiskey, in his natural (well, pre-death, anyway) form. It looked a bit like a cross between a bear, a wolf, and a wolverine, weighed in the neighborhood of three hundred pounds, and had jaws that would make a hydraulic press weep with envy. Those jaws fastened themselves on the snake’s throat—to be fair, a snake is mostly throat—and held on while Whiskey emitted a combination snarl-and-growl that reminded me of a chain saw having a hissy fit.
It provoked a reaction, anyway: The snake reared up, its mouth opening in surprise or anger, while Whiskey hung on grimly and tried to worry it like a rat.
His attempt fell far short of worrying though, barely reaching mild concern. Whiskey himself fell considerably farther, as the creature whipped its body around and sent him flying through the air at a height of thirty feet off the ground. He disappeared over the crest of the hill, one of the snake’s iridescent scales still clamped in his jaws.
Ben took advantage of the respite to whip the freezing wind into a frenzy—a spinning, funnel-cloud frenzy. I didn’t know if even a tornado would be strong enough to stop this thing, but it was probably his best idea so far—
And that’s when it ate him.
* * *
No, you didn’t read that wrong.