by Jim Butcher
“Sure, sure,” Butters replied. He went to his polka suit and started taking it apart. “Is something going on?”
“I hope not,” I said. “But let’s just say I’ve got a real bad feeling. I need to know if there have been any odd deaths in the area in the past day or two.”
Butters frowned. “Odd how?”
“Unusually violent,” I said. “Or marks of some kind of murder method consistent with a ritual killing. Hell, I’ll even take signs of torture prior to death.”
“Doesn’t sound like anyone I’ve met,” Butters said. He took off his sunglasses and put on his normal black-rimmed glasses. “Though I’m not done for tonight. Let me check the records and see who’s in the hiz-ouse.”
“Thank you,” I said.
Butters knocked a few flyers off his chair and sat down. He dragged a keyboard out from under a medical magazine and gave me a significant look.
“Oh, right,” I said. I backed away from his desk to the far side of the room. Proximity to me tended to make computers malfunction to one degree or another. Murphy still hadn’t forgiven me for blowing out her hard drive, even though it had happened only the once.
Butters got on his computer. “No,” he said, after a moment’s reading and key thumping. “Wait. Here’s a guy who got knifed, but it happened way up in the northwest corner of the state.”
“No good,” I said. “It would have to be local. Within a county or three of Chicago.”
“Hmph,” Butters said. “You investigative types are always so picky about this kind of thing.” He scanned over the screen. “Drive-by shooting victim?”
“Definitely no,” I said. “For a ritual killing it would be a lot more intimate.”
“Think you’re out of luck then, Harry,” he said. “There were some high-profile stiffs that came in, and the day crew took them all.”
“Hmm.”
“Tell me about it. I got stuck with a wino and some poor bastard who got caught under a tractor and had to be tested for drugs and booze earlier tonight, but that’s…” He paused. “Hello.”
“Hello?”
“That’s odd.”
That perked up my ears, metaphorically speaking. “What’s odd?”
“My boss, Dr. Brioche, passed over one of his subjects. It got moved to my docket, but I didn’t get a memo about it. Not even an e-mail, the bastard.”
I frowned. “That happen a lot?”
“Attempts to make it look like I’m neglecting my job so he can fire me?” Butters said. “That one’s new, but it’s in the spirit of my whole history here.”
“Maybe he was just busy today.”
“And maybe Liv Tyler is waiting in my bedroom to rub my feet,” Butters responded.
“Heh. Who’s the stiff?”
“A Mr. Eduardo Anthony Mendoza,” Butters read. “He was in a head-on collision with a Buick on the expressway. Only he was a pedestrian.” Butters scrunched up his nose. “Looks like it will be a nasty one. No wonder high-and-mighty Brioche didn’t want to handle it.”
I mused. It wasn’t what I was looking for, but there was something about the situation around that corpse that set off my internal alarm bells. “Mind if I ask you to indulge an intuition?”
“Sure. I’m as polka empowered as I’m going to get, anyway. Lemme break out my gear and we’ll take a look-see at the late Eddie Mendoza.”
“Cool,” I said. I leaned against the wall and folded my arms, preparing to settle in for a while.
The door to the examination room slammed open, and Phil the security guard walked in with a businesslike stride.
Except Phil’s throat had been slit open from ear to ear, and blood covered his upper body in a sheet of ugly splatters. His face was absolutely white. There was no chance whatsoever that poor Phil was alive.
That didn’t stop him from striding into the room, seizing Butters’s desk, and throwing it, computer, heavy file cabinet, and all, into the far wall of the room, where it shattered with a thunderous sound of impact. Butters stared at Phil with horror, then let out a somewhat rabbitlike shriek and scurried back from him.
“Don’t move!” thundered a deep, resonant voice from the hallway outside. Dead Phil froze in his tracks. A big man in a khaki trench coat and, I swear to God, a dark fedora strode into the room, intent on Butters, and he didn’t see me against the wall. I hesitated for a second, still shocked at the suddenness of it all. Three other men in coats, all grey of face and purposeful of motion, flanked him.
“Don’t hurt the little coroner, gentlemen,” the man said. “We’ll need him. For a little while.”
Chapter
Five
The man in the fedora took a step toward Butters, drumming a slender book against his thigh with one hand. “Stand aside,” he muttered, and dead Phil sidestepped.
Butters had scrambled back into a corner, his eyes the size of glazed doughnuts behind his glasses. “Wow,” he babbled. “Great entrance. Love the hat.”
The guy in the fedora took a step forward and reached out with his other hand, at which point I decided to act. A raised hand isn’t much in the regular world, but from a guy in a long coat with his own flock of zombies it had to be at least as menacing as pointing a gun.
“That will be enough,” I said, and I said it loud enough to hurt ears. I stepped away from the wall with my left hand extended. My silver bracelet of heat-warped shields hung on my wrist, and I readied my will, pushing enough power into the bracelet to prepare a shield to leap up immediately. The bracelet was still pretty banged-up from the beating it had taken the last time I’d used it, and I’d only barely gotten it working again. As a result, it channeled the energy pretty sloppily, and blue-white sparks leaped out and fell to the floor in a steady drizzle. “Put your hand down and step away from the coroner.”
The man turned to face me, book thumping steadily against his leg. For a second I thought he was another dead man himself, his face was so pale—but spots of color appeared high on his cheeks, faint but there. He had a long face, and though it was pale it was leathery, as if he’d spent years in the blowing desert wind and sand without seeing the sun. He had dark eyes, thick grey sideburns, no beard, and a scar twisted his upper lip into a perpetual sneer.
“Who,” said the man, his accent thick and British, “are you?”
“The Great Pumpkin,” I responded. “I’ve risen from the pumpkin patch a bit early because Butters is just that nifty. And you are?”
The man studied me in silence for a long second, eyes focused on my sparking wrist, then on my throat, where my mother’s silver pentacle amulet was probably lying outside my shirt. “You may call me Grevane. Walk away, boy.”
“Or what?” I said.
Grevane gave me a chilly little smile, thumping his book, and nodded at his unmoving companions. “There’s room in my car for one more.”
“I’ve got a job already,” I said. “But there’s no reason for this to get nasty. You’re going to stand right there while Butters and me leave.”
“And I,” he said, his voice annoyed.
“What’s that?”
“Butters and I, fool. Do you seriously think that a defensive shield barely held together by a clumsy, crude little focus will intimidate me into allowing you to leave?”
“No,” I said, and drew my .44 revolver from my duster’s pocket. I pointed it at him and thumbed back the trigger. “That’s why I brought this.”
He lifted his eyebrows. “You intend to murder me in cruor gelidus?”
“No, I’ll do it right here,” I said. “Butters, get up. Come over here to me.”
The little guy hauled himself to his feet, shaking, and edged around the empty, staring gaze of the late Phil.
“Good,” I said. “This is moving along nicely, Grevane. Keep it up and I won’t need to make Forensics pick your teeth out of that wall behind you.”
Butters scuttled over to me while Grevane thumped his book on his leg. The necromancer stared at me, barely s
paring a glance for Butters. Then a slow and fairly creepy smile spread over his face. “You are not a Warden.”
“I flunked the written.”
His nostrils flared. “Not one of the Council’s guard dogs. You are, in fact, more of my own persuasion.”
“I really doubt that,” I said.
Grevane had narrow, yellow teeth and a crocodile’s smile. “Don’t play games. I can smell the true magic on you.”
The last person to talk about “true magic” had been necro-Bob. I had to fight off a shiver. “Uh. I guess that’s the last time I buy generic deodorant.”
“Perhaps we can make an arrangement,” Grevane said. “This need not end in bloodshed—particularly not now, so close to the end of the race. Join me against the others. A living lieutenant is far more useful to me than a dead fool.”
“Tempting,” I told him in the voice I usually reserved for backed-up toilets. Butters got to me, and I bumped him toward the door with my hip. He took the hint instantly, and I sidestepped to the door of the room with him. I kept my eyes and my gun on Grevane, my readied bracelet drizzling heatless sparks to the floor. “But I don’t think I like your management technique. Butters, check the hall.”
Butters bobbed his head out and looked nervously around. “I don’t see anyone.”
“Can you lock that door?”
Keys rattled. “Yes,” he said.
“Get ready to do it,” I said. I stepped out in the hall, slammed the door shut, and snapped, “Lock it. Hurry.”
Butters fumbled with a key. He jammed one in the door and turned it. Heavy security bolts slid to with a comfortably weighty snap an instant before something heavy and solid hit the door hard enough for me to feel the floor rattle through my boots. A second later the door jumped again, and a fist-sized dent mushroomed half an inch out of its center.
“Oh, God,” Butters babbled. “Oh, God, that was Phil. What is that? What is happening?”
“Right there with you, man,” I said. I grabbed him and started walking down the hall as quickly as I could drag the little guy. “Who else has keys to the door?”
“What?” Butters blinked for a second. “Uh. Uh. The other doctors. Day security. And Phil.”
The door rattled again, dented again, and then went silent.
“Grevane’s figured that out too,” I said. “Come on, before he finds the right key. Do you have your car keys with you?”
“Yes, yes, wait, oh, yes, right here,” Butters said. His teeth were chattering together so loudly that he could barely speak clearly, and he stumbled every couple of steps. “God. Oh, God, it’s real.”
In the halls behind us, metal clicked and scraped on metal. Someone was trying keys in a lock. “Butters,” I said. I grabbed his shoulders and had to resist the urge to slap him in the face, like in the movies. “Do what I tell you. Stop thinking. Think later. Move now or there won’t be a later.”
He stared at me, and for a second I thought he was going to throw up. Then he swallowed, nodded once, and said, “Okay.”
“Good. We run to your car. Come on.”
Butters nodded and took off for the front of the building at a dead sprint. He accelerated a lot faster than I did, but I have long legs and I caught up pretty quickly. Butters stopped to hit the buzzer at the guard station, and I held the door open wide enough to let him out first. He turned right and ran for the parking lot, and I was only a couple of feet behind him.
We rounded the corner of the building, and Butters dashed toward a pint-sized pickup truck parked in the nearest space. I followed him, and after the silence of the morgue, the night sounds of the city were a blaring music. Traffic hissed by in an automotive river on the highway. Sirens sounded in the distance, ambulance rather than patrol car. Somewhere within a two-hundred-mile radius, one of those enormous, thumping bass stereos pounded out a steady beat almost too low to hear.
The light in the parking lot was out, making everything dark and hazy, but the scent of gasoline came sharp to my nose, and I seized Butters’s collar and pulled. The little guy choked and all but fell down, but stopped.
“Don’t,” I said, and slipped my fingers under the pygmy truck’s hood. It flipped up, already open.
The engine had been torn apart. A snapped drive belt hung out like the tongue of a dead steer. Wires were strewn everywhere, and finger-sized holes had been driven into plastic fluid tanks. Coolant and windshield cleaner still dribbled to the parking lot’s concrete, and from the smell of it they were mixing with whatever gasoline had been in the tank.
Butters stared at it with wide eyes, panting. “My truck. They killed my truck.”
“Looks like,” I said, sweeping my gaze around.
“Why did they kill my truck?”
That heavy bass stereo kept rumbling through the October night. I paused for a second, focusing on the sound. It was changing, getting a little bit higher pitched with each beat. I recognized what that meant, and panic slammed through my head for a second.
Doppler effect. The source of the rumbling bass was coming toward us.
In the darkness of the industrial park’s lanes a pair of headlights flashed on, revealing a car accelerating toward the Forensic Institute. The lights were spaced widely apart—an older car, and judging by the sound of the engine some kind of gas-guzzling dinosaur like a Caddy or a big Olds.
“Come on,” I snapped to Butters, and started running to the lot next door, back to the Blue Beetle. We’d already been spotted, obviously, so I fired up my shield bracelet again, so that my hand looked like it had been replaced with a small comet. Butters followed, and I had to give the little guy credit—he was a good runner.
“There!” I shouted. “Get to my car!”
“I see it!”
Behind us the rumbling Cadillac swerved into the Institute’s parking lot and lurched over a concrete-encased grassy median, sparks flying from its undercarriage. The car roared up onto the grass and skidded to a broadside stop. The door flew open and a man got out.
I got a half-decent glance at him in the backwash of the Caddy’s headlights. Medium height at most, long, thinning hair, and pale, loose skin with a lot of liver spots. He moved stiffly, like someone with arthritis, but he hauled a long shotgun out of the car with him and raised it to his shoulder with careful deliberation.
I juked to one side so that I was directly between the driver and Butters, twisted at the hips, extended my arm behind me, and raised my shield. It flickered to life in a ghostly half dome just a second before one barrel of the shotgun bloomed with light and thunder. The shield flashed and sent off a cloud of sparks the size of a small house. I felt it falter through the damaged bracelet on my wrist, but it solidified again in time to catch the second blast from the gun’s other barrel. The old man with the shotgun howled in wordless outrage, broke the barrel, and started loading in fresh shells.
Butters was screaming, and I was yelling right along with him. We got to the Beetle and piled in. I stomped the engine to life, and the Beetle sputtered once and then gamely took off at its best clip. I screeched out of the parking lot and onto the road, started to skid, turned into it, fishtailed once, and then shot off down the street.
“Look out!” Butters screamed, pointing.
I snapped a glance over my shoulder and saw Phil and the other three dead men from the examination room sprinting across the grounds at us. I don’t mean they were running. It was a full-out sprint, faster than Phil could have done even in the prime of his life. I stomped on the gas and kept my eyes on the road.
The Beetle lurched, and Butters cried out, “Holy crap!”
I looked back again and saw Dead Phil clinging to the back of the car. He had to have been standing on the rear bumper. The other three dead men weren’t far behind him, keeping up with the car. Dead Phil drove his hand down at the back of the Beetle, and there was a wrenching sound of impact, then a series of snaps and squeals as he tore the back cover from the car, exposing the engine.
�
�Take the wheel!” I shouted to Butters. He reached over and seized the steering wheel. I twisted and thrust my right hand at Dead Phil. I focused my attention on the plain silver ring on my middle finger. It was another focus, like the shield bracelet, one designed to store back a little kinetic energy every time I moved my arm. I focused on the ring, clenched my hand into a fist, and shoved it directly at Dead Phil, releasing the energy within.
Dead Phil had raised his arm again, this time to tear apart the Beetle’s engine, but I beat him to the punch. The unseen force unleashed from the ring hit him at the top of his thighs, kicking his whole lower body out straight. The force tore his grip loose from the car, and he tumbled away, hitting the street with heavy, crunching sounds of impact, arms and legs splayed. The other dead men ran past him, one leaping clear over, and Dead Phil lay twitching on the ground like a broken toy.
I got back to the wheel and shifted the car into the next gear. In my rearview mirror I saw the leading dead man spring at us again, but he missed the car by a couple of feet, and I left the rest of them behind in the darkness, scooting out of the industrial park and onto public streets.
I drove for a while, taking a lot of unnecessary turns. I didn’t think anyone was pursuing us, but I didn’t want to take the chance that the old man might have gotten back into his Caddy and onto our tails. Maybe ten minutes went by before I started breathing easier, and I finally felt safe enough to pull over into a well-lit convenience-store parking lot.
I started shaking as soon as I set the parking brake. Adrenaline does that to me. I usually get along just fine when the actual crisis is in progress, but after it’s over, my body makes up for the lost terror. I closed my eyes and tried to keep my breathing slow and calm, but it was a fight to do it. There wasn’t anything I could do about the trembling.
It had been getting harder and harder to maintain my composure ever since the battle where I nearly lost my hand. The emotions I’d always felt seemed to be hitting me harder and harder lately, and sometimes I had to literally close my eyes and count to ten to keep from losing control. Right then I wanted to scream and howl—partly in joy at being alive, and partly in rage that someone had tried to kill me. I wanted to call up my power and start laying waste with it, to feel the raw energy of creation scorching through my thoughts and body, mastered by raw will. I wanted to cut loose.