The Dresden Files Collection 7-12

by Jim Butcher

She gave me an arch look as she pulled out and said, “You’d fit in the trunk, too, Harry.” Then she frowned at me and said, “Your lips are blue.”

  “Long shower,” I said.

  She gave me a sudden, swift grin. “Wanted to keep your mind on business? I think I’ll interpret that as a compliment to my sexual appeal.”

  I snorted and buckled in. “You heard anything from the hospital?”

  Murphy’s smile faded and she kept her eyes on the road. She nodded without looking at me, her face impossible to read.

  “Bad, huh?” I asked.

  “The young man the paramedics carried off died. The girl who was already down when you came in is going to make it, but she’s in some kind of shock. Catatonic. Doesn’t focus her eyes or anything. Just lies there.”

  “Yeah,” I said quietly. “I was sort of expecting that. What about the other girl? Rosie?”

  “Her injuries were painful but not life-threatening. They closed the cuts and set the bones, but when they heard she was pregnant they kept her at the hospital for observation. It looks like she’ll come through without losing the child. She’s awake and talking.”

  “That’s something,” I said. “And Pell?”

  “Still in ICU. He’s an old man, and his injuries were severe. They think he’ll be all right as long as there aren’t any complications. He’s groggy, but he’s conscious.”

  “ICU,” I said. “Any chance we could talk to him somewhere else?”

  “Those doctors can be real funny about not wanting people in critical condition to nip out for a walk to the vending machines,” she said.

  I grunted. “You might have to solo him, then. I don’t dare go walking in there with all the medical equipment around.”

  “Even if it was just for a few minutes?” she asked.

  I shrugged. “I don’t have any control over when things break down.” I paused and said, “Well, not exactly. I could blow out the whole floor in a few seconds, if I was trying to do it, but there’s not much I can do to keep things from breaking down. Odds are good that if I was only in there for a few minutes, nothing bad would happen. But sometimes things go haywire the second I walk by them. I can’t take any chances when there are people on life support.”

  Murphy arched a brow at me, and then nodded in understanding. “Maybe we can get you on a speaker phone or something.”

  “Or something.” I rubbed at my eyes. “I think this is gonna be a long day.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  When you get right down to it, all hospitals tend to look pretty much the same, but Mercy Hospital, where the victims in the attack had been taken, somehow managed to avoid the worst of the sterile, disinfected, quietly desperate quality of many others. The oldest hospital in Chicago, the Sisters of Mercy had founded the place, and it remained a Catholic institution. Thought ridiculously large when it was first built, the famous Chicago fires of the late nineteenth century filled Mercy to capacity. Doctors were able to handle six or seven times as many patients as any other hospital during the emergency, and everyone stopped complaining about how uselessly big the place was.

  There was a cop on guard in the hallway outside the victims’ rooms, in case the whacko costumed killer came after them again. He might also be there to discourage the press, whenever they inevitably smelled the blood in the water and showed up for the frenzy. It did not surprise me much at all to see that the cop on guard was Rawlins. He was unshaven and still had his SplatterCon!!! name tag on. One of his forearms was bound up in neatly taped white bandages, but other than that he looked surprisingly alert for someone who had been injured and then worked all through the night. Or maybe his weathered features just took such things in stride.

  “Dresden,” Rawlins said from his seat. He’d dragged a chair to the hall’s intersection. He was dedicated, not insane. “You look better. ’Cept for those bruises.”

  “The best ones always show up the day after,” I said.

  “God’s truth,” he agreed.

  Murphy looked back and forth between us. “I guess you’ll work with anybody, Harry.”

  “Shoot,” Rawlins drawled, smiling. “Is that little Karrie Murphy I hear down there? I didn’t bring my opera glasses to work today.”

  She grinned back. “What are you doing down here? Couldn’t they find a real cop to watch the hall?”

  He snorted, stuck his legs out, and crossed his ankles. I noted that for all of his indolent posture, his holstered weapon was clear and near his right hand. He regarded Mouse with pursed lips and said, “Don’t think dogs are allowed in here.”

  “He’s a police dog,” I told him.

  Rawlins casually offered Mouse the back of one hand. Mouse sniffed it politely and his tail thumped against my legs. “Hmmm,” Rawlins drawled. “Don’t think I’ve seen him around the station.”

  “The dog’s with me,” I said.

  “The wizard’s with me,” Murphy said.

  “Makes him a police dog, all right,” Rawlins agreed. He jerked his head down the hall. “Miss Marcella is down that way. They got Pell and Miss Becton in ICU. The boy they brought in didn’t make it.”

  Murphy grimaced. “Thanks, Rawlins.”

  “You’re welcome, little girl,” Rawlins said, his deep voice grandfatherly.

  Murphy gave him a brief glare, and we went down the hall to visit the first of the victims.

  It was a single-bed room. Molly was there, in a chair beside the bed, where she had evidently been asleep while mostly sitting up. By the time I got in the room and shut the door, she was looking around blearily and mopping at the corner of her mouth with her sleeve. In the bed beside her was Rosie, small and pale.

  Molly touched the girl’s arm and gently roused her. Rosie looked up at us and blinked a few times.

  “Good morning,” Murphy said. “I hope you were able to get some rest.”

  “A l-little,” the girl said, her voice raspy. She looked around, but Molly was already passing her a glass of water with a straw in it. Rosie sipped and then laid her head tiredly back, then murmured a thank you to Molly. “A little,” she said again, her voice stronger. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Karrin Murphy. I’m a detective for the Chicago Police Department.” She gestured at me, and took a pen and a small notebook from her hip pocket. “This is Harry Dresden. He’s working with us on the case. Do you mind if he’s here?”

  Rosie licked her lips and shook her head. Her uninjured hand moved fitfully, stroking over the bandages on the opposite forearm in nervous motions. Murphy engaged the girl in quiet conversation.

  “What are you doing here?” Molly asked me in a half whisper.

  “Looking into things,” I replied as quietly. “There’s something spooky going on.”

  Molly chewed on her lip. “You’re sure?”

  “Definitely,” I said. “Don’t worry. I’ll find whatever hurt your friend.”

  “Friends,” Molly said, emphasizing the plural. “Have you heard anything about Ken? Rosie’s boyfriend? No one will tell us anything.”

  “He the kid that they took from the scene?”

  Molly nodded anxiously. “Yes.”

  I glanced at Murphy’s back and didn’t say anything.

  Molly got it. Her face went white and she whispered, “Oh, God. She’ll be so…” She folded her arms and shook her head several times. Then she said, “I’ve got to…’’ She looked around, and in a louder voice said, “I’m dying for coffee. Anyone else need some?”

  Nobody did. Molly picked up her purse and turned around to walk for the door. In doing so, she brushed within a foot or two of Mouse. Instead of growling, though, Mouse leaned his head affectionately against her leg as she went by, and cadged a few ear scratches from the girl before she left.

  I frowned at Mouse after Molly had gone. “Are you going bipolar on me?”

  He settled down again immediately. Murphy went on asking Rosie fairly predictable questions about the attack.

  The clock
was running. I pushed the question about Mouse’s odd behavior aside for the moment, and let Mouse watch the door while I reached for my Sight.

  It was a slight effort of concentration to push away the concerns of the material world, like aches and pains and bruises and why my dog was growling at Molly, and then the mere light and shadow and color of the everyday world dissolved into the riot of flowing energy and currents of light and power that lay beneath the surface.

  Murphy looked like Murphy had always looked beneath my Sight. She appeared almost as herself, but clearer, somehow, her eyes flashing, and she was garbed in a quasi angelic tunic of white, stained in places with the blood and mud of battle. A short, straight sword, its blade made of almost viciously bright white light, hung beneath her left arm, where I knew her light cotton blazer hid her gun in its shoulder rig. She looked at me and I could see her physical face as a vague shadow beneath the surface of the aspect I saw now. She smiled at me, a sunny light in it, though her body’s face remained a neutral mask. I was seeing the life, the emotion behind her face, now.

  I shied away from staring at her lest I make eye contact for too long—but that smile, at least, was something I wouldn’t mind remembering.

  Rosie was another story.

  The physical Rosie was a small, slight, pale young woman with thin, frail features. The Rosie my Sight revealed to me was entirely different. Pale skin became a pallid, dirty, leathery coating. Large dark eyes looked even bigger, and flicked around with darting, avian jerks. They were furtive eyes, giving her the dangerous aspect of a stray dog or maybe some kind of rat—the eyes of a craven, desperate survivor.

  Winding veins of some kind of green-black energy pulsed beneath her skin, particularly around the inside bend of her left arm. The writhing strings of energy ended at the surface of her skin, in dozens of tiny, mindlessly opening and closing little mouths—the needle tracks I’d seen the night before. Her right hand kept darting back and forth over the other arm as if trying to scratch a persistent itch. But her fingers couldn’t touch. There was a kind of sheath of sparkling motes around her hands, almost like mittens, and she couldn’t actually touch those mindlessly hungry mouths. Worse, there were what looked almost like burn marks on her temples—small, black, neat holes, as if someone had bored a hot needle through the skin and skull beneath. There was a kind of phantom blood around the injuries, but her eyes were wide and vague, as if she didn’t even notice them.

  What the hell? I had seen the victims of spiritual attacks before, and they’d never been pretty. Usually they looked like the victim of a shark attack, or someone who had been mauled by a bear. I hadn’t ever seen someone with damage like Rosie’s. It looked almost like some kind of demented surgeon had gone after her with a laser scalpel. That pushed the weirdometer a couple of clicks beyond the previous record.

  My head started pounding and I pushed the Sight away. I leaned my hip against the wall for a second and rubbed at my temples until the throbbing subsided and I was sure that my normal vision had returned.

  “Rosie,” I said, cutting into the middle of one of Murphy’s questions. “When was your last fix?”

  Murphy glanced over her shoulder at me, frowning. Behind her, the girl gave me a guilty look, her eyes shifting to one side. “What do you mean?” Rosie asked.

  “I figure it’s heroin,” I said. I kept my voice pitched to the barest level needed to be audible. “I saw the tracks on you last night.”

  “I’m diab—” she began.

  “Oh please,” I said, and let the annoyance show in my voice. “You think I’m that stupid?”

  “Harry,” Murphy began. There was a warning note in her voice, but my head hurt too much to let it stop me.

  “Miss Marcella, I’m trying to help you. Just answer the question.”

  She was silent for a long moment. Then she said, “Two weeks.”

  Murphy arched a brow, and her gaze went back to the girl.

  “I quit,” she said. “Really. I mean, once I heard that I was pregnant…I can’t do that anymore.”

  “Really?” I asked.

  She looked up and her eyes were direct, though nothing like confident. “Yes. I’m done with it. I don’t even miss it. The baby’s more important than that.”

  I pursed my lips and then nodded. “All right.”

  “Miss Marcella,” Murphy said, “thank you for your time.”

  “Wait,” she said, as Murphy turned away. “Please. No one will tell us anything about Ken. Do you know how he’s doing? What room he’s in?”

  “Ken’s your boyfriend?” Murphy asked in a careful tone.

  “Yes. I saw them load him in the ambulance last night. I know he’s here…’’ Rosie stared at Murphy for a second, and then her face grew even more pale. “Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no.”

  I was glad I’d gotten a gotten a look at her before she found out about her boyfriend. My imagination provided me with a nice image of watching the emotional wounds open up as though an invisible sword had begun slicing into her, but at least I didn’t have to see it with my Sight, too.

  “I’m very sorry,” Murphy said quietly. Her voice was steady, her eyes compassionate.

  Molly picked that moment to return with a cup of coffee. She took one look at Rosie, put the coffee down, and then hurried to her. Rosie broke down in choking sobs. Molly immediately sat on the bed beside her, and hugged her while she wept.

  “We’ll be in touch,” Murphy said quietly. “Come on, Harry.”

  Mouse stared at Rosie with a mournful expression, and I had to tug on his leash a couple of times to get him moving. We departed and headed for the nearest stairwell. Murphy headed for ICU, which was in the neighboring building.

  “I didn’t see the track marks on her last night,” she said after a minute. “You pushed her pretty hard.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it might mean something. I don’t know what, yet. But we didn’t have time to waste listening to her denial.”

  “She wasn’t straight with you,” Murphy said. “No one kicks heroin that fast. Two weeks. She should still be feeling some of the withdrawal.”

  “Yeah,” I said. We went outside to go to the other building. Bright morning sunlight made my head hurt even more, and the sidewalk began revolving. I stopped to wait for my eyes to adjust to the light.

  “You all right?” Murphy asked.

  “It’s hard. Seeing someone like that,” I said quietly. “And she’s probably the least mangled of the three.”

  She frowned. “What did you see?”

  I tried to tell her what Rosie had looked like. It sounded surreal and garbled, even to me. I didn’t think I had conveyed it very well.

  “You look terrible,” she said when I finished.

  “It’ll pass. Just got this damned headache.” I shook my head and focused on taking steady breaths until I could force the pain to recede. “Okay. I’m good.”

  “Did you learn what you were hoping for?” Murphy asked.

  “Not yet,” I said. “I’ll need to look at the others, too. See if the injuries on them give me some kind of pattern.”

  “They’re in ICU.”

  “Yeah. I need to find a way to them without getting too close to someone on life support. I can’t stay around to talk. I’ll need maybe a minute, ninety seconds to look at them both. Then I’ll get out. Let you talk.”

  Murphy took a deep breath and said, “You sure you should do this?”

  “No,” I told her. “But I can’t help you if I don’t get to look at them. I can’t do that any other way. If I can stay calm and relaxed, it shouldn’t hurt anything for me to be there for a minute or two.”

  “But you can’t be sure.”

  “When can I?”

  She frowned at me, but nodded. “Let me go ahead of you,” she said. “Wait here.”

  I found a chair, and took it down the hall and sat down with Mouse and Rawlins. We shared a companionable silence. I leaned my head ba
ck against the wall and closed my eyes.

  My headache finally began to fade away just as Murphy returned. “All right,” she said quietly. “We need to go down a floor and then use the back stairs. A nurse is going to let us in. You won’t have to walk past any of the other rooms before you get to our witnesses.”

  “Okay,” I said, and stood up. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  I wasted no time. We went up the stairs, and I was already preparing my Sight. A nurse opened the door to the stairway, and I simply stepped into the first door on my left—the catatonic girl’s, Miss Becton’s. I stepped into the doorway and raised my Sight.

  She was a young girl, still in her late teens, nervously thin, her hair a shocking color of red that for some reason did not strike me as a dye job. She lay on her front, her head turned to the side, muddy brown eyes open and blank. Her back had been covered in bandages.

  As my Sight focused on her, I saw more. The girl’s psyche had been savagely mauled, and as I watched her, phantom bruises darkened a few patches of skin that remained, and blood and watery fluids oozed from the rest of her torn flesh. Her mouth was set in a continual, silent wail, and beneath the real-world glaze, her eyes were wide with terror. If there’d been enough left of her behind those eyes, Miss Becton would have been screaming.

  My stomach rolled and I barely spotted a trash can in time to throw up into it.

  Murphy crouched down at my side, her hand on my back. “Harry? Are you okay?”

  Anger and empathy and grief warred for first place in my thoughts. Across the room, I was dimly conscious of a clock radio warbling to life and dying in a puff of smoke. The room’s fluorescent lights began to flicker as the violent emotions played hell with the aura of magic around me.

  “No,” I said in a vicious, half-strangled growl. “I’m not okay.”

  Murphy stared at me for a second, and then looked at the girl. “Is she…”

  “She isn’t coming back,” I said.

  I spat a few times into the trash can and stood up. My headache started to return. The girl’s terrified eyes stayed bright and clear in my imagination. She’d been out for a fun time. A favorite movie. Maybe coffee or dinner with friends afterward. She sure as hell hadn’t woken up yesterday morning and wondered if today would be the day some kind of nightmarish thing would rip away her sanity.