by Jim Butcher
“Okay, then,” I said to Gard. “Why don’t we start with everyone who knew the location of Marcone’s panic room.”
Gard narrowed her eyes, studying me. She looked better. Granted, it’s difficult to look much worse than disemboweled, but even so, she’d been reduced from ten miles of bad road to maybe two or three. She was sitting up in her cot, her back resting against the wall of the workshop, and though she looked pale and incredibly tired, her blue eyes were clear and sharp.
“I don’t think so,” she said quietly.
“There’s not going to be much need to keep Marcone’s secrets once he’s dead, or under the control of one of the Fallen.”
“I can’t,” she said.
“Oh, come on,” I said, throwing up my hands. “Hell’s bells, I’m not asking you for the launch codes to nuclear missiles.”
She took a deep breath and enunciated each word. “I. Can’t.”
From the workbench Hendricks rumbled, “S’okay. Tell him.”
Gard frowned at his broad back but nodded once and turned to me. “Comparatively few people in the organization were directly aware of the panic room, but I’m not sure that’s our biggest concern.”
The change in gears, from stonewall to narration, made me blink a little. Even Michael glanced up, frowning at Gard.
“No?” I asked. “If that’s not our biggest concern, what is?”
“The number of people who could have pieced it together from disparate facts,” Gard replied. “Contractors had to be paid. Materials had to be purchased. Architects had to be hired. Any of a dozen different things could have indicated that Marcone was building something, and piqued someone’s curiosity enough to dig deeper.”
I grunted. “At which point he could probably find out a lot by talking to the architects or builders.”
“Exactly. In this instance he was unusually lax in his standard caution when it came to matters of security. I urged him to take conventional measures, but he refused.”
“Conventional measures,” I said. “You’re talking about killing everyone who worked on it.”
“Secret passages and secret sanctums are quite useless if they aren’t secret,” Gard replied.
“Maybe he didn’t feel like killing a bunch of his employees to cover his own ass.”
Gard shrugged. “I’m not here to make moral judgments, Dresden. I’m an adviser. That was my advice.”
I grunted. “So who would know? The builders. People handling books and paychecks.”
“And anyone they talked to,” Gard said.
“That makes the suspect pool a little larger than is useful,” I said.
“Indeed it does.”
“Stop,” I said. “Occam time.”
Gard gave me a blank stare. Maybe she’d never heard of MC Hammer.
“Occam?” she asked.
“Occam’s razor,” I said. “The simplest explanation is most often correct.”
Her lips quivered. “How charming.”
“If we define a circle of suspects that includes everyone who might possibly have heard anything, we get nowhere. If we limit the pool to the most likely choices, we have something we can work with, and we’re much more likely to find the traitor.”
“We?” Gard asked.
“Whatever,” I said. “Who would have had a lot of access? Let’s leave the contractors out of it. They generally aren’t out for blood, and Marcone owns half the developers in town anyway.”
Gard nodded her head in acceptance. “Very well. One of three or four accountants, any of the inner circle, and one of two or three troubleshooters.”
“Troubleshooters?” Michael asked.
“When there’s trouble,” I told him, “they shoot it.”
Gard let out a quick snort of laughter—then winced, clutching at her stomach with both hands.
“Easy there,” I said. “You all right?”
“Eventually,” Gard murmured. “Please continue.”
“What about Torelli?” I asked.
“What about him?”
“Could he be our guy?”
Gard rolled her eyes. “Please. The man has the intellect of a lobotomized turtle. Marcone’s been aware of his ambition for some time now.”
“If he’s been aware of it,” I asked, “how come Torelli is still paying taxes?”
“Because we were using him to draw any other would-be usurpers into the open, where they could be dealt with.”
“Hungh,” I said, frowning. “Could he have put pressure on any of the people in the know?”
“The bookkeepers, perhaps, but I think it highly unlikely. Marcone has made it clear that they enjoy his most enthusiastic protection.”
“Yeah, but Yurtle the Lobotomized isn’t all that bright.”
Gard blinked. “Excuse me?”
“My God, woman!” I protested. “You’ve never read Dr. Seuss?”
She frowned. “Who is Dr.—”
I held up a hand. “Never mind, forget it. Torelli isn’t all that bright. Maybe he figured he could strong-arm a bookkeeper and knock off Marcone before Marcone got a chance to demonstrate his enthusiasm.”
Gard pursed her lips. “Torelli has stupidity enough and to spare. But he’s also a sniveling, cowardly little splatter of rat dung.” She narrowed her eyes. “Why are you so focused on him?”
“Oh,” I said, “I can’t put my finger on any one thing. But my finely tuned instincts tell me that he’s hostile.”
Gard smiled. “Tried to kill you, did he?”
“He started trying to put the muscle on Demeter while I was there this morning. I objected.”
“Ah,” she said. “I had wondered how you found us.”
“Torelli’s goons tried shooting me up right before I came here.”
“I see,” Gard said, narrowing her eyes in thought. “The timing of his uprising is rather too precise to be mere coincidence.”
“I’m glad I’m not the only one who thought of that.”
She tapped a finger against her chin. “Torelli is no genius, but he is competent at his job. He wouldn’t be operating that high in the organization if he weren’t. I suppose it’s possible that Torelli might have secured the information if he applied enough mean cunning to the task.” She glanced up at me. “You think the Denarians recruited him to be their man on the inside?”
“I think they had to get their information about Marcone’s panic room somewhere,” I said.
“Worked that out, did you?” Gard said with a wan smile.
“Yeah. Turned your own hidey-hole into a fox trap. That’s gotta sting the old ego, Miss Security Consultant.”
“You wouldn’t believe how much,” Gard said, a flinty light in her eyes. “But I’ll deal with that when it’s time.”
“You aren’t dealing with anything but more sleep for a little while,” I noted.
Her face twisted into a scowl. “Yes.”
“So let me do the heavy lifting,” I said.
“How so?”
I glanced around the workshop. “Could we speak privately for a moment?”
Hendricks, who had been reassembling his gun, turned his over-developed brow ridges toward me, scowling in suspicion. Michael glanced up, his face a mask.
Gard looked at me for a while. Then she said, “It’s all right with me.”
Hendricks finished putting the pistol back together, loaded it, and then loaded a round into the chamber. He made it a point to stare straight at me the entire while. Then he stood up, tugged on his coat, and walked straight toward me.
Hendricks wasn’t as tall as me, which cut down on the intimidation factor. On the other hand, he had muscle enough to break me in half and we both knew it. He stopped a foot away, put the gun in his pocket, and said, “Be right outside.”
“Michael,” I said. “Please.”
He rose, sheathing the dagger, and followed Hendricks out into the snow. The two kept a careful, even distance between them as they went, like dogs who aren’t ye
t sure whether they’re going to fight or not. I closed the door behind them and turned to Gard.
“Give me what I need to find and question Torelli.”
She shook her head. “I can get you his address and the locations of the properties he owns, places he frequents, known associates, but he won’t be at any of those places. He’s been in the business too long to make a mistake like that.”
“Oh, please,” I said, rolling my eyes. “You’ve got blood or hair samples for all of your people somewhere. Get me Torelli’s.”
Gard stared at me with her poker face.
“For that matter,” I added, “get me Marcone’s. If I can get close enough, it might help me find him.”
“My employer keeps them under intense security. He’s the only one who can access them.”
I snorted. “So get me samples from the second collection.”
“Second collection?”
“You know, the one you’re keeping. The one Marcone doesn’t know about.”
Gard brushed a stray lock of gold from her cheek. “What makes you think I have any such samples?”
I showed her my teeth. “You’re a mercenary, Gard. Mercenaries have to be more cautious with their own employers than they do with the enemy they’ve been hired to fight. They take out insurance policies. Even if Marcone didn’t have samples collected, I’m betting you did.”
Her eyes drifted over to the door for a moment, and then back to me. “Let’s pretend, for a moment, that I have such a collection,” she said. “Why on earth would I hand it over to you? You’re antagonistic to my employer’s business, and could inflict catastrophic damage on it with such a thing in your possession.”
“Gosh, you’re squeamish, considering the catastrophic damage his business inflicts on thousands of people every day of the year.”
“I’m merely protecting my employer’s interests.” She showed me her teeth. “Almost as though I’m a mercenary.”
I sighed and folded my arms. “What if I only took Torelli’s and Marcone’s samples?”
“Then you would still be capable of using that against Marcone in the future.”
“If I want to hurt Marcone,” I said, “all I need to do is sit down with a six-pack of beer and a bag of pretzels and let him twist in the wind.”
“Perhaps,” Gard admitted. “Swear to me that you will use none of the samples but Torelli’s and Marcone’s, that you will use neither of them for harm of any kind, and that you will return both to me immediately upon my request. Swear it by your power.”
Oaths in general carry a lot of currency among the preternatural crowd. They’re binding in more senses than the theoretical. Every time you break a promise, there’s a kind of backlash of spiritual energies. A broken promise can inflict horrible pain on supernatural entities, such as the Sidhe. When a wizard breaks a promise, particularly when sworn by his own power, the backlash is different: a diminishing of that magical talent. It isn’t a crippling effect by any means—but break enough promises and sooner or later you’d have nothing left.
As dangerous as the world had been for wizards over the past few years, any of us would have been insane to take the chance that our talents, and thus our ability to defend ourselves, might be hampered, even if that reduction was relatively slight.
I squared my shoulders and nodded. “I swear, by my own power, that I will abide by those restrictions.”
Gard narrowed her eyes as I spoke, and when I finished she gave me a single nod. She reached into her pocket, moving very gingerly, and withdrew a single silver key. She held it out to me. “Union Station, locker two fourteen. Everything is labeled.”
I reached out to take the key, but Gard’s fingers tightened on it for a second. “Don’t let anything you care about stand directly in front of it when you open it.”
I arched an eyebrow at her as she released the key. “All right. Thank you.”
She gave me a quick, tight smile. “Stop wasting time here. Go.”
I frowned. “You’re that worried about your boss?”
“Not at all,” Gard said, closing her eyes and sagging wearily down on the cot. “I just don’t want to be in the vicinity the next time someone comes to kill you.”
Chapter Twenty-two
Murphy’s car looked like it might have been through a war zone, and there were odd-colored stains in the snow underneath it. As a result we’d taken Michael’s truck. I rode in the cab with Michael, while Mouse rode in the back. Yeah, I know, not safe, but the reality of the situation is that you don’t fit two people our size and a dog Mouse’s size into the cab of a pickup. There wouldn’t be any room left for oxygen.
Mouse didn’t seem to be the least bit distressed by the cold as we sallied forth to Union Station. He actually walked to the side of the truck and stuck his head out into the wind, tongue lolling happily. Not that there was a lot of wind to be had—Michael drove patiently and carefully in the bad weather.
After the third or fourth time we passed a car that had slid up onto a sidewalk or into a ditch, I stopped tapping my foot and mentally urging him to hurry. It would take a hell of a lot longer to walk to Union Station than it would to drive with what was obviously appropriate caution.
We didn’t talk on the way. Don’t get me wrong. It isn’t like Michael is a chatterbox or anything. It’s just that he usually has something to say. He invites me to go to church with him (which I don’t, unless something is chasing us) or has some kind of proud-papa talk regarding something one of his kids has done. We’ll talk about Molly’s progress, or weather, or sports, or something.
Not this time.
Maybe he wanted to focus his whole attention on the road, I told myself.
Yeah. That was probably it. It couldn’t have anything to do with me opening my big fat mouth too much, obviously.
A mound of plowed snow had collapsed at the entrance of the parking garage, but Michael just built up a little speed and rumbled over and through it, though it was mostly the momentum that got him inside.
The parking garage’s lights were out, and with all that piled snow around the first level, very little of the ambient snow-light got inside. Parking garages are kind of intimidating places even when you can see them. They’re even more intimidating when they’re entirely black, except for the none-too-expansive areas lit by the glare of headlights.
“Well,” I said, “at least there’s plenty of available spaces.”
Michael grunted. “Who wants to travel in weather like this?” He wheeled into the nearest open parking space and the truck jerked to a stop. He got out, fetched the heavy sports bag he used to carry Amoracchius in public, and slung the bag from his shoulder. I got out, and Mouse hopped out of the back to the ground. The truck creaked and rocked on its springs, relieved of the big dog’s weight. I clipped Mouse’s lead on him, and then tied on the little apron thing that declared him a service dog. It’s an out-and-out lie, but it makes moving around in public with him a lot easier.
Mouse gave the apron an approving glance, and waited patiently until his disguise was in place.
“Service dog?” Michael asked, his expression uncomfortable. He had a flashlight in his right hand, and he shone it at us for a moment before sweeping it around us, searching the shadows.
“I have a rare condition,” I said, scratching the big dog under the chin. “Can’t-get-a-date-itis. He’s supposed to be some kind of catalyst or conversation starter. Or failing that, a consolation prize. Anyway, he’s necessary.”
Mouse made a chuffing sound, and his tail thumped against my leg.
Michael sighed.
“You’re awfully persnickety about the law all of a sudden,” I said. “Especially considering that you’re toting a concealed weapon.”
“Please, Harry. I’m uncomfortable enough.”
“I won’t tell anyone about your Sword if you won’t tell anyone about my gun.”
Michael sighed and started walking. Mouse and I followed.
The parking
garage proved to be very cold, very dark, very creepy, and empty of any threat. We crossed the half-buried street, Mouse leading the way through the snow.
“Snow’s coming down thicker again now that the sun’s down,” Michael noted.
“Mab’s doing, maybe,” I said. “If it is, Titania would be less able to oppose her power after the sun went down. Which is also when Titania’s agents would be able to move most freely through town.”
“But you aren’t certain it’s Mab’s doing?” Michael asked.
“Nope. Could just be Chicago. Which can be just as scary as Mab, some days.”
Michael chuckled and we went into Union Station. It doesn’t look like that scene in The Untouchables, if you were wondering. That was shot in this big room they rent out for well-to-do gatherings. The rest of the place doesn’t look like something that fits into the Roaring Twenties. It’s all modernized, and looks more or less like an airport.
Sorta depressing, really. I mean, of all the possible aesthetic choices out there, airports must generally rank in the top five or ten most bland. But I guess they’re cost-effective. That counts for more and more when it comes to beauty. Sure, all the marble and Corinthian columns and soaring spaces were beautiful, but where do they fall on a cost-assessment worksheet?
The ghost of style still haunts the bits of the original Union Station that have been permitted to stand, but, looking around the place, I couldn’t help but get the same feeling I had when I looked at the Coliseum in Rome, or the Parthenon in Athens—that once, it had been a place of splendor. Once. But a long, long time ago.
“Which way are the lockers?” Michael asked quietly.
I nodded toward the northeast end of the building and started walking. The ticketing counters were closed, except for one, whose clerk was probably in a back room somewhere. There weren’t a lot of people walking around. Late at night train stations in general don’t seem to explode with activity. Particularly not in weather like ours. One harried customer-service representative from Amtrak was dealing with a small knot of angry-looking travelers who had probably just been stranded in town by the storm. She was trying to get them a hotel. Good luck. The airport had been closed since yesterday, and the hotels would be doing a brisk business already.