“Funny.” Amy holds out her hand, gesturing for Desmond to lower the paper.
Desmond chuckles. “Indeed it is. Every time.” He drops the paper, and it floats down at an angle, nearly flying off the table altogether.
Amy snatches it in midair. “All right. Here’s what Sheehan and I came up with after reviewing all the emails, ordered by date sent.” She places her finger at the top of the list and begins to make her way through. “About two months ago, Slate was contacted by Halliburton in regards to protecting the city of Aurora from an unnamed enemy. Note that this ‘enemy’ is never once specified, presumably to reduce the likelihood that the enemy in question would catch on if the emails were ever hacked.”
Ramirez mumbles, “Paranoid bunch.”
“Definitely,” Amy responds. “Now, Slate’s role in this scheme, as specified by Halliburton, was to create appropriate vessels for storing the ‘ingredients’ needed in the summoning.”
“The clocks.” Ella nods along, jotting down notes of her own. “In which they stored human souls.”
“Right.” Amy flicks Ella’s shoulder. “And before anyone asks why the vessels had to be handcrafted clocks, Slate actually asked Halliburton that in the fourth email. Apparently, this summoning requires that the vessels be representative of the passing of time. Which is what led Halliburton to Slate in the first place. The wizard wanted somebody who was already informed about the supernatural and who was capable of crafting the necessary vessels. The ex-mayor who just happened to own a clock and watchmaking business fit the bill.”
Desmond says, “What luck for Halliburton.”
“Yeah,” replies Harmony Burgess, somewhere behind me, “think that luck might have run out at Jameson’s.”
Desmond concedes her point with a shrug.
Amy smacks his arm with her list. “Back on task. We’re getting into the real meat of the plot here.”
“Oh?” Desmond peeks at the list.
Amy holds it beyond his view and sticks her tongue out at him. “Yes, the stuff concerning McKinney. Or, at least, Martinez acting in McKinney’s place.”
“Did Slate have email contact with Martinez?” Ella asks.
“Nope,” Amy says. “Halliburton was the middleman. He relayed information between Martinez and Slate. And he had a lot of interesting things to say about the Wolves. First and foremost, Halliburton claimed that Martinez said his ‘party,’ aka McKinney and pals, brought up the issue of the ‘enemy’ seven weeks ago in a private meeting in Chicago…with Richard Wheaton.”
Wallace chokes. “The North American President of the United Lycanthrope Republic? That Richard Wheaton?”
“Yes.” Amy drags her finger down another line on the list page. “According to Martinez, Wheaton shot down McKinney’s concerns about the ‘enemy,’ and sent them packing back to Aurora with orders to not make unsupported claims against their ‘allies.’ Halliburton’s wording in the email implies that McKinney was not amused about Wheaton referring to the ‘enemy’ as an ‘ally.’ And shortly after the rejection by Wheaton, McKinney sent Martinez to meet with Halliburton in person for the first time, where they formally agreed to join forces to perform the summoning.”
“How did McKinney get an audience with Wheaton in the first place?” Wallace leans back against the door for support. There’s a sheen of nervous sweat on his hairline now, unkempt hair plastered to his skin.
Amy looks at the Wolf. “Sorry, I have no idea. That wasn’t revealed in the emails.”
“I need to go make some calls.” Wallace worries his bottom lip. “I’ll return momentarily.” He opens the door with his free hand and scurries out into the hall, thumb rapidly tapping away at his phone screen. The door swings shut behind him with another high-pitched creak, blocking our view of the werewolf’s hasty retreat.
The instant the door closes, Riker gestures to Amy. “Moving on. Let’s talk about the summoning. Do we know any more specifics, beyond the need for souls?”
Amy and Sheehan exchange glances, and the army vet says, “Well, interesting thing about the souls is that they were always described the same way in the emails: sinful.”
“Sinful souls?” Ella questions. “So, like, criminals? They were collecting the souls of criminals?”
“Not necessarily,” Ramirez says. “Sinful could mean a lot of things. Maybe they had a specific method of judgment. Sinful according to…a religion? They would collect the souls of, for example, anyone who violated the Ten Commandments?”
“And when they couldn’t find enough shades to meet their quota, they went out and made a few of their own.” Desmond shifts in his seat, like his own thoughts are making him uncomfortable. “That woman who died in Wilcox’s office complex. Halliburton must have lured her there, somehow, maybe a fake job interview or something. He meant to kill her outside and throw her body in the pond—a perfect dumpsite, with the oncoming winter weather—but she ran. He caught up to her on the second floor, killed her with magic, and sealed her shade in a clock before the Call could whisk her off to the Eververse. And then…Wilcox showed up unexpectedly.”
Amy smacks the table with her palm. “That’s why the ward didn’t activate when Wilcox inspected her body.”
“Because it wasn’t there,” I say, clenching the fabric of my pants. “Halliburton was still in the building at the time, hiding from Wilcox. When Wilcox left, Halliburton knew it’d only be a matter of time before we showed up to check out the body. But if the body wasn’t there when we arrived, we’d naturally conclude someone took it. We’d have done a full sweep of the building, and we would have found something, some clue, no matter how hard Halliburton tried to cover his tracks. So…”
Desmond shakes his head. “So he rigged a ward to blow up the building and destroy all the evidence, plus the foolish Crows who’d come snooping.”
“The nuclear option,” Amy quips.
“Well, that’s one part of this vast mystery solved.” Riker knocks his knuckles against the conference phone. “The plan was to imprison the souls of ‘sinful’ people in clocks, so they could be used as sacrifices in order to summon…what?”
“Beats me, boss.” Amy throws the list on the table. “They never said, not once, what creature they were planning to summon. Only that McKinney’s people managed to procure the summoning procedure for it.” She brushes her finger over the last item on her list. “Although, here’s an interesting tidbit: According to the emails, the night that Halliburton, Martinez, and Slate died at Jameson’s, they were meeting to do a dry run of the summoning, in order to practice all the intricacies of the spell before they attempted it for real. Apparently, it was pretty complicated. A complex summoning circle. Lots of ‘moving parts,’ what with the souls.”
“Maybe that’s why they met in the storeroom,” Ella offers. “So they could substitute Jameson’s stock for their real spell ingredients. A simple, effective way to practice.”
Desmond tilts his head to the side. “Only someone they weren’t expecting showed up to the party.”
“The enemy.” Pain flares up in my chest at the second word, and I fidget, trying to make it subside. But it won’t. My body is revolting. The mere act of sitting upright in a chair for an extended period of time is too much for it to handle, and all the cracks in my bones, all the bruises on my skin, all the cuts in my flesh, are threatening to lay me out right here and now.
I take shallower breaths, trying to manage the discomfort. Navarro gave me some meds, but I stuck them in the duffle bag with all my get well gifts. And somebody already took the bag out to my truck.
“Perhaps it’s time for you to head home, Cal.” Riker eyes me, judgment etched into the wrinkles on his face. I work up my best smile, but he immediately shoots me down. “You’re not fooling anyone with that sloppy grin. You’re hurting and you need to rest.”
“I know. I just…give me a few more minutes? The only mystery left on your list is the owl man.”
Riker scowls, but Ella, surprisingly, throws in for me. (I
n weeks past, Riker has pushed himself too far with his own injured leg. I think this is Ella’s way of getting back at him.) She asks, “Do you think the owl man could be the Jameson killer? Maybe he’s a member of this ‘enemy’ group.”
Thanking her silently, I reply, “Whether he’s a member of the ‘enemy’ or not, I can’t say. But I don’t believe he’s the guy who murdered the trio.”
“Why not?” Amy asks, nose scrunched in confusion.
“Because I don’t think a person who would brutally eviscerate three people with absolutely no remorse would turn around and save somebody whose name they didn’t even know. What difference would the death of an anonymous Crow have made to a killer willing to literally gut people?” I take another short, aching breath. “No, I don’t think it was him. But I do think he’s in the city for a reason, and I do think that reason is related to the Jameson case. I just don’t know how…yet.”
“Okay,” Desmond says, elbows on the table, “but if the owl man didn’t kill them, then who did?”
A sudden, nagging thought works its way to the front of my mind. “Hey, did you guys ever figure out how Slate got to Jameson’s in the first place? I know he didn’t drive, since his Lexus was parked outside his house, so—”
“Cal, you’re supposed to leave now,” Riker warns. “The owl man discussion is over.”
I slowly, slowly roll my chair back. “And I’m going. But I can’t move that fast, Captain. I’m injured, you know?”
Hushed laughter fills the room.
Riker’s eyes nearly roll back into his head. “Fine. What’d we find out about the cars, Ramirez?”
“Oh, yeah.” Ramirez winks at me. “We tracked down Halliburton’s truck; it was six blocks from Jameson’s, on the second floor of a parking garage. There was a compact car parked next to it, and when we ran the plates, it came up as stolen. Guess Martinez jacked someone’s ride to obscure his identity.”
“Okay, but how did Slate get to the bar and grill that night?” I say. “Was he picked up? Or…?”
“You think that’s important?” Riker asks. “Why?”
“I don’t know,” I reply. “Something bothers me about it. I feel like—”
A cell phone rings, startling the room into silence.
Riker reaches into his coat and pulls out his phone, the screen aglow. When he catches the name on the caller ID, he recoils into his seat as if someone pushed him. “The hell?”
“Who is it?” Ella asks, leaning closer.
“Marcus.” Riker spits the man’s name out like poison. “He hasn’t spoken to me since I told him off at Jameson’s, days ago.”
Amy sneers. “What do you think he wants now?”
“Nothing good.” Riker hits the answer button, adjusting his tone to sound slightly less hostile. “Marcus, what can I do for you?” He listens for a few seconds, his face gradually contorting, first in bewilderment, and then in distress. “What?” Another pause. “Where?” As Marcus continues to speak on the other end, the captain grabs a fistful of his sandy blond hair, mouthing silent swears. “How long ago did this start?” Marcus, presumably, answers. “Hold off the PD however you can—they’ll get killed if they wander into the middle of this. We’ll be there in ten.”
Riker ends the call, calmly sets his phone on the table, and then roars out, “Goddammit!”
Ella shoots up, grasping his shoulder. “Nick, what happened?”
Riker covers his face with his hands and grinds his teeth. “Someone started a rumor that McKinney, Martinez, and Zhang were murdered by the ICM.”
Shock stifles the room. No one says another word.
Until I finally murmur, “Donahue.”
“That would be my guess,” Riker hisses.
“And something came of this rumor?” Desmond says, pushing away from the table. “There’s been an altercation?”
“You could say that, Desmond.” Riker snatches his phone and shoves it into his pocket. “Twelve minutes ago, three werewolves attacked two wizards. In the middle of a grocery store.”
Chapter Twenty
Fate has this funny way of mocking me through frustrating coincidences—like a flat tire, for instance.
On the way down to the garage, with eighteen people stuffed into an elevator meant for ten, Riker barks out orders left and right. Ramirez and his team, as well as two of the auxiliary teams from the task room, shout a chorus of Yes, sir once my captain finishes dishing out the attack plan. Or, I suppose, the relief plan. We have minutes left on the clock before the Aurora PD arrive at Stein’s Groceries and walk straight into a massacre, and even less time before some bystander records actual werewolves on their phone and uploads a video to YouTube. This is one of those infernos in the making you have to snuff out real quick. Or else.
Riker’s voice is rough in my ear when he leans close and says, “And you—you’re going home. Your truck is where you left it. I had someone stick your keys in the glove compartment earlier. Get in. Turn it on. Warm it up. Drive home. No exceptions. Understand?”
“You sound like you expect me to argue.” I wince when a frantic Harmony Burgess accidentally jabs me in the hip with her half-assembled sniper rifle. “Listen, Captain, I know when I’m beat. Or in this case, thoroughly tenderized to the point where I’d make a lovely steak on some big bad Wolf’s grill.”
Riker runs a hand through his hair, which I notice sports a touch of gray at the roots. “God, do you ever run out of sarcasm?”
“If my funny meter had an empty setting”—I drop my voice to a low tone only he can hear—“I wouldn’t still be here, Captain.”
It takes Riker a second to figure out what I’m implying. He pales. “Fuck, Cal.” His hand gently grazes my shoulder. “You…just don’t worry about this hiccup, okay? We’ll take care of it. It’s not our first exposure scare, and definitely won’t be the last. So don’t concern yourself with it. Please, go home and get some sleep.” He drops his hand to his coat, digs around, and tugs something out. A wad of cash. Which he presses into my open palm. “Your favorite delivery meal is on me.”
“Oh, sir, you don’t have to…”
“I insist.”
I hesitate, then stick the money in my pocket. “Thanks, Captain.”
A faint smile crosses his weary face.
The elevator doors finally creak open, and we all spill out into the lowest level of the office. Ramirez and his team speed down the hall in a group, like a well-oiled machine, and by the time the rest of us make it to the garage, they’re already in their SUV and halfway to the exit. The auxiliary teams aren’t far behind them. My team is the slowest, but only because Amy, Ella, and Desmond all stop to give me soft pats on the back and mutter “Night, Cal” and “Take care of yourself” before they hop into their designated vehicle, Ella at the wheel.
Riker is the last to the SUV, clambering into the front passenger seat. His cane almost falls out when he’s trying to prop it up against the glove compartment, but he reaches out in time to catch it.
It’s then that I notice he’s not wielding the same cane I’ve seen in his hand since the day I met him. His usual cane is a cheap, generic, pharmacy-bought number that his doctor probably told him to buy as the bare minimum requirement. But this cane—which he did not have, I’m sure, before my kidnapping—has a fancy black and gold design. It looks like a custom piece, something expensive.
I wonder what that means as I watch him slam the SUV door shut. Is he finally starting to accept he’ll probably be disabled for years…if not forever?
The SUV starts up, and, silently wishing my team luck, I hobble over to where I parked my truck the day of that fateful fight on Lombard. Per Riker’s word, the truck hasn’t moved from its spot next to the column for row H. But as I draw closer, I notice that something has moved. The left front tire. The hood of the truck is sitting at a slight angle because the tire in question has gone completely flat. Somehow, even though my truck didn’t travel with me to the torture shack, it too suffered an
untimely injury.
“Oh, man,” I grumble. “Can’t anything go right for me this week?”
I glare at the tire, hang my head, and then turn to limp back to the office entrance. As I do, my team’s SUV quickly backs out of its parking space and starts to pull around to the exit. Ella, however, notices me standing there, looking like a kicked puppy, and stops the vehicle. She rolls down the window and sticks her head out. “You okay, Cal?”
“My truck’s got a flat tire,” I say in a tone that sounds suspiciously like a moody teenager’s whining.
Ella blinks a couple times. “Seriously?”
I shrug my shoulders just enough to get across my frustration without putting pressure on my broken ribs. “Welcome to my life.”
“For god’s sake.” She taps on the steering wheel, thinking fast. “All right. Get in the SUV. We’ll drop you off at your apartment as soon as we’re done wrapping up this grocery store nonsense.”
“Ella,” Riker says from the passenger seat, “I don’t want him—”
“He’s our responsibility,” she snaps. “One of McKinney’s men is still out there. I don’t want him taking public transportation home, where he has to wait out in the cold, alone and vulnerable.”
Riker holds up his hands, exasperated. “He can bum a ride off somebody at the office.”
Amy pipes up from the back seat. “Just what we need—Cooper Lee getting kidnapped again.”
I’m surprised Riker’s eyes don’t pop out of his skull. “Why are you all conspiring against me?”
“Well, boss,” Desmond replies from some shadowy corner I can’t see through the tinted windows, “last time we left a teammate alone during a mission, it didn’t end so well.”
Riker chokes.
Holy hell, I can’t believe Desmond brought up Norman Bishop.
Ella can’t either. She whips her head around so hard her neck cracks and shoots daggers into the back seat. “That was uncalled for.”
“It was true,” Desmond responds, as calm as ever. “We were all thinking it.”
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