But cruising through the Sonoma Valley thirty three minutes later, the connection abruptly died. Disten pulled the battered Quattropotenza off onto the shoulder of the highway. Inside, expressionless, the large man sat thinking.
The abrupt cessation of the Call reinforced the new idea, that a magical effect was involved. If so, what had interfered? Living earth blocked magic: the world's stock exchanges were now kept underground, to prevent magical attacks that would halt trading. An underground dwelling, then? Or some other form of barrier?
Disten considered. In hindsight, spending the minutes it had required to try to Perfect the boy had been an error of judgment. That effort had failed and little had been learned.
She was very near now, though. There would be further opportunities. Time was irrelevant.
Chapter 41
Later that afternoon in the park, Detective Adam Garland stood to one side, giving his overweight partner space as they watched the specialist manifest the spirit of the Parklands. Garland noted Berlusconi's heavy jowls twist in distaste as the other practitioner got to work. He knew his partner distrusted shamans and their “altered states of consciousness”; considered it a mere excuse to drug up and space out with magic.
Garland had had to break himself of the habit of referring to them all as mages, discovering it was the quickest way to send Berlusconi into a spitting rant. “Mages work from theory. We construct consistent, reproducible spells. Not fukken hit-or-miss artworks!” Even now, Berlusconi's expression soured at the other practitioner's success as soil, grass, leaves and bark snaked together, weaving a framework for the patchwork thing that suddenly shivered with life.
But as it finished coalescing into visible sight, its inhuman shape made Garland's heart sink. Looked like the shaman's guess would be right.
Still, he had to try. He stepped forward as the city shaman turned to him and nodded. 'It's ready. It'll hear you, and answer you. But try to keep it simple okay?'
Garland nodded, turning his attention to the disturbingly-mobile form of the plant-thing swaying patiently before him. 'Did you sense a murder this afternoon?'
The thing shifted confusedly. The shaman spoke, at the same time offering his thoughts to the spirit for inspection. 'A killing of a human.'
The disturbed motions settled. 'A human died.'
'Yes. A healthy man, jogging on the path that loops behind the picnic area.'
Its form twisted and shifted further. 'A human died, under today's sun. Under the shade of the oak…' the speech rustled out in words that faded into a dance of sweeping branches, somehow suggesting a sad struggle. Then it fell almost motionless, and he had the impression it could sense his effort to interpret its motions. It spoke again. 'The oak of lightnings.'
'Ah. Thank you, I'll confirm that later.' Yes, that sounded like the first murder site. 'Can you describe the killer?'
A long period of confused rustling followed. 'A human,' it offered, at last. 'Very.'
Very? What did that mean? He left that, for now.
'A man or a woman? Male, or female?'
It shifted uncomfortably. 'It carried no small humans.'
'Young, old?'
'Very new.'
He frowned. 'A child, you mean?'
Again, it shifted. 'Fresh. New.'
Garland sighed. This was getting them nowhere. But he persisted. 'What did you mean, “very”? A normal human?'
'Very human. Healthy.'
Shit. So they were looking for someone who was very human, healthy, and “new”? That narrowed it down to maybe half the city.
'Was it alone? I mean, just the victim and the killer?'
'No. Many were there. Much activity. Much noise.'
He frowned, then realized even its sense of time wasn't the same as his. His eyes met those of the shaman. Maybe it was hopeless.
'What about the other human who died in your Park today, near the baseball pitch, between the sun when it was highest, and now: what can you tell me about that?'
The motion of the leaves slowed. 'No other human died.'
There was a long pause, and from the corner of his eye Garland saw his partner's face flush red, belying the deceptively friendly tone that he started with. 'You really are a complete, one hundred percent nilspec waste of dirt, aren't you?' The spirit of course, seeing Berlusconi's aura, shrank back even as the shaman put out a restraining hand. At the look he received from the detective, the shaman lowered it just as quickly.
'Berlusconi.' Garland stopped, hunting for words that wouldn't rile his partner further. 'Quit scaring the spirit.'
His partner bristled but clamped his mouth shut, and they went through the motions.
A weary hour later, a good distance away at the second crime scene, that of the murdered boy, the fresh invocation of the Park's spirit simply failed. They'd come here despite the shaman's protests that mere proximity to the scene of the second murder wouldn't tell them anything more. Strangely though, the magic hadn't worked at all.
Two uniformed officers stood now at the foot of the wooded hillside. Above them, shadows clawed down through the trees in the afternoon sunlight toward the three figures beyond the police marker tapes. Garland wasn't a Sensitive, but even he felt there was something wrong here. Not eerie, or creepy, though. Something somehow worse. As if something subtle but important had been stripped away. Hollowed out.
The three looked at one another. The corpse of the dead youth at their feet, the failure of the shaman's magic, the vague sense of winter: Garland saw it had them all on edge.
The shaman stared down the hill. 'Let's move down lower, I want to try again.'
Garland's large-bellied partner stared at the shaman while chewing his tobacco substitute, clearly trying to hold his temper. He spat on the ground. 'Didn’ you just say it didn’ matter where in the park you did it, so long as you invoked your little dirt-buddy inside the Park's boundaries?'
But the shaman stubbornly stood his ground, and they trudged back down the hill.
Simply moving away from the murder site should have made no difference, Garland knew. So in a way it was even more disturbing when the spirit did at last appear. Though it looked somehow smaller. Smaller and neater.
From the expressions on their faces, none of this made sense to either the mage or the shaman. It was the same spirit – it had to be, it was the spirit of the Golden Gate Park; the shaman had summoned it with the same force; it was only an hour later. The spirit should not have changed so much. Garland saw the fear in the shaman's eyes. That would weaken and confuse him: not a good state in which to be invoking spirits. Garland's teeth felt on edge. This was all wrong.
And it only got worse when the questioning began.
'Did you see the murder of the man on the hill above us?'
They waited so long the shaman repeated his question.
'There is no hill.'
Garland watched his partner-mage and the shaman exchange disbelieving looks.
'The hill right here. Your hill. With the dead human male a short way up it.'
The spirit looked around vaguely.
It was too much for Berlusconi. 'Up there, goddamn it!' he shouted, stabbing a finger up into the woods.
The fleshy mage's futile outburst visibly settled the shaman. 'Up there,' he repeated for the spirit. As the invoker, he was the one with an actual link to the entity. Still it seemed confused.
'Follow me, then,' the shaman commanded. 'I'll take you there.' He began climbing the slope while it marched, rustling after him, the other two following along behind it. Part way up, some hint made the shaman turn to watch the spirit – just as it fell apart into a spiral of collapsing dirt and leaves.
Berlusconi, immediately behind the summoned spirit of the Park, nearly stumbled as he jumped aside to avoid treading in the stuff that had formed it, as if he thought the detritus might be poisonous. 'What in the name of fuksake just happened?'
The shaman looked stunned. 'It- Did you banish it?'
&nb
sp; Berlusconi opened his mouth, then, with effort, took a grip on himself. 'No. Because that would be stupid.' He paused, and Garland watched as he visibly counted to ten. 'It looked like it just fell apart. How about we try that again, more carefully, eh?'
The next time it fell apart even sooner.
The time after that, the shaman could not invoke it at all.
While his overweight colleague indulged his feelings in a long and creative stream of swearing, Garland turned to the uniformed men. 'We're finished here. Go ahead and collect this body, too – we'll have to hope forensics can tell us something. Magic certainly isn't going to.'
He moved off, deep in thought, his fleshy partner still inventing creative curses under his breath, while the shaman trailed numbly behind them.
For some reason, though, Garland's mind kept going back to the earlier two. Dr Alex Harmon and the girl, Sara.
Especially Sara.
Why had her hair been damp?
Chapter 42
That night, in the privacy of Harmon's rooms, they had another Feast. Finest cut prime fillet steak. He watched in wonder as she demolished hers. A large portion. Just as well he knew her appetite and had ordered accordingly.
'I don't know where all that food goes. If you're not careful you'll get fat.'
She paused, a large chunk of very rare meat raised on her fork. She closed her mouth abruptly.
'Am I fat?' She put her fork down, looking suddenly distressed.
'No. I simply said if you're not careful you will get fat.'
'So I am fat.'
'No. Leeth, you are not fat. Your BMI was fine last month, and I'm sure it will be fine this month too. The weight seems to be muscle, not fat.'
'You're saying I'm chunky, then.'
'No! Muscle is denser and weighs more than fat. Your figure, in fact, is close to ideal for a girl your age.'
'My breasts are too small.'
He almost snorted his wine.
'Do you think they'll grow?'
He blinked, slowly, and at last said, 'At the rate they have been growing over the last few years, I would say they might grow a little larger.'
'Oh! You've noticed!'
He looked away, disturbed. He had noticed. He had noticed, indeed. But despite her continued provocations – conscious and unconscious – his resolve still held firm, however.
So far.
Certainly, it was not made any easier by the changes in her behavior. She had become more familiar, more physically affectionate since that night: often taking his arm, or stealing a quick hug before breaking free. Nor had he managed to harden his heart sufficiently to pour cold water on those small displays of affection. He found he almost welcomed them, strangely enough.
Leeth suddenly leaned forward. 'Look, Keepie! Vid: mute off.'
Both turned from the dining table, ignoring the remains of the repast as the projection enlarged and brightened, and the volume rose.
'… some new monster, roaming the idyllic Golden Gate Recreational Area? I'm now crossing live for a virtual meeting with metropolice spokesman David Burke, in a full-sense render of the actual murder scenes, provided for us by Tik Tek WorldWeaveTM. Whether you leave the world behind or weave a better one, you can always trust Tik Tek. Chief Inspector Burke, what can you tell MetroWatch about these shocking murders?'
The perky newscaster gestured around at the two dramatically mutilated corpses at their feet, labeled with translucent “artist's impression” lettering.
Leeth's face fell. 'Which one is ’sposed to be mine, Keepie?'
'Be quiet. I would imagine it's the larger one, with the rib-cage artistically folded back.'
Burke was middle-aged and jowly, and spared only a moment's disgusted look at the virtual corpses. 'Frankly, Bobbi, there are some puzzling aspects to this afternoon's double murder. While both deaths were violent in the extreme, and the injuries were consistent with someone of great strength – and I don't want to single out any particular human subspecies – there are some strange differences.
'We've found traces of DNA from a female human on the first victim, along with fragments of wood – it appears a sharpened stake was used in the killing.'
'That's my one, Keepie! But I didn't use the stick for-'
'Leeth, be quiet. This is important.'
'We've also found traces of DNA from a male, Caucasian, who we believe applied the killing force to the second victim. Included amongst the other DNA contaminants on that victim, however, were some from the suspected female murderess.'
'Fascinating, chief inspector. Sounds like they were working together. Presumably you have the identities of the killers?'
'Bobbi, we only have DNA samples from thirty-five percent of people who have CIDs,'
'What's sids, Keepie?'
'Citizen IDs. Hush.'
'… and less than twenty percent from the CID-less scu- uh, from the disenfranchised…'
'What's dis-enFrench-?'
'Scum. Now hush!'
'… however, we do have one or two leads which we will be following up on shortly.'
'Our artists have done a few sample renders of possible creatures, Chief. Would you care to…?'
Burke made his escape before the monster parade could begin, and Harmon ordered the volume down and frowned at her. 'Leeth, I asked you if you had killed “the other one” the police mentioned. You said you had not.' He gestured at the vid. 'But traces of your DNA were found on the second victim. How do you explain that?'
She shrugged. 'I don't know.'
'The truth, Leeth. Did you kill anyone else today?'
The words seemed surreal the moment he'd spoken them. Ignoring the feeling, he focused on her. On her aura.
'No.' She frowned at him, puzzled. 'Why did you ask me again? Why would I lie about it?'
Yes, why indeed? He began massaging his forehead. What have I created?
'Uncle? What's wrong?'
'Well, leaving aside the disturbing coincidence that your DNA was found on both murder victims, there is a much greater problem. Your DNA is now on record, linked to these killings. Apparently your own citizen ID record doesn't contain a DNA sample, or you would now be in prison.'
'Oh.'
'Yes. “Oh.” It also means that should your DNA be entered into the system at some future date, you will be linked to this killing and arrested.'
'Oh. Can we change it?'
He wasn't sure which she meant – her DNA, or her records – but the answer was the same in either case. He sighed and shook his head, tiredly. 'No, Leeth. No, we can't.'
He felt, though, he was overlooking something. He drummed his fingers against the arm of the seat, chasing some horrible thought.
Oh, no.
The two police officers. Having to give their identities. They would come here and take a sample from Leeth, and that would be that. All over.
He sat staring dully into space. All his work ruined.
He was unsure how long he'd been sitting there before the decision filtered through to his consciousness. They would have to leave at once. Now, tonight.
His thoughts seemed to be moving in slow motion. Shock, he supposed, feeling disoriented. He forced himself to stand.
As he did, his comm link buzzed on the bench by the portable oven in his kitchenette. 'Sanders here, Dr Harmon. Pick up. You have visitors who would like to talk to you. Police.'
Harmon staggered, looking across in shock at Leeth.
She was grinning, excited. 'Wow. This should be vish!'
'Vish?'
'Dr Harmon? Pick up, please.'
He headed over to the link.
'You know. Vicious.' She screwed up her face in thought, then her eyes lit up. 'We'll have to go on the run, Keepie! After I kill these ones they'll send more, won't they?' She clapped her hands together.
He stared at her in dismay, then gestured her to silence as he picked up the link. 'I heard you, Director.' His mind seemed to start working again. 'I imagine it's in relation
to an incident today in the Golden Gate Park?' He nodded at the answer. 'In which case I assume the gentlemen would also like to question Sara?'
He held up one hand to quell the outburst which his private use of her “child name” always provoked.
'Your office? Certainly, we'll be up directly.'
He cut the link, staring at Leeth who watched him, head cocked to one side.
'Do you have a plan, Keepie?'
'The Director will give us privacy if I request it. If the police have not sent a mage, I may be able to adjust their memories. Just don't kill anyone unless I say the word.'
He stopped, barely believing the words that had just come from his own mouth. Leeth watched him closely, he saw, as she nodded with excited understanding.
His mind struggled through molasses as he desperately tried to think of a way out of the trap that had closed around them both. This was impossible, a nightmare. But all he said was, 'Just remember you have to pretend to be Sara, Leeth. An innocent and harmless young girl.'
But he dared not Suggest that – if worse came to worst, he would need Leeth, not Sara, at his side.
But not at his back. Never at his back.
Chapter 43
He very nearly ordered Leeth to attack, the moment he stepped into Sanders's room. The Director sat rigidly upright, but Harmon's attention had locked on his visitors.
The same two officers from the park. That could not be good.
The one he had thought looked like a footballer loomed even larger in the confines of the office – almost two meters tall. And studying the ribbons of deadness in his aura up close, he had been engineered with some combination of muscle augmentation, deep neural lacing, and sub-dermal armoring.
The other was the same fat mage who had questioned them in the park. Now though, the energized shapes of his aura snapped from one configuration to the next – but always folding hyperactively around a general pattern of readiness. Some kind of reflex-enhancement spell, presumably. The two also maintained a good separation, bracketing Leeth and himself.
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