His Father's Eyes

by DAVID B. COE

  A part of me simply wanted an excuse to keep Namid around. The necromancers had fled my father’s mind as soon we showed up, and the rhymes-with-witch who warned me at Solana’s and tried to crush my heart on the Sun Valley Parkway—the one who, as it happened, was also tormenting my father—had made herself scarce since the myste’s arrival. He was like a good luck charm.

  I couldn’t keep him here forever, but as it happened, I did have another question for him.

  “The runemyste you mentioned before, the one who was murdered—where did that happen? And when?”

  It was a stab in the dark, nothing more. And yet, somehow I knew what he would tell me.

  “She was killed within the last two days; we do not know exactly when. And the body of the weremyste was found in what you would call Northern Virginia, near—”

  “Washington, D.C.”

  The myste’s gleaming eyes bored into me like lasers. “You knew this?”

  “I guessed.”

  “Guessed,” he repeated.

  “An educated guess.” I gave him the Reader’s Digest history of Flight 595, and, without mentioning Amaya’s name, told him what little I’d learned about Regina Witcombe and Patty Hesslan-Fine.

  “This could be coincidence,” Namid said in a way that told me he didn’t believe it was.

  “It’s not,” I said. “I would never argue with you when it comes to crafting spells. You’re the expert. But this other stuff—this is what I do. These are not coincidences. It’s all connected in some way. Dark magic killed your fellow runemyste at the same time these two women were in that part of the country. And as soon as I started investigating them, a necromancer blew up my girlfriend and tried to kill me on a lonely stretch of highway.”

  He faced forward again, his features ice-hard. “I will make inquiries among my kind,” he said.

  “I’ll do the same.”

  “If you can help us identify the dark ones responsible, you would be doing us a great service. But you must tread like the fox, Ohanko.”

  “Don’t I always?”

  He faced me again. “No, you do not. Most times you are reckless and foolish. You place yourself in danger more often than I care to consider. But you cannot be so careless with this. Necromancers hate my kind with a blinding passion; it consumes them, driving all that they do. In pursuit of victory over the Runeclave, they would think nothing of killing weremystes and humans. You must exercise more caution than usual.”

  “I will,” I said, sobered less by his words than the gravity with which he spoke them. I didn’t often see Namid frightened; it wasn’t a pretty sight.

  The myste nodded once, and vanished. I had to resist an urge to drive home and hide under my bed with my Glock and every magical herb I had in the house. Instead, I pulled out my phone and called Kona at home. Driving and dialing again; I hated myself a little. But I couldn’t bring myself to pull over. As it was, I expected at any moment to feel that clawed hand take hold of my heart once more.

  Margarite answered and after a bit of chit-chat, told me that Kona was at 620, despite it being close to four o’clock on a Saturday afternoon. I shouldn’t have been surprised. Between the murder at Sky Harbor Airport, the attack on Solana’s, and the murders committed by Dimples and his weremancer friends, she, Kevin, and the rest of the Phoenix Police Department had plenty to keep them busy 24/7.

  I didn’t bother calling her at 620 from the highway; I just drove into the city.

  Somehow, I made it downtown without being killed or run off the road by a silver sedan. I parked near 620 and called Kona’s number as I walked to police headquarters. She answered on the second ring.

  “Shaw.”

  “Hey, partner.”

  “Well, if it isn’t the television star.”

  It took me a minute to remember my on-air temper tantrum outside of Solana’s. “Oh, right.”

  “That was must-see TV, Justis. Hibbard in particular gave you rave reviews.”

  “Billie and I were in there. She almost died.”

  “I know,” she said, the sarcasm leaching out of her voice. “I’m sorry. How’s she doing?”

  “Last time I saw her she was doing okay, improving. Listen, I’m parked nearby. Can you come down? We have a lot to talk about.”

  “I’m pretty much slammed right now. Two terrorist attacks in less than a week, not to mention that murder in Sweetwater Park—even with the federal boys taking over the lion’s share of the airport and bombing investigations, I have more than enough to keep me up nights, know what I’m saying?”

  “The attack on Solana’s wasn’t a bombing. It was magic. I should have told you sooner, but—”

  “You think?” she demanded, voice spiraling upward again. “That would have been helpful information!”

  “And I’m ready to tell you everything I can. But I think we’d be better off talking about it outside of 620.”

  She heaved a sigh. “Should I bring Kevin?”

  “Sure, why not? The more the merrier, right?”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’ll be right across the street.”

  “We’ll be down in five.”

  It didn’t even take them that long. Kona was uncharacteristically sheepish as they crossed the street and approached me.

  It was Kevin who said, “She’s sorry for how she was on the phone.”

  “He your spokesman now?”

  “Probably should be,” Kona said. “I am sorry. Billie was hurt, you’ve probably been working on this night and day since it happened. And I should have guessed from the way you were on television that it wasn’t an ordinary bombing. You know better than to talk to the press. But a spell aimed at you and your woman—that would throw anyone off their game.”

  “Thanks.” I glanced at Kevin. “Both of you.”

  “What can you tell us?” Kona asked.

  “Not much right now. There seems to be dark magic flowing in every direction, and I don’t know what to do with it all. The body at Sweetwater Park, some weird stuff happening with my father, the attack on Solana’s. And those don’t even cover the worst of it.”

  “I know I’m going to regret asking this,” Kona said. “But what’s the worst of it?”

  “One of Namid’s kind was murdered in the last day or so.”

  Kona’s mouth fell open. “I didn’t think they were mortal.”

  “Namid’s the ghost-thing you told me about the other day, right?” Kevin asked. “The one who helps you train?”

  Namid would hate the description, but I didn’t see any point in correcting him.

  “That’s right.” To Kona I said, “I didn’t know they were mortal, either. Even Namid is at a loss to explain what happened. But somehow one was killed. I’m wondering if you’ve had any reason to investigate Regina Witcombe since I left the force.”

  “Witcombe,” Kevin said. “Don’t tell me she’s into magic, too.”

  “Dark magic, from what I hear.”

  “Shit, Justis. This keeps getting better and better.” Kona closed her eyes, rubbed the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. “No, I haven’t had anything to do with the woman. Neither has anyone else on the force as far as I know. I’ve been convinced for years that she had her husband killed, but we were never—” Her hand dropped to her side. “We were never able to prove it. And now you’re telling me that she’s a myste, too.” She shook her head. “Well, at least now I know how she got away with it.”

  “Any new leads on the Sweetwater Park murder?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “We’ve got nothing. I was going to ask you the same thing. What can you tell me about what happened at Solana’s?”

  I gazed across the street at 620. “It was aimed at me. I heard someone speak to me after the explosion. ‘A warning. Do not push too hard.’ That’s what she said.”

  “She? You think it was Witcombe?”

  “No, I don’t. I think Regina Witcombe is a weremyste. Like me, but richer, an
d into dark magic. I think Solana’s was attacked by someone who’s more on Namid’s level.”

  “So it was aimed at you,” Kevin said, studying me with a critical eye. “And yet your girlfriend’s the one who’s in the hospital.”

  “Kevin!” Kona said.

  “He’s right. That might be the weirdest part of it. Nothing happened to me. Nothing at all. I didn’t so much as tear a fingernail. No cuts, no bruises, no burns.” Kona glanced at my jaw. “I got the bruise elsewhere,” I told her. “I’m serious: Nothing happened to me at the restaurant. Someone blew up Solana’s to send me a message, and at the same time did everything in her power to keep me safe.”

  The words echoed in my head. Kona asked me something, but I didn’t hear her. I was remembering the touch of magic dancing along my skin the instant before the explosion, and also the tickle of magic I’d felt before Mark Darby shot at me. There should have been some residue of power on me after both episodes. That there wasn’t must have meant something.

  “There’s no residue on my dad, either,” I whispered.

  “What are you talking about? Are you all right?”

  My gaze snapped to Kona’s face. “This wasn’t the first time she saved me,” I said. “The night before, I was working on a case and nearly got myself shot. By all rights, I should have died. But someone cast a spell that saved my life. I still don’t know who.”

  “So there’s some weremyste out there—”

  “I told you: She’s not a weremyste. She’s too powerful for that.”

  “All right. Some magical entity. And she’s doing everything she can to keep you alive, while at the same time blowing up your favorite restaurant and the woman you love with it.”

  “Sounds a little crazy doesn’t it?”

  Kevin exhaled. “I’m glad you said that, and not me.”

  “Welcome to life with Justis,” Kona said. “Crazy just follows him around.”

  “I need to speak with Witcombe,” I said, “and I’m not sure how best to get close to her.”

  Kevin gave a small shake of his head. “She has a security detail. A good one. If she doesn’t want to talk to you, you won’t get past them.”

  Kona and I exchanged glances. She grinned.

  It was like a light bulb went on over Kevin’s head. “Unless you happen to have magic.”

  “You don’t know her address in Paradise Valley, do you?”

  “No!” Kona said. “Talking about this is one thing. Giving you an address so that you can go harass arguably the most influential woman in the city? That’s something else entirely.”

  “She was on the plane.”

  For the second time in about five minutes, Kona stared at me as if I’d sprouted wings and flown over 620. “By ‘the plane,’ you mean . . .”

  “Flight 595. For all I know, she killed Jimmy Howell. Then she flew to Washington, and within twenty-four hours of her arrival there, one of Namid’s fellow runemystes was murdered in—wait for it—Northern Virginia.”

  She pursed her lips.

  “Does that change things a little?” I asked.

  “Not as much as you’d think. In case you’ve forgotten, the PPD doesn’t investigate murders of runemystes, or, for that matter, murders that take place two thousand miles beyond the state border.”

  “And the plane?”

  “There were lots of people on the plane. We have no evidence whatsoever—at least none that’s admissible—implicating Regina Witcombe in either murder or sabotage. Add to that the fact that the FBI guys practically claw out our eyes anytime someone from the department gets near their desks, and there’s really not much I can do for you.”

  I nodded. I could call back Sally Peters, who had access to the real estate databases, but I was sure her company would frown on her giving out private information, too.

  “Of course,” Kona went on a moment later, “a woman like Witcombe is probably at her office more often than she’s at home, even on a Saturday. And corporate addresses are easy to find, even for a private investigator.”

  Kevin snorted.

  I lifted an eyebrow. “I’d thought of going to her office. But I figure that’s where I’m most likely to encounter that security detail Kevin mentioned. She might relax a bit at home.”

  Kona frowned. “I hate it when he’s right.”

  “If I find something, you know I’ll bring it to you. Wouldn’t you like to beat the FBI guys at their own game?”

  “Go back inside, Kevin.”

  Kevin’s face fell. “What’d I do?”

  “Nothing,” Kona said, rounding on him. “I’m trying to protect your ass. If I get caught doing something wrong, I want you to be able to swear on a stack of Bibles that you knew nothing about it. Now get back to work.”

  His eyes narrowed a bit, and his expression hardened. But after a moment his gaze flicked in my direction. “Jay.”

  “See you later, Kevin.”

  He said nothing to Kona before walking away, crossing the street and entering 620. Once Kona couldn’t see him anymore, she faced me again.

  “I’ll get you Witcombe’s address. I’ll call you with it. But I don’t like this.”

  “For what it’s worth, I don’t either.”

  She dipped her chin. “I believe that. Twice now you’ve mentioned your father. What’s he got to do with this?”

  “I wish I knew. He’s been . . . someone’s been hurting him, using magic to . . . to do I-don’t-even-know-what. I don’t understand what’s happening to him, but I’d bet everything I own that it’s tied in some way to the rest of this.”

  Her lips pursed again, and I could tell what she was thinking.

  “You’re taking a lot on faith. I appreciate that.”

  “I was thinking that the full moon’s only a couple of days away, and you get a little funny even before the phasings start.”

  “Is that a polite way of suggesting that I might be imagining all of this?”

  “No,” she said. “I’m sure that it’s all happening the way you say it is. But this strikes me as a little odd—you’re hearing voices, your father is suffering—”

  “You mean, my father the nutcase.”

  “And then there’s the plane, and Solana’s. And even that bit about you almost getting shot. What is all this, Justis?”

  I shook my head and started to answer, but she held up a hand, stopping me.

  “Kevin’s inside. This is just you and me. And I’m asking if there’s more to this than you’re saying.”

  I wasn’t sure how to answer. If she thought the rest of it sounded over the top, how would she react when I started talking about a magical war? But I thought again of Jacinto Amaya and how I’d kept from her that he was my source on the role of dark magic in the ritual killings she and Kevin were investigating. The last thing I wanted was to alienate her further with more secrets.

  “Yeah, there is,” I told her. “We seem to be on the brink of . . . well, of a kind of magical civil war.”

  She blinked. “That doesn’t sound so good.”

  “It’s not. When runemystes start dying, you know that things are headed in a bad direction.”

  CHAPTER 16

  My cell rang before I’d made it back to my car. Kona gave me the address, whispering so quietly I had to ask her to repeat herself twice before I could make out all of it, which probably defeated the purpose of all that whispering.

  Not surprisingly, Regina Witcombe lived in one of the most exclusive neighborhoods in the entire Phoenix metropolitan area, in a mansion that was about six times the size of my place in Chandler. It also didn’t come as a surprise to me to find that the house had a sophisticated security system, as well as armed guards, several of whom were accompanied by German shepherds that made Gary Hacker in coyote form look like a chihuahua.

  The guards, and even the security sensors, could be fooled by a decent camouflage spell. The dogs were the problem. They could hear almost anything, and what their ears missed, their noses w
ould find. Trying to sneak into the Witcombe estate would be idiotic, the kind of thing you might see in a movie, right before the hero is captured by his nemesis.

  I decided to try a more direct approach. I drove up to the front gate and smiled at the guy in the guardhouse, who could have been a walking advertisement for a home gym.

  “Can I help you?” he asked as I rolled down my window. He sported a military-style buzz cut and carried a CZ 75 nine millimeter in a shoulder holster. His navy blue uniform had to be a couple of sizes too small, but given how big his biceps were I wasn’t sure they made shirts in his size.

  “I’m here to see Missus Witcombe. My name is Jay Fearsson. I’m a private detective doing some work for the Phoenix Police Department. I’d like to talk to her about Flight 595.”

  Whatever he’d expected me to say, that wasn’t it. Sometimes, nothing flummoxed a potential adversary like the unvarnished truth.

  “Is she expecting you?” he asked.

  “No.”

  He stepped back into the guardhouse, picked up the phone, and punched in a three-digit number. Seeing that I was watching him, he shut the guardhouse door and turned his back on me. I scanned the courtyard beyond the gate, taking in the Spanish mission-style house and the vast desert garden in front of it, complete with prickly pear and ocotillo, teddy-bear cholla and barrel cacti. A pair of orioles darted past, flashes of orange and black in the afternoon sun.

  After a brief conversation, the guard came back out. “She’s unavailable right now. She suggests that you call her office on Monday. Her attorney will be happy to answer any questions you might have.”

  “Could you let her know that I’ve already spoken with Patty Hesslan-Fine. The three of us have a good deal in common. You should tell her that, as well, and that she’ll see what I mean as soon as she meets me.”

  Buzz-Cut glared at me, and I was sure he’d refuse. I half-expected him to pick up my car and toss it back into the street. But he stalked back into the guardhouse and made a second phone call.

  This conversation went on longer than had the first. Several times he glanced back at me and at one point he laid down the receiver on his desk and came out to ask for my PI and driver’s licenses. After a few minutes he hung up, handed my IDs back to me, and waved me through the gate.