by Jim Butcher
And a photographer? Someone lurking around outside of windows and taking pictures? I rummaged in my duster pocket and felt the round plastic film canister. That explained where the canister had come from, at any rate. But why would someone be out there at the house, taking pictures of Victor and his friends? Maybe because Monica had hired someone else, a PI, without telling me. Maybe just a neighbor with the hots for taking dirty pictures. No way to tell, really. More mysteries.
I pulled the Studebaker into my drive and killed the engine. I tallied the score for the evening. Enigmas: lots. Harry: zero.
My investigation for Monica Sells had netted me one husband throwing wild parties in his beach house after losing his job, and working hard not to be found. Probably an advanced case of male menopause. Monica didn’t seem to be the kind of woman who would take such a thing with good grace—more like the kind who would close her eyes and call me a liar if I told her the truth. But at least it merited a little more looking into—I could log a few more hours in on the case, maybe earn some more money out of it before I gave her the bill. But I still didn’t really know anything.
The angle with Bianca had come to a dead end at Linda Randall. All I had were more questions for Miss Randall, and she was as closed as a bank on Sunday. I didn’t have anything solid enough to hand to Murphy to let her pursue the matter. Dammit. I was going to have to do that research after all. Maybe it would turn up something helpful, some kind of clue to help lead me and the police to the murderer.
And maybe dragons would fly out my butt. But I had to try.
So I got out of the car to go inside and get to work.
He was waiting for me behind the trash cans that stood next to the stairs leading down to my front door. The baseball bat he swung at me took me behind the ear and pitched me to the bottom of the stairs in a near-senseless heap. I could hear his footsteps, but couldn’t quite move, as he came down the stairs toward me.
It figured. It was just the kind of day I was having.
I felt his foot on the back of my neck. Felt him lift the baseball bat. And then it came whistling down toward my skull with a mighty crack of impact.
Except that it missed my motionless head, and whacked into the concrete next to my face, right by my eyes, instead.
“Listen up, Dresden,” my attacker said. His voice was rough, low, purposefully hoarse. “You got a big nose. Stop sticking it where it doesn’t belong. You got a big mouth. Stop talking to people you don’t need to talk to. Or we’re going to shut that mouth of yours.” He waited a melodramatically appropriate moment, and then added, “Permanently.”
His footsteps retreated up the stairs and vanished.
I just lay there watching the stars in front of my eyes for a while. Mister appeared from somewhere, probably drawn by the groaning noises, and started licking at my nose.
I eventually regained my mobility and sat up. My head was spinning, and I felt sick to my stomach. Mister rubbed up against me, as though he sensed something was wrong, purring in a low rumble. I managed to stand up long enough to unlock my apartment door, let Mister and myself in, and lock it behind me. I staggered over to my easy chair in the darkness and sat down with a whuff of expelled breath.
I sat motionless until the spinning slowed down enough to allow me to open my eyes again, and until the pounding of my head calmed down. Pounding head. Someone could have been pounding on my head with a baseball bat just then, pounding my head into new and interesting shapes that were inconducive to carrying on businesslike pursuits. Someone could have been pounding Harry Dresden right into the hereafter.
I cut off that line of thought. “You are not some poor rabbit, Dresden!” I reminded myself, sternly. “You are a wizard of the old school, a spellslinger of the highest caliber. You’re not going to roll over for some schmuck with a baseball bat because he tells you to!”
Galvanized by the sound of my own voice, or maybe only by the somewhat unsettling realization that I had begun talking to myself, I stood up and built up the fire in the fireplace, then walked unsteadily back and forth in front of it, trying to think, to work out the details.
Had this evening’s visits triggered the warning? Who had reason to threaten me? What were they trying to keep me from finding? And, most importantly, what was I going to do about it?
Someone had seen me talking to Linda Randall, maybe. Or, more likely, someone had seen me showing up at Bianca’s place, asking questions. The Blue Beetle may not be glitzy, but it is sort of difficult to mistake for anyone else’s car. Who would have reason to have me watched?
Why, hadn’t Gentleman Johnny Marcone followed me so that he could have a word with me? So he could ask me to keep out of this business with Tommy Tomm’s murder? Yes he had. Maybe this had been another reminder from the mob boss. It had that kind of mafioso feel to it.
I staggered to my kitchenette and fixed myself a tisane tea for the headache, then added in some aspirin. Herbal remedies are well and good, but I don’t like to take chances.
Working on that same principle, I got my Smith & Wesson .38 Chief’s Special out of its drawer, took the cloth covering off of it, and made sure it was loaded. Then I stuck the revolver in my jacket pocket.
Wizardry aside, it’s tough to beat a gun for discouraging men with baseball bats. And I sure as hell wasn’t going to roll over for the tiger-souled Johnny Marcone, let him push me around, let him know that it was all right to walk all over me whenever he felt like it. No way in hell or on earth, either.
My head was throbbing, and my hands were shaking, but I went down the ladder to my workroom—and started figuring out how to rip someone’s heart out of his chest from fifty miles away.
Who says I never do anything fun on a Friday night?
Chapter Eleven
It took me the rest of the night and part of the morning, but I worked out how I could murder someone in the same manner that Tommy Tomm and Jennifer Stanton had been killed. After the fifth or sixth time I’d checked the figures, I stared at my calculations.
It didn’t make any sense. It was impossible.
Or maybe we were all underestimating just how dangerous this killer was.
I grabbed my duster, and headed out without bothering to check my looks. I don’t keep any mirrors in my home. Too many things can use mirrors as windows—or doors—but I was pretty sure I looked like a wreck. The Studebaker’s rearview mirror confirmed this. My face was haggard, with a shadow of a beard, deep circles under bloodshot eyes, and hair that looked as though it had been riding a speeding motorcycle through a cloud of greasy smoke. Smoothing your hair back with sweaty palms as a study habit will do that to you. Especially if you do it for twelve or fourteen hours straight.
It didn’t matter. Murphy wanted this information, and she needed to have it. Things were bad. They were very, very bad.
I made quick time down to the station, knowing Murphy would want to hear this from me face-to-face. The police station Murphy worked in was one in an aged complex of buildings that housed the metro police department. It was run-down, sagging in places like an old soldier who nonetheless stood at attention and struggled to hold in his gut. There was graffiti along one wall that the janitor wouldn’t come to scrub off until Monday morning.
I parked in the visitors’ parking—easy to do on a Saturday morning—and headed up the steps and into the building. The desk sergeant wasn’t the usual mustached old warhorse whom I had run into before, but a greying matron with steely eyes who disapproved of me and my lifestyle in a single glance, then made me wait while she called up Murphy.
While I waited, a pair of officers came in, dragging a handcuffed man between them. He wasn’t resisting them—just the opposite, in fact. His head was down, and he was moaning in an almost musical way. He was on the thin side, and I got the impression that he was young. His denim jeans and jacket were battered, unkempt, as was his hair. The officers dragged him past the desk, and one of them said, “That DUI we called in. We’re going to take him u
p to holding until he can see straight.”
The desk sergeant passed a clipboard over, and one of the officers took it under his arm, before the two of them dragged the young man up the stairs. I waited, rubbing at my tired eyes, until the sergeant managed to get through to someone upstairs. She gave a rather surprised “Hmph,” and then said, “All right, Lieutenant. I’ll send him on up.” She waved a hand at me to go on past. I could feel her eyes on me as I went by, and I smoothed my palm self-consciously over my head and jaw.
Special Investigations kept a little waiting area just within the door at the top of the staircase. It consisted of four wooden chairs and a sagging old couch that would probably kill your back if you tried to sleep on it. Murphy’s office was at the end of a double row of cubicles.
Murphy stood just inside her office with a phone pressed to her ear, wearing a martyred expression. She looked like a teenager having a fight with an out-of-town boyfriend, though she’d tear my head off if she heard me saying any such thing. I waved my hand, and she nodded back at me. She pointed at the waiting area, then shut her office door.
I took a seat in one of the chairs and leaned my head back against a wall. I had just closed my eyes when I heard a scream from behind me in the hallway. There was a struggling sound, and a few startled exclamations, before the scream repeated itself, closer this time.
I acted without thinking—I was too tired to think. I rose and went into the hall, toward the source of the sound. To my left was the staircase, and to my right the hallway stretched ahead of me.
A figure appeared, the silhouette of a running man, moving toward me with long strides. It was the man who had hung so limply between the two officers, humming, a few minutes before. He was the one screaming. I heard a scrabbling sound, and then the pair of officers I had seen downstairs a few moments before came around the corner. Neither of them was a young man anymore, and they both ran with their bellies out, puffing for breath, holding their gun belts against their hips with one hand.
“Stop!” one of the officers shouted, panting. “Stop that man!”
The hair on the back of my neck prickled. The man running toward me kept on screaming, high and terrified, his voice a long and uninterrupted peal of…something. Terror, panic, lust, rage, all rolled up into a ball and sent spewing out into the air through his vocal cords.
I had a quick impression of wide, staring eyes, a dirty face, a denim jacket, and old jeans as he came down the shadowy hallway. His hands were behind his back, presumably held there by cuffs. He wasn’t seeing the hall he was running through. I don’t know what he was looking at, but I got the impression that I didn’t want to know. He came hurtling toward me and the stairs, blind and dangerous to himself.
It wasn’t any of my business, but I couldn’t let him break himself apart in a tumble down the stairs. I threw myself toward him as hard as I could, attempting to put my shoulder into his stomach and drive him backward in a football-style tackle.
There is a reason I got cut every year during high school. I rammed into him, but he just whuffed out a breath and spun to one side, into a wall. It was as though he hadn’t seen me coming and had no realization that I was there. He just kept staring blindly and screaming, careening off the wall and continuing on his way, toward the stairs. I went down to the floor, my head abruptly throbbing again where the unknown tough had rapped me with a baseball bat last night.
One good thing about being as tall as I am—I have long arms. I rolled back toward him and lashed out with one hand, fingers clutching. I caught his jeans at the cuff and gave his leg a solid sideways tug.
That did it. He spun, off-balance, and went down to the tile floor. The scream stopped as the fall took the wind from him. He slid to the top of the stairs and stopped, feebly struggling. The officers pounded past me toward him, one going to either side.
And then something strange happened.
The young man looked up at me, and his eyes rounded and dilated, until I thought they had turned into huge black coins dotted onto his bloodshot eyeballs. His eyes rolled back into his head until he could hardly have been able to see, and he started to shout in a clarion voice.
“Wizard!” he trumpeted. “Wizard! I see you! I see you, wizard! I see the things that follow, those who walk before and He Who Walks Behind! They come, they come for you!”
“Jesus Christ on a crutch,” the shorter, rounder officer said, as they took the man by his arms and started dragging him back down the hall. “Junkies. Thanks for the assist, buddy.”
I stared at the man, stunned. I caught the sleeve of the taller officer. “What’s going on, sir?” I asked him.
He stopped, letting the prisoner hang between him and his partner. The prisoner’s head was bowed forward, and his eyes were still rolled back, but he had his head turned toward me and was grinning a horrible, toothy grin. His forehead was wrinkled oddly, almost as though he were somehow focusing on me through the bones of his browridges and the frontal lobes of his brain.
“Junkie,” the taller officer said. “One of those new ThreeEye punks. Caught him down by the lake in his car with nearly four grams of the stuff. Probably more in him.” He shook his head. “You okay?”
“Fine, fine,” I assured him. “ThreeEye? That new drug?”
The shorter officer snorted. “One that’s supposed to make them see the spirit world, that kind of crap.”
The taller one nodded. “Stuff hooks harder than crack. Thanks for the help. Didn’t know you were a civilian, though. Didn’t expect anyone but police down here this time of day.”
“No problem,” I assured him. “I’m fine.”
“Hey,” the stouter one said. He squinted at me and shook his finger. “Aren’t you the guy? That psychic consultant Carmichael told me about?”
“I’ll take the fifth,” I said to him with a grin that I didn’t feel. The two officers chuckled and turned back to their business, quickly shouldering me aside as they dragged their prisoner away.
He whispered in a mad little voice, all the way down the hall. “See you, see you, wizard. See He Who Walks Behind.”
I returned to my chair in the waiting area at the end of the row of cubicles and sat down, my head throbbing, my stomach rolling uncomfortably. He Who Walks Behind. I had never seen the junkie before. Never been close to him. I hadn’t sensed the subtle tension of power in the air around him that signified the presence of a magical practitioner.
So how the hell had he seen the shadow of He Who Walks Behind flowing in my wake?
For reasons I don’t have time to go into now, I am marked, indelibly, with the remnants of the presence of a hunter-spirit, a sort of spectral hit man known as He Who Walks Behind. I had beaten long odds in surviving the enemy of mine who had called up He Who Walks Behind and sent him after me—but even though the hunter-spirit had never gotten to me, the mark could still be seen upon me by those who knew how, by using the Third Sight, stretching out behind me like a long and horribly shaped shadow. Sort of a spiritual scar to remind me of the encounter.
But only a wizard had that kind of vision, the ability to sense the auras and manifestations of magical phenomena. And that junkie had been no wizard.
Was it possible that I had been wrong in my initial assessment of ThreeEye? Could the drug genuinely grant to its users the visions of the Third Sight?
I shuddered at the thought. The kind of things you see when you learn how to open your Third Eye could be blindingly beautiful, bring tears to your eyes—or they could be horrible, things that made your worst nightmares seem ordinary and comforting. Visions of the past, the future, of the true natures of things. Psychic stains, troubled shades, spirit-folk of all description, the shivering power of the Nevernever in all its brilliant and subtle hues—and all going straight into your brain: unforgettable, permanent. Wizards quickly learn how to control the Third Eye, to keep it closed except in times of great need, or else they go mad within a few weeks.
I shivered. If the drug was real, i
f it really did open the Third Eye in mortals instead of just inflicting ordinary hallucinations upon its users, then it was far more dangerous than it seemed, even with the deleterious effects demonstrated by the junkie I had tackled. Even if a user didn’t go mad from seeing too many horrible or otherworldly things, he might see through the illusions and disguises of any of a number of beings that passed among mankind regularly, unseen—which could compel such creatures to act in defense, for fear of being revealed. Double jeopardy.
“Dresden,” Murphy snapped, “wake up.”
I blinked. “Not asleep,” I slurred. “Just resting my eyes.”
She snorted. “Save it, Harry,” she said, and pushed a cup into my hands. She’d made me coffee with a ton of sugar in it, just the way I like, and even though it was a little stale, it smelled like heaven.
“You’re an angel,” I muttered. I took a sip, then nodded down the row of cubicles. “You want to hear this one in your office.”
I could feel her eyes on me as I drank. “All right,” she said. “Let’s go. And the coffee’s fifty cents, Harry.”
I followed her to her office, a hastily assembled thing with cheap plywood walls and a door that wasn’t hung quite straight. The door had a paper sign taped to it, neatly lettered in black Magic Marker with LT. KARRIN MURPHY. There was a rectangle of lighter wood where a plaque had once held some other hapless policeman’s name. That the office never bothered to put up a fresh plaque was a not-so-subtle reminder of the precarious position of the Special Investigations director.
Her office furniture, the entire interior of the office, in fact, was a contrast with the outside. Her desk and chair were sleek, dark, and new. Her PC was always on and running on its own desk set immediately to her left. A bulletin board covered most of one little wall, and current cases were neatly organized on it. Her college diploma, the aikido trophies, and her marksman’s awards were on the wall to one’s immediate right as you entered the office, and sitting there right next to your face if you were standing before her desk or sitting in the chair in front of it. That was Murphy—organized, direct, determined, and just a little bit belligerent.