Hard Spell

by Justin Gustainis

  I glanced at Karl. I was pretty sure we had the same thing in mind: this is what happens the boss has too much time to think about stuff.

  "Be a hell of a shot," I said. "Especially at night."

  "More than that, it fails the test of Occam's Razor," Karl said.

  "Whose razor?" McGuire asked.

  "William of Occam, big philosopher dude in the Middle Ages. He said that 'The simplest explanation that fits the known facts is probably true.'"

  McGuire and I both stared at him.

  Karl shrugged. "Just something I read in a magazine, is all. But it makes sense. No disrespect, boss, but that thing with the rifle is just too complicated to be real likely."

  McGuire didn't get mad. "I wasn't pushing it," he said. "It was just a thought. And if that's not what happened, then why is some magician dropping a dead vamp on a couple of cops?"

  "We might have the beginning of an answer once I hear from Cecelia Reynolds," I said. "She's doing the post on the vamp and I asked her to look for those symbols carved on the body."

  "Oh, right," McGuire said. He rummaged through the mess on his desk and came up with a phone message slip, which he handed to me. "She called while you were in with the Rat Squad. Wants you to call back."

  I got out my cell phone. "You mind?" I asked him.

  "Nah, go ahead."

  I called the number that Cecelia had left. It rang five or six times, and I was just thinking that I was going to have to leave a voicemail message when she came on the line.

  "This is Dr Reynolds."

  "Stan Markowski, Cecelia. I'm calling–"

  "–about your vamp, right." Cecelia's phone manner tends to be kind of brusque.

  "You called, so I'm assuming you found–"

  "–weird symbols carved into the corpse. Yeppir, we got 'em. In the back, between the shoulder blades. Almost certainly post-mortem."

  "Were there–"

  "Three of 'em? Yep, just like you predicted, Stan."

  "Okay, I'll need–"

  "Photos, check. Ronnie already took 'em. Close up, middle distance, side angles, the whole nine yards. Give me your–"

  "Email address?" Two can play this game. "Sure, here it is."

  I gave her the address I use for official business. Cecelia promised to get photos to me within the hour, then hung up.

  I told McGuire and Karl what she'd said.

  "Which means that's number four," Karl said. "Just like you figured, Stan."

  McGuire looked at me. "Somebody was trying to send you guys a message."

  "That's not all they were doing," I said. "Remember, I sped up kind of sudden, to avoid hitting a cat that was crossing the street."

  "Yeah, that's right," McGuire said. "I hope you told Internal Affairs about the cat – they'll probably wanna interview it."

  "So it was a hit," Karl said. "The body was intended to go through the windshield, right on top of us – along with all that broken glass."

  "Yeah," I said, "and that's where this gets really fucked up. The esoteric marks on the corpse means it's Sligo – or whoever's been offing all these vamps." I hadn't forgotten about Vollman – not after Prescott said this hard spell had to be carried out by a vampire/wizard.

  McGuire nodded, then made a "Go on" gesture with one hand.

  "But now we've got another hit attempt, using magic. We've been operating on the assumption–"

  "But somebody who's involved in the vamp sacrifices just tried to kill us," I said. "And that means, one of our assumptions was wrong, either about Sligo or Longworth..."

  There was silence in the little room before McGuire finally put it into words.

  "Or the two of them are working together."

  I needed sleep badly. My skull felt like it was packed full of wet cotton, and I knew that any heavy thinking was out of the question before I grabbed some z's. And in light of what we'd been discussing in McGuire's office, some very heavy thinking was going to be in order.

  Karl and I left the building together, like we usually did. There wasn't much conversation along the way. We were both beat, and besides, whatever there was to say, we'd already said it in McGuire's office.

  As we reached the cracked asphalt of the parking area I said, "I can probably function okay if I get six hours – how about you?"

  "That seems about right, I guess." Karl didn't sound happy about it, and I didn't blame him.

  "Then why don't we plan to come back on shift at–"

  "Stan." Something in Karl's voice brought me to full alertness in the space of a quick breath.

  "What is it?"

  "There's somebody near your car, but on the other side of the fence."

  I slowly pushed my sport coat back and reached for the Beretta on my right hip. A second later, I heard the soft click as Karl thumbed back the hammer on the Glock he carried.

  "What're you packing?" I asked softly.

  "Silver, cold iron, and garlic-dipped lead, alternating," he said. "You?"

  "Straight silver," I told him, "but it's been blessed by the bishop."

  Now that Karl had warned me, I could dimly see a single figure standing in the street, practically pressed up against the fence just opposite my Toyota. Whoever it was must have seen us notice him, but didn't try to hide or run away. He just stood there, waiting.

  As we walked forward, Karl and I separated, so as not to give whoever it was a twofer target. The parking area was warded, and those wards had been amped up considerably since somebody had gotten in with a couple of Medusa statues. But it's impossible to guard against all possible spells, and the wards might not stop someone outside the fence with a gun. No system's perfect.

  We had almost reached my Toyota when I realized who it was, standing on the other side of the fence. "It's all right, Karl," I said, and holstered my weapon. The still figure spoke for the first time.

  "Hello, Daddy."

  • • • •

  "You know, you could've come into the fucking station house if you'd wanted to see me, instead of lurking around the parking lot like this," I said. "It's a public building – you don't need to get permission." I'm not sure if I was being pissy because I was tired, or because of the momentary fright she'd given me.

  "Oh, I wouldn't want to embarrass you in front of your brother officers," Christine said, the sarcasm more in her voice than in the words. "And as for lurking, that's what we undead do best – but I guess you know that."

  I took a breath and got better control of myself. "Well, if you want to talk, meet me at the gate. Or I'llgo out there, if you'd rather."

  "Let's talk like this," she said. "Sunrise in less than ten minutes. Thanks to you, I haven't got much time."

  Well, if you'd let me know you were out here... I kept the thought to myself. There was no point in getting into one of our arguments now – not with dawn so close.

  I remembered that Karl was standing a few yards to my right. "It's okay," I said. "Go on home, get some sleep. I'll see you about 1:00, okay?"

  "Is this your partner, Daddy?" Christine asked. "Aren't you going to introduce us?" I saw a glimmer of white in what could have been a smile.

  Without voicing the sigh that I felt, I said, "Karl, meet my daughter, Christine, who you've heard me talk about. Christine, this is Karl Renfer."

  I saw Karl nod. "Hiya. Hard to shake hands through the fence, but, anyway – hi."

  "He's told you about me? The vamp daughter?"

  "Yeah, he has," Karl said in a neutral voice.

  "And did he tell you how I came to join the ranks of the bloodsucking undead?"

  "Christine," I said, "there's no fucking time–"

  Karl spoke over me. "Yeah, he did. And he told me why, too. He couldn't stand to watch you die, because he loves you so much."

  I thought I heard Christine draw in a breath, but I must have imagined it, since she doesn't need to breathe. She looked at me a moment, then turned back to Karl. "Then why doesn't he–"

  "Christine!" It was the voic
e I'd used to show I was serious, back when she was... human. "Unless you want to find out the hard way what sunlight does to vampires, you better say what you came for, and quick."

  When she spoke again, her voice was emotionless. "Okay, then, I will. There's a rumor that you killed another vampire. Ran him down with your car, like a dog in the street."

  "And you believed that bullshit?" I said.

  "No, I didn't. That's why I'm here. Wanna tell me what happened?"

  What the hell, it can't do any harm. And I'd rather not have every vamp in town looking for a piece of me. Not now.

  Being as concise as possible, I ran it down for her. When I'd finished, Karl said, "For whatever it's worth, I know he's telling the truth. I was there."

  I saw Christine nod at Karl. "I know. I believe him."

  The fact that I could see her better meant it was getting lighter out. False dawn, probably, with the real thing not far behind.

  "I'll put the word out," she said to me. "I had noticed the unmarked car at the end of the lot with a huge dent in the roof, but it's nice to hear it from the source."

  "Good," I said. "I'm glad you don't just have to take my word for it." Sarcasm was slipping out, and I reined it in, hard. "One thing before you go: a guy who would know says that the only one who could pull off this spell would be a vamp, uh, vampire who is also a wizard. You hear of anybody like that?"

  After a moment she said, "Mr Vollman, of course."

  "Yeah, him I know. Questions is: can you think of anybody else?

  "The vamp community seems to thrive on rumors as much as we do on blood," she said. "I did hear something about a guy new in town who plays for both teams, but I didn't pay it any mind."

  "Did you maybe hear where he spends the day?"

  "Well, one chick told – oh, shit!"

  Thin smoke had started to rise off her head and shoulders. I could see it clarly in the growing light.

  "Get out of here! Go!" I shouted.

  She turned and ran, shouting over her shoulder, "Tonight, sunset, right here!"

  A second later, she was out of sight.

  • • • •

  I went home. What else was I gonna do? I ate, showered, and got into bed. Despite being exhausted, I didn't get a lot of rest. My mind was like a madhouse in an earthquake – each inmate demanding my attention – Karl, McGuire, the IA clowns, Prescott, Rachel, the witchfinders – and Christine. Especially Christine.

  Had she made it back to her resting place, before the sun turned her into a screaming torch? I'd had the police radio in the car on while driving home, and there'd been no reports of unexplained combustion anywhere. She was okay. Probably.

  But what if she had stayed a minute longer this morning? Would she have burned, while I stood helpless behind the chain link fence and watched? Would her screams be echoing inside my head right this second? Is that why I saved her from leukemia – so she could die like that today, or tomorrow, or next week?

  I guess I've spent worse mornings trying to sleep. But not recently.

  After a while I got up. I changed the sweaty bedding, did a load of laundry, and cleaned Quincey's cage. As I did that last chore, I told him about the latest developments in the case. Quincey doesn't say much, but he's a good listener. And sometimes it's good to talk about stuff out loud – helps me organize my thoughts, and lets some of the psychological pressure off. And I know I can trust Quincey to keep it to himself. As a reward for letting me bounce some of that stuff off him, I put some raisins in his bowl along with the food pellets. He really likes raisins.

  Around noon, I made some scrambled eggs. I wasn't hungry, but I didn't want low blood sugar making me slow and stupid later on. I'd been slow and stupid enough already.

  I left for work about 12:45, and I was two blocks from headquarters when I noticed the woman standing on the corner. She drew my eye because she wasn't staring across the street at the crossing light, like people usually do. She was turned sideways, looking into the oncoming traffic stream, which included me.

  Driving a familiar route doesn't require a lot of concentration. I was thinking about the case, but a tiny part of my mind whispered, "Hey, I know her."

  Which was of no particular importance, but it aroused my curiosity. I focused my attention on the woman and suddenly realized that I was looking at Rachel Proctor.

  I hit the brakes, which meant that the blue SUV behind me damn near ended up in my trunk. The driver stopped in time, but his blaring horn was designed to show me he wasn't too happy about it all.

  All of that registered dimly, like a voice you hear from three rooms away. I was focused on Rachel.

  She locked eyes with me and nodded, once. Then she turned and walked away.

  Rachel had gone down a side street, so I put on my turn signal and waited for the traffic flow to take me to the corner. I've got a portable flashing red light that I could have put on the roof – that would have allowed me to cut around, as well as shutting up the honking, bird-flipping idiot behind me, but I didn't want to draw attention to myself, or to Rachel.

  I finally made the turn, and saw Rachel a couple of hundred feet ahead, walking along at a good clip. I came up alongside her and tapped the horn, but she ignored me. I was looking for a parking space when she turned into the big parking garage that serves that part of the city. At least that solved my prom of what to do with the car.

  I had to stop and get a ticket – even a badge won't impress an automated gate – and by the time I was inside I'd lost sight of her. I cruised the ground level slowly, my eyes darting everywhere. No Rachel.

  Nothing to do but go up. Second level – nothing. Third level – nada.

  Only one more place to go.

  I saw her as soon as I reached the roof level. She was leaning against the retaining wall that stops careless drivers, or suicidal ones, from driving off the top of the building.

  Plenty of room up here; most people parked on the roof only as a last resort, since it's not sheltered – maybe that's why Rachel had chosen it. I slid the car into a parking slot, got out, and walked toward her. She stood, arms folded below her breasts, watching me approach.

  "Rachel, you took one hell of a chance, showing yourself like that," I said. "The police think you're a cop-killer, and you've been around the force long enough to know what that means."

  "It means they will shoot first, and ask questions probably never," Rachel said.

  Except it wasn't Rachel.

  The voice was deeper than Rachel's, the intonation somehow different. I looked closely at her face and saw subtle differences in its shape and form from what I remembered. But the big difference was the eyes.

  The gentle gray eyes of Rachel Proctor were gone, replaced by the bright blue eyes of a madman.

  I swallowed a couple of times and tried to keep my voice under control as I said, "George Kulick, I presume?"

  Rachel's head inclined a few inches. "None other."

  Getting emotional about what he had done to Rachel, and might yet do, was a waste of time, so I just said, "What do you want?"

  The eyebrows went up in an exaggerated show of amazement. "A man who gets right to the point, and a policemen, no less. How unusual!"

  I had nothing useful to say to that, so I kept quiet. But wizards are sensitive, so I wouldn't have been surprised if he could feel the hatred coming off me, like heat from a freshly stoked stove.

  He nodded slowly, as if confirming something for himself. "As to what I want: I want the man who killed me."

  "Sligo, you mean."

  "He did not bother to tell me his name. But I will know him, when we meet again. I want him in my power, so that I can make him suffer as I did. When I have paid him back in full measure for my pain, plus considerable interest, then perhaps – perhaps – I shall allow him to die."

  "I want pretty much the same thing," I said. "Without the histrionics."

  His eyes narrowed. "Why? Because it is just another case you must solve?"

 
; "That would be enough," I said. "But it's a lot more. Sligo is planning to work a spell from the Opus Mago to do... I don't know what. But it's gotta be pretty powerful, because the recipe calls for five dead vampires. That ring any bells with you?"