The Book of Mayhem

by Melissa McShane

  “Oh, right, because what this venture needed was trespassing.”

  “It’s just a little trespassing. And no one will know we’re there.”

  Judy sighed, but got out of the car when I parked and walked with me back along the sidewalk. It was a beautiful, warm, clear night, with the full moon shedding its silver light over the street. The moonlight was bright enough to cast knife-edged shadows even where the lamp light fell. Judy and I walked beneath the oaks’ branches, obscured from view. “I feel like we should tiptoe or something,” I said.

  “We’d probably be the worst thieves in history,” Judy said. “Besides, it’s better if we look like we belong.”

  “Right. Just two women out for a moonlit stroll. Okay, it’s the next house.”

  All the houses on this street were ramblers, single-story and sprawling. Our target was surrounded by a dark hedge I thought might be arborvitae, cut off flat at the top to end just below the windows in the side wall. We crept quickly from the sidewalk to the house, sticking close to the hedge though the windows were both closed and the blinds drawn. “Around to the back,” I whispered, and led the way to the corner.

  The arborvitae ended at the back corner, and to my dismay I saw there was no cover from the house across the back lawn to the white-painted wooden fence. There was a broken picnic table that canted to the right, and the aluminum uprights of a clothesline, but aside from that the yard was empty. I beckoned to Judy, and we sidled along the wall toward the sliding glass door. The light coming from inside the house was brighter there and from a window close to it. I stayed close to the wall until I reached the window, then I carefully slid toward it, barely peeking over the sill.

  The kitchen beyond was ordinary, with the kind of generic oak cabinets you get when you don’t care very much about décor but you want your kitchen to look nice. From my vantage point, I could see the corner of the refrigerator and half a Formica-topped table that ruined the point of the cabinets. I heard, faintly, the sound of streaming water. Then I jerked out of sight just as someone came to the sink beneath the window. My heart pounding, I craned to see who it was, but it was too extreme an angle. If I moved away from the wall, he or she would see me.

  I gestured to Judy to move on, pointing at the sliding door. She slithered past me and sneaked up to the door, which was closed, but its drapes were open. The sound of water shut off, and a shadow passed the window. I risked a peek and found the person was gone. Judy was crouched against the wall past the sliding door, waving at me frantically. She tapped her nose, then jerked her thumb in the direction of the house, tapped again. “Hallstrom?” I mouthed a couple of times. She nodded vigorously.

  Well, we’d had a one in three chance, and we’d gotten lucky. I sidled along the wall until I got to the sliding door, where I crouched to look inside. It was a typical living room, with overstuffed chairs upholstered in slick, soft brown fabric and a television mounted on the wall above a fireplace. I saw the back of Hallstrom’s head and the TV screen. He was watching Jeopardy! with the sound turned up loudly enough to be audible as a rising and falling murmur.

  Judy motioned to me to join her. I took another look at Hallstrom, who seemed rapt in his show, then took a few steps, still crouched, to cross that vast open space. Hallstrom didn’t look around. I reached Judy and took a moment to catch my breath. “Why was he camping if he could live like this?” I whispered.

  “Don’t know, don’t care,” Judy whispered back. “Let’s just go, and you can call Tinsley.”

  We made it to the corner, where the arborvitae hedge began again, and crept slowly along it, past the door to the garage. I pressed deep into the hedge, conscious of how my light green shirt stood out at night. “Don’t do that,” Judy said. She was walking several inches away from the hedge.

  “Why not?”

  “Wolf spiders love arborvitae.”

  I squeaked and stepped away from the hedge, which gripped me with a million tiny prickles. “It’s hanging onto me.”

  “Serves you right.”

  I pulled away again, but came up short. “I mean it’s really grabbed me. Like Velcro.”

  Judy spun around and grabbed my hand, pulling. It made no difference. The hedge held me fast, and every step took more effort. Tiny green vines came from nowhere to twine about my arms and legs. “Pull harder,” I said.

  “Wood magus,” Judy said, panting with effort.

  We both heard a chilling sound: somewhere nearby, a door opened. I let go of Judy’s hand. “Run,” I said.

  Judy didn’t dither about leaving me. She sprinted for the sidewalk. Vines held me by the waist and throat, choking me, and I thrashed for air.

  The door to the garage opened, and distant light spilled out onto the lawn. “What did I catch?” Hallstrom murmured, then, more loudly, “Ms. Davies! What are you doing here?” He was dressed in a worn brown T-shirt and faded jeans, and he was barefoot.

  I couldn’t speak with the vines throttling me, but I grunted. “Oh, sorry,” Hallstrom said, and the vines around my throat loosened. I gasped and sucked in cool, refreshing air. “There, that’s better.”

  Since I was still pinioned by the rest of the growth, I questioned his definition of “better.” “Let me go, please,” I said, deciding that politeness to a serial killer was probably the safest option.

  “You set off my trap. I think I have a right to know why you’re prowling around my…it’s sort of my home. For now.” Hallstrom looked less nervous than usual, though he had a tic in his shoulders that made them jump every few seconds, like a grasshopper’s legs twitching.

  “You sold me stolen books. I wanted to know why,” I said.

  “Well, I needed those auguries and I couldn’t afford them. It’s pretty simple.”

  “The cops are after you.”

  “They won’t find me. Though I guess, since you did, I should probably move on.”

  “Let me go.”

  “Hmmm.” Hallstrom stepped back to regard me, and I felt cold inside, because it was the look of a predator deciding which part of his prey to eat first. Eventually, he said, “Why don’t you come inside?” The vines and the grasping fingers withdrew, and I brushed myself off and stood more fully upright, away from the bushes. The door swung open without Hallstrom touching it, and he gestured for me to enter.

  The garage was unfinished, its two by fours exposed, but there was a workbench in the corner near the door with a fluorescent light dangling above it. My feet came down on loose nails from a spilled box; they rolled uncomfortably underfoot. There was no car, no tools, nothing you’d expect to see in a garage. “Empty,” I said.

  “It’s not my house. I’m just borrowing it without permission. You can stop there.”

  I stopped about a foot from the inner door and turned to face Hallstrom. “What, we can’t go in where it’s warm?”

  “It’s summer—oh, you were joking. We’ll just talk here. I’m not inviting you inside until I know what you want.”

  “I told you. You stole books and sold them to me.”

  “Something you could have sent the police about. Yet you went to the trouble of tracking me down and then coming here yourself. Who found me?”

  “A glass magus.”

  “Clever of you.”

  I felt a tug at my sandals and looked down to see a slim vine crawling out of a crack in the floor. I stepped to one side, but it followed me. “So you’re a wood magus. I wondered.”

  “Really? I don’t know why you’d care.”

  The vine grasped my toes, tickling them. I took another step. “Don’t move,” Hallstrom said, and I froze, because he held a gun in his right hand and had it aimed at me. “The vine is just a precaution. See, I think you’re here for another reason.”

  “What would that be?” The vine had me rooted to the spot and was twining around my calves.

  “You think I’m the killer.”

  “Why would I think that? I don’t know anything about it.”

  �
�You know my augury questions. And you know my real name. I didn’t tell anyone that.”

  “You can’t hide your name from the oracle. I didn’t know you were using another one. I don’t remember people’s questions.” Though I did remember his first question, about trusting his business partner, and now I wondered if he’d been asking about Guittard.

  “I don’t believe you.” The tic was growing stronger now, making him look like a chicken jerking its wings back as it strutted through the yard. The gun jerked upward with every movement, making me very nervous.

  I shrugged. “Believe what you want.” Where was Judy? How long would it take her to call for help? If Lucia was busy, she might not respond immediately. The possibility of my death here in this dirty, empty garage seemed suddenly very real. I had to keep him talking. “So, are you saying you are the serial killer?”

  “I’m not admitting to anything. I’m not stupid.”

  “Not like Ms. Guittard.”

  He jerked his shoulders again. “She deserved what she got, if she was working with the killer. I wonder what she told Campbell.”

  “Not enough, or he wouldn’t be in hiding now.”

  “Very true. He’s not all that bright either, or he would have left her alive.”

  I was too afraid to be angry at the insult to Malcolm. “So what were you after, with all those auguries?”

  “Nothing you need to worry about.”

  That struck me as sinister. “Are you going to let me go?”

  Hallstrom tilted his head to one side, regarding me like an inquisitive bird. “I don’t know. You are the custodian of a Neutrality, and if you just disappear, you’ll be missed. On the other hand, I can’t let you go running off to tell people what you’ve learned.”

  “I haven’t learned anything! You’re too smart to tell me things, remember?”

  “True. But I don’t want my affairs pried into by Lucia Pontarelli, and you’ll go running to her the second I let you go free. So I have a dilemma.”

  My mouth was dry. I swallowed painfully and said, “Suppose I promise not to tell Lucia anything.”

  “I wouldn’t believe you. Plus, you’re not stupid enough to make that promise.”

  “Thanks.”

  “The problem is, I like you,” Hallstrom said. “You were always polite to me and you gave me good value for those stolen books. But I don’t see any way around the fact that I need to get rid of you.”

  More fear shot through me. I struggled against my bonds and succeeded only in falling to my knees, my shins painfully bent against the vines like taut wires cutting into them. “You really don’t have to.”

  Hallstrom looked at the gun as if only just realizing he held it. “Are you afraid of this?” he said. “A bullet wound would raise all sorts of questions. No, you’ll just be one more victim of the serial killer.” He took a step toward me, shoving the gun into his waistband.

  I squeaked and threw myself backward, but was still tethered by the vines. I strained, felt some of them give and be replaced by others. Hallstrom kept coming. He walked around behind me and hauled me up, put his left arm around me and hugged me close. It was such a parody of tenderness I wanted to throw up.

  He gripped my right shoulder with his left hand and slid his right hand around my waist and under my shirt to lie flat against my stomach. “It doesn’t hurt,” he said.

  I fought him with every ounce of strength I had, clawing his arm and neck, but he just laughed and patted my belly. “Just hold still.”

  “I am not holding still for you, you bastard.”

  An explosion shattered the stillness of the garage. The outside door, the one we’d entered by, blew in and impacted against the far wall. I flinched away from the sound, closing my eyes briefly. When I opened them, Malcolm stood in the empty doorway, gun in hand, staring Hallstrom down.

  20

  I felt something cold press against my side. “Put that down,” Hallstrom said.

  Malcolm’s eyes were hard, terrifying. He bent, slowly, and laid his gun on the ground, his left hand brushing the floor as if he were making a bow to a king. “Let her go.”

  “Ms. Davies and I already agree that I’m not stupid,” Hallstrom said, shoving his gun deeper into my side. “Kick it away. Gently.”

  Malcolm gave the gun a shove with his foot, sending it skittering away and scattering loose nails as it went. “Release her, and I’ll let you live.” Vines crept in through the empty doorway, twitching like dogs scenting prey. One found Malcolm’s leg and wrapped around it. He ignored the thing.

  Hallstrom smiled. “How generous of you. Since she’s the only thing keeping me alive, I don’t think I’ll take that offer. No, we’ll walk out of here, and you’ll stay. I’ll release Ms. Davies when I’m safely away. Then I’ll leave Portland and never return. How does that sound?”

  “You’re going to trial for murder, Benedetto or Hallstrom or whatever your real name is,” Malcolm said. More vines undulated toward him, creeping around his ankles. “I can’t afford to let you walk.”

  “See? You were lying when you said you’d let me live. How can I trust you?”

  Malcolm smiled, a sinister, mirthless expression. “I said I’d let you live. Hurt her, and we’ll find out how creative I can be in causing you pain.”

  “That’s so sweet.” Hallstrom swiftly raised the gun from my side to my right temple. I stayed as still as I could. “So you’ve found out the truth.”

  “I know you came here intending to harvest magic from as many people as possible. I know you and Amber Guittard were instructed to set Nicollien against Ambrosite. What I don’t know is who gave you those orders.”

  “What makes you think it wasn’t Guittard?”

  Malcolm smiled, but his eyes were still cold and hard. “She confessed her role in the plot to me before I killed her. And you may not be stupid, but you’re not a criminal mastermind. You were far too easy to trace. Even Miss Davies, with no experience, was able to do it.”

  The gun’s muzzle was removed from my head briefly. “I was skilled enough to stay ahead of Lucia Pontarelli’s investigators. Skilled enough to set all this in motion.” Hallstrom pressed the gun to my head again. “Skilled enough to stay hidden all this time.”

  “Not enough to keep the police—the non-magical police—from finding you. I’m surprised your bosses trusted you enough to send you. What did you do with all the sanguinis sapiens you harvested—spill it?”

  “It’s safe where you won’t find it.” Hallstrom’s tic was making the gun jerk back and forth across the side of my head. The cold metal grew warmer with every jerk. I pictured his finger closing on the trigger and wanted to throw up.

  “I wouldn’t count on that,” Malcolm said. “You’ve failed, Hallstrom.”

  “I did everything I was sent to do,” Hallstrom said. The gun pressed harder into my temple. I wanted to scream at Malcolm to stop, but I was terrified that Hallstrom would remember I was there and pull the trigger.

  Malcolm pressed on relentlessly. “You did it badly. Whoever your bosses are, they’ve got to be disappointed in you. You weren’t supposed to let anyone find you. I hate to think of the kind of punishment they’ll unleash on you for your failure.”

  “Shut up!” Hallstrom shrieked, pointing the gun at Malcolm. “I will be rewarded—”

  A flash of silver darted from Malcolm’s left hand. The gun went off. A streak of fire creased my left shoulder near my neck, making me scream and collapse against Hallstrom’s arm. Hallstrom spasmed, then fell, landing atop me and weighing me down. I smacked my forehead against the concrete and black stars spangled my vision. I smelled something bitter and coppery, like tainted blood, and closed my eyes against the pain.

  The weight across my body rolled away. “Helena, lie still,” Malcolm said. I waited for him to lift me, hold me close, but instead I heard cloth tearing. I opened my eyes and saw only gray, stinking concrete and, farther away, Malcolm kneeling over Hallstrom’s body. He was pressing dow
n on Hallstrom’s chest with a bloody wad of cloth. Tattered vines still clung to his ankles. “Come on, stay alive,” he muttered. “Where the hell are they?”

  “Malcolm,” I whispered, but he didn’t hear me. I rolled onto my side and nearly screamed again at the pain in my shoulder. My legs refused to support me. I reached up with my right hand and felt my shoulder gingerly, sending more pain shooting through me. My hand came away bloody. The flash of silver. The gun. Someone had shot me, but it couldn’t have been Hallstrom, not at that angle.

  Malcolm. I closed my eyes and tried not to cry. Malcolm had shot me to get at Hallstrom.

  I heard footsteps approaching, lots of footsteps, running fast. I opened my eyes just as the first black-garbed figure burst through the door, her gun pointed at Malcolm. I croaked a warning.

  Malcolm didn’t take his eyes from Hallstrom. “You must save this man’s life,” he said.

  “Hands in the air!” the woman shouted. “Hands up or I shoot, Campbell!”

  Malcolm didn’t move. More black-clad commandos poured through the doorway, all of them carrying guns. “Malcolm, don’t let them shoot you,” I said, my voice audible now.

  “If he dies, it makes no difference,” Malcolm said.

  Someone cocked their pistol, an ominous sound that rose above the noises of people moving around to get a better aim on Malcolm. “Don’t!” I shouted, though it came out as barely above speaking volume. “That’s the serial killer! He has to go to trial!”

  “Ms. Davies!” the first woman said. “What are you doing here?”

  “Just save his life,” I begged. “Malcolm, please don’t let them kill you.”

  Malcolm finally looked over his shoulder at me. Slowly, he raised both hands in the air. Three commandos tackled him, and he didn’t resist. A short, chubby figure came forward from the middle of the pack and knelt beside Hallstrom’s body. “He’s almost gone,” she said. “Everyone back up.”

  They’d barely moved when Hallstrom screamed, arching his back as if trying to get away from the worst pain imaginable. I’d been healed once from a severe beating and the healing had hurt worse than the beating. Despite myself, I felt sorry for Hallstrom, having to endure that.