“I sell lots of these potions,” he said, shrugging. “It could be.”
“Lupe Cordero’s baby was born without a soul,” I told him.
He went pale under his swarthy skin; had he started off fair, he would have ended up the color of his shining hair. He crossed himself violently. “No!” he cried. “It cannot be!”
“I’m afraid it is, Mr. Hernandez,” I said, remembering Michael Manstein’s speculation that the curandero might not even know what all was going into his nostrums. I went on, “Sorcerous analysis of your potion shows that part of its power comes from ingredients and spells consecrated to Huitzilopochtli.”
Like any Aztecans, he knew of the gods his people had worshiped before the Spainish came to the New World. He got paler still; he reminded me of a cup of coffee into which you kept pouring more cream. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, señor, I did not use this, this poison of blood.”
“But it was there,” I said.
“It’s still there,” Bornholm the thaumatech added. “I can detect it inside the house. Nasty stuff.”
“Stand aside, Mr. Hernandez,” Higgins said in a voice like doom. The curandero stood aside, as if caught in a nightmare from which he couldn’t wake up. One of the fellows from the SWAT team took charge of him. The rest of us walked past them into the house.
It was none too neat in there; my guess was that he lived alone. A black-framed picture of a gray-haired woman on the mantle put more force behind the guess.
If he followed Huitzilopochtli, he sure didn’t let it show. The front room had enough garish Catholic images to stock a couple of churches, assuming you put quality ahead of quantity. Candles flickered in front of a carved wooden statuette of the Virgin. I glanced at Bornholm. She nodded; the little shrine was what it appeared to be.
One of the bedrooms was messy; it got a lot messier after the boys from the SWAT team finished trashing it. The kitchen was pretty bad, too: Hernandez was not what you’d call the neat kind of widower. The SWAT team started in there as soon as they were done with the bedroom.
What had been the den was the curandero’s laboratory these days. A lot of the things in there were about what you’d expect to find in an Aztecian healer’s workroom: peyotl mushrooms (few more effective aids in reaching the Other Side), bark of the oloiuhqu plant (which has similar effects but isn’t as potent: it’s related to jimsonweed), a potion of xiuh-amolli root and dog urine that was supposed to prevent hair loss. Personally, I’d rather be bald.
Hernandez had had his triumphs, too: a glass bowl held dozens of what looked like tiny obsidian arrow points. Either they were a fraud to impress his patients or he’d been pretty good at curing elf-shot (from which the Aztecans suffer as badly as the Alemans, although Alemanian elves generally make their arrowheads out of flint).
We also found an infusion for invoking Tlazol-teteo, the demon of desire: not, apparently, to provoke lust, but rather to put it down. The infusion had a label written in Spainish on it. Bornholm the thaumatech translated it for us: “ ‘To be used together with a hot steam bath.’ ” She laughed. “I wouldn’t be horny after a steam bath anyhow, I don’t think.”
If that had been all the curandero was up to, the visit by the SWAT team would have been a waste of taxpayers’ hard-earned crowns. But it wasn’t. Bornholm went over to a table in one corner of the room. She looked at her spellchecker in growing concern. “It’s here somewhere, in amongst this gynecological stuff,” she muttered.
Again, a lot of the stuff you could find at any curandero’s: leaves for rubbing against a new mother’s back to relive afterpangs, herbs to stimulate milk in women with new babies, a douche of ayo nelhuatl herb and eagle dung for pregnant women: all more or less harmless. But with them—
“Bingo!” Bornholm said when she opened a jar of clear liquid. I already knew her spellchecker was more sensitive and powerful than mine; now she showed that, being a constabulary model, it was also better protected against malign influences. Her face twisted as she read from the ground glass: “The microimps are reporting human blood and flayed human skin, all right. Disgusting.”
“Bring Hernandez in here,” Sublegate Higgins ordered. As soon as a couple of fellows from the SWAT team had done so, Higgins pointed at the jar and said, “What’s in there, you?”
“In that jar?” Hernandez said. “Is ferret blood and a little bit dragon’s blood. Is for mostly the ladies who are going to have babies. They get the—” He ran out of English and said something in Spainish.
“Hemorrhoids,” Bornholm translated. “Yeah, I’ve heard of that one.” She gave the curandero a look on whose receiving end I wouldn’t have wanted to be. “Brew this up yourself, did you?”
“No, no.” Hernandez shook his head vehemently. “Dragon blood is muy caro—very expensive. I buy this mix from another man—he say he is a curandero, too—at one of the, how you say, swap meets they have here. He give me good price, better than I get from anybody else ever.”
“I believe that,” I told him. “The reason you got such a good price is that it’s not what he told you it was. Tell us about this fellow. Is he young? Old? Does he come to the swap meets often?”
You can find just about anything at a swap meet, and cheap. Sometimes it’s even what the dealer says it is. But a lot of the time the fairy gold ring you got will turn to brass or lead in a few days, the horological demon in your watch will go dormant or escape—or what you think is medicine will turn out to be poison. The constabulary and the EPA do their best to keep the meets honest, but it’s another case of not enough men spread way too thin.
Hernandez said, “He calls himself Jose. He’s not young, not old. Just a man. I see him a few times. He is not regular there.”
Sublegate Higgins and I looked at each other. He looked disgusted. I didn’t blame him. An ordinary guy named Jose who showed up at swap meets when he felt like it… what were the odds of dropping on him? About the same as the odds of the High Priest in Jerusalem turning Hindu.
That’s what I thought, anyhow. But Bornholm said, “If we can put a spellchecker at the dealers’ gates at a few of these places, I’ll bet they’ll pick this stuff up—it’s that strong. I’ll work weekends without overtime to try, and I’ll be shocked if some other thaumatechs don’t say the same thing. Everybody knows about Huitzilopochtli; no one wants him loose here.”
Greater love hath no public servant than volunteering for extra work with no extra pay. Folks who carp about the constabulary and about bureaucracy in general have a way of forgetting people like Bornholm, and they shouldn’t, because there are quite a few of them.
I said, “If you’ll lend me one of these fancy spellcheckers, I’ll take a Sunday shift myself. I know a lot of people would rather worship than work then, but that’s not a problem for me.”
“I think I’ll take you up on that,” Higgins said after a few seconds’ thought. I’d figured he would; the constabulary doesn’t draw a whole lot of Jews. I wrote down my home phone number and gave it to him. “You’ll hear from me,” he promised.
“I hope I do.” I have to confess: I had an ulterior motive, or at least part of one. The dealers at a swap meet get in early, so they can set up. I figured I’d bring Judy along, and after we were done with the checking (assuming we didn’t find anything), we could spend the rest of the day shopping. Like I said, you can find just about anything at a swap meet.
V
The front room had enough garish Catholic images to stock a couple of churches, assuming you put quality ahead of quantity. Candles flickered in front of a carved wooden statuette of the Virgin. I glanced at Bomholm. She nodded; the little shrine was what it appeared to be.
One of the bedrooms was messy; it got a lot messier after the boys from the SWAT team finished trashing it The kitchen was pretty bad, too: Hemandez was not what you’d call the neat kind of widower. The SWAT team started in there as soon as they were done with the bedroom.
What had been the
den was the curandero’s laboratory these days. A lot of the things in there were about what you’d expect to find in an Aztecian healer’s workroom: peyoti mushrooms (few more effective aids in reaching the Other Side), bark of the olotuhqu plant (which has similar effects but isn’t as potent: it’s related to jinnsonweed), a potion of xiuh-amolli root and dog urine that was supposed to prevent hair loss. Personally, I’d rather be bald.
Hemandez had had his triumphs, too: a glass bowl held dozens of what looked like tiny obsidian arrow points. Either they were a fraud to impress his patients or he’d been pretty good at curing elf-shot (from which the Aztecans suffer as badly as the Alemans, although Alemanian elves generally make their arrowheads out of flint).
We also found an infusion for invoking Tiazol-teteo, the demon of desire: not, apparently, to provoke lust, but rather to put it down. The infusion had a label written in Spainish on it. Bomholm the thaumatech translated it for us: “To be used together with a hot steam bath.’” She laughed. “I wouldn’t be homy after a steam bath anyhow, I don’t think.”
If that had been all the curandero was up to, the visit by the SWAT team would have been a waste of taxpayers’ hardearned crowns. But it wasn’t. Bomholm went over to a table in one comer of the room. She looked at her spellchecker in growing concern. “It’s here somewhere, in amongst this gynecological stuff,” she muttered.
Again, a lot of the stuff you could find at any curandero’s: leaves for rubbing against a new mother’s back to relive afterpangs, herbs to stimulate milk in women with new babies, a douche of ayo nelhuati herb and eagle dung for pregnant women: all more or less harmless. But with them—“Bingo!” Bornholm said when she opened a jar of clear liquid. I already knew her spellchecker was more sensitive and powerful than mine; now she showed that, being a constabulary model, it was also better protected against malign influences. Her face twisted as she read from the ground glass: “The microimps are reporting human blood and flayed human skin, all right. Disgusting.”
“Bring Hernandez in here,” Sublegate Higgins ordered.
As soon as a couple of fellows from the SWAT team had done so, Higgins pointed at the jar and said, “What’s in there, you?”
“In that jar?” Hemandez said. “Is ferret blood and a little bit dragon’s blood. Is for mostly the ladies who are going to have babies. They get the—” He ran out of English and said something in Spainish.
“Hemorrhoids,” Bomholm translated. “Yeah, I’ve heard of that one.” She gave the curandero a look on whose receiving end I wouldn’t have wanted to be. “Brew this up yourself, did you?”
“No, no.” Hemandez shook his head vehemently.
“Dragon blood is muy caro—very expensive. I buy this mix from another man—he say he is a curandero, too—at one of the, how you say, swap meets they have here. He give me good price, better than I get from anybody else ever.”
“I believe that,” I told him. “The reason you got such a good price is that it’s not what he told you it was. Tell us about this fellow. Is he young? Old? Does he come to the swap meets often?”
You can find just about anything at a swap meet, and cheap. Sometimes it’s even what the dealer says it is. But a lot of the time the fairy gold ring you got will turn to brass or lead in a few days, the horological demon in your watch will go dormant or escape—or what you think is medicine will turn out to be poison. The constabulary and the EPA do their best to keep the meets honest, but it’s another case of not enough men spread way too thin.
Hemandez said, “He calls himself Jose. He’s not young, not old. Just a man. I see him a few times. He is not regular there.”
Sublegate Higgins and I looked at each other. He looked disgusted. I didn’t blame him. An ordinary guy named Jose who showed up at swap meets when he felt like it… what were the odds of dropping on him? About the same as the odds of the High Priest in Jerusalem turning Hindu.
That’s what I thought, anyhow. But Bomholm said, “If we can put a spellchecker at the dealers’ gates at a few of these places, I’ll bet they’ll pick this stuff up—its that strong. I’ll work weekends without overtime to try, and I’ll be shocked if some other thaumatechs don’t say the same thing. Everybody knows about Huitzilopochtli; no one wants him loose here.”
Greater love hath no public servant than volunteering for extra work with no extra pay. Folks who carp about the constabulary and about bureaucracy in general have a way of forgetting people like Bomholm, and they shouldn’t, because there are quite a few of them.
I said, “If you’ll lend me one of these fancy spellcheckers, I’ll take a Sunday shift myself. I know a lot of people would rather worship than work then, but that’s not a problem for me.”
“I think I’ll take you up on that,” Higgins said after a few seconds’ thought I’d figured he would; the constabulary doesn’t draw a whole lot of Jews. I wrote down my home phone number and gave it to him. “You’ll hear from me,” he promised.
“I hope I do.” I have to confess: I had an ulterior motive, or at least part of one. The dealers at a swap meet get in early, so they can set up. I figured I’d bring Judy along, and after we were done with the checking (assuming we didn’t find anything), we could spend the rest of the day shopping.
Like I said, you can find just about anything at a swap meet v A couple of days after we put Cuauhtemoc Hemandez out of business, Sublegate Higgins did indeed call me to set up Sunday surveillance at one of the Valley swap meets. That evening, I called Judy to see if she could come along with me. As I’d hoped, she could. After we’d made the date, we kept on talking about the whole expanding case for a while.
I was saying, “If Hemandez can show he gave Lupe Cordero that vile potion out of ignorance rather than malice, he’ll get a lighter sentence than he would otherwise.” °I don’t think ignorance is a proper defense in case like that,” Judy said. “If a cwandero doesn’t know what he’s doing, he has no business trying to do it.” Dealing with grimoires every dav, she takes an exacting view of magic and its abuses.
“I’m not sure I agree with you,” I said. “Intent counts for a great deal in sorcery. It—” I heard a noise from the front part of the flat and broke off. “Listen, let me call you back. I think somebody’s at the door.”
I went out to see who it was: most likely one of my neighbors wanting to borrow the proverbial cup of sugar, I figured.
But somebody wasn’t at the door, he was already inside, sitting on a living room chair. I could still see the chair through him, too, so it was somedisembody.
“How’d you get in here?” I demanded; as I may have said, I have more than the usual line of home security cantrips. I gave fair warning: “I forbid thee, spirit, in the name of God—Adonai, Elohim, Jehovah—to enter within this house.
Depart now, lest I smite thee with the consecrated blasting rod of power.” You don’t (or you’d better not) bluff when you say you’re packing a rod; mine was in the hall closet behind me.
But the spirit didn’t move. Calm as could be, he said, “I think you’ll want to reconsider that.” He traced a glowing symbol in the air.
If you’ve ever been to a light-and-magic thrillshow, you probably think you know that symbol. As a matter of fact, the one you think you know isn’t the genuine article: close, but not quite. Only specially authorized beings may sketch the true symbol and have it take fire for them. I happen to know the difference. My eyes got wide. An ordinary Joe like me never expects to meet a real spook from Central Intelligence.
“What do you want with me?” I asked hoarsely.
The CI spook looked me over. “We take an interest in Huitzilopochtli,” he said. “Maybe you’ll tell me what you know about the recent manifestation you uncovered.”
So I told him. And as I talked, I found myself wondering just what the devil I was getting into. Every step into the toxic spell dump case seemed to drag me deeper into a polluted ooze from which I feared I’d be lucky to escape with my soul intact After I was through, the
spook sat there for quite a while without saying anything. I watched him, I watched the chair through him, and I tried to figure out how the puzzle pieces fit together. Evidently my visitor from Central Intelligence was doing the same thing, because he finally said, “In your opinion, what, if anything, is the relationship between the various elements you have outlined: the leaking spell dump, the monastery arson, the possibilities inherent in the Garuda Bird project, the decline of the local Powers, and this trouble with the curcmdero and his potions?”
“I didn’t think there was any connection between the Chumash and the rest of the mess,” I exclaimed; that hadn’t even occurred to me. “As for the other things, I’m still digging, and so is the Angels City constabulary. If you want my gut feeling, I think some of the other things will prove tied together, but I don’t see how right now—and I don’t have any sort of evidence to back me up.”
“Never underestimate the value of gut feelings,” the spook said seriously. “You ignore them at your peril. The finding at Central Intelligence is essentially the same as yours; otherwise they would not have sent out a spectral operative”—that’s spook-talk for spook—“to bring an overview back to D.StC.”
Etheric transport is of course a lot quicker than the fastest carpet: the spook could just cut directly through the Other Side from the District of St. Columbaand back, a privilege denied to all mere mortals save a handful of saints, dervishes, and boddhisatvas, none of whom, for various good reasons, was likely to be in the employ of Central Intelligence.
I said, “Since you’ve come crosscountry to interview me”—that seemed a politer phrase than interrogate me—“maybe you’ll tell me something, too.” When the spook didn’t say no, I went on, “Is this case somehow connected with worries about the Third Sorcerous War?”
The spook got up from the chair, took a couple of steps toward me. “How did you make that connection?”
The Case of the Toxic Spell Dump Page 15