by DAVID B. COE
CHAPTER 24
Once the helicopter landed and the EMTs starting working on me, I lost track of the time. I don’t remember the ride to the hospital—I wasn’t even sure which one they took me to, though I assumed it was Tempe St. Luke’s—and though I have vague memories of trying to fight off the nurses and doctors as they were putting me under for surgery, it’s all sketchy. I do know that I slept through most of the night, and that anything I said that made me sound crazy would have been blamed on the anesthetics and pain medication rather than the moon.
When I came to the next morning, groggy and nauseous, Kona was there beside my bed, reading a copy of the Republic. She had a bandage on her head and bags under her eyes. I had a feeling she hadn’t gotten much sleep.
“You been here all night?” I said. Or tried to. The words sounded as if they’d been scraped from my throat.
“Yeah,” she said, smiling and setting the newspaper aside. She scooted her chair closer to the bed. “Margarite was here, too, but she had to go. Something with her dad. She’ll be back later. How are you feeling?”
“Like I’ve been run over by a truck.”
“Want me to call for a nurse? They’ve been trying to wake you all morning, saying you’ve got to eat something. But I told them to let you sleep.”
I made a sour face at the thought of food. “Thanks.”
She passed me a plastic container of water and I sipped a little through the built-in straw. It felt good going down, but it didn’t help my stomach any. I handed it back to her.
“You’re a hero,” she told me, picking up the paper again. “Told you you would be.” She held up the front page for me to see.
“Blind Angel Killer Dead, Police Say,” the headline screamed in that really big banner type usually reserved for presidential elections and wars. Below, in smaller text, it said, “Police, Local Investigator Kill Suspect in South Mtn. Pk.” And below that were a pair of photos, one of a cloth-covered corpse that I assumed was Red lying in the ravine, the other an older shot of Claudia Deegan as a smiling, blonde teenaged tennis star. It was a little creepy to see her that way, and maddening to think that years from now, when they talked about this case, she’d be remembered, but Gracia Rosado wouldn’t.
“The article say anything interesting?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Not really. I told them the guy was French, so now the media guys and the Feds are wondering whether this needed to be treated as a terrorism case.”
“How’d you explain the fact that he’d been burned to a crisp?”
“I said he’d tried to burn us with some unknown liquid, but that he’d lit himself on fire instead.”
“And Hibbard bought that?” I asked.
“To tell you the truth, he’s so glad this guy is dead, he would have believed anything. He didn’t even mind that you helped bring him down.”
“It’s like he’s a new man.”
“Well,” she said with a frown, “I wouldn’t go that far.”
We fell silent and I took stock of how I felt. My mind was still dull, the effect of the moon and the painkillers and whatever they’d used to knock me out for surgery. My ribs were a little sore, but my arm and leg, both heavily bandaged, didn’t feel too bad. I’d been lucky.
“Justis,” Kona said, her tone weird enough to make me look at her. “I called Billie, to tell her what had happened and where you were. She . . . she said she wouldn’t be able to make it over to see you. But I had a feeling that maybe there was more to it.”
Kona missed nothing. That was one of the reasons she was such a good cop.
“There was,” I said, the ache in my chest duller than Red’s fire, but no less painful. “She doesn’t want to see me anymore.”
Kona grimaced. “Why not?”
“She found out that I’m a weremyste, and she knows all about the phasings and what they do to me.”
“How’d she find out?”
I met Kona’s gaze. “I told her.”
For a long time she said nothing. Then she shrugged slightly and picked up the paper again. “I guess you know what you’re doing.”
“I guess.”
Neither of us said anything for a while. I pointed to the water and she handed it to me. I drank a bit more, and this time held onto the container. I was starting to feel better.
“I liked her, Justis,” Kona said after some time. “Billie, I mean. I think she was good for you.”
“You’re not the only one.”
She nodded once. “Then I won’t say anything more.”
She left a few minutes later.
I flipped on the television and watched a Sunday talk show or two and then a Diamondbacks game. Most of it washed over me, but watching anything was better than lying there in silence thinking about Billie.
I wanted to be mad at her. I wanted to tell myself that she’d given up on me too soon, that she should have been willing to deal with the phasings and the magic and everything that came with them. But I knew better. I’d seen what that life did to my mom, and I didn’t want that for Billie. If I’d been in her position, I would have run from me, too, and I would have done it days before she did. Relationships were hard enough without all the extra baggage I was carrying.
I survived that second night in the hospital despite some pretty terrifying hallucinations of Cahors. Kona had come back to check on me and when I started saying weird stuff and losing touch with reality, she convinced my nurse to give me some sleep medication. Good thing, too. At one point I started to chant a spell in my head, though later I couldn’t remember what kind of spell it was. Chances are, I would have burned the hospital to the ground.
When I awoke the next day, I was alone. Of course. Kona had work to do, and she knew that the danger of the phasings was over, at least for a few weeks. The day dragged, the food sucked, and I started bugging every nurse who came in about when I could go home. They all told me the same thing: that I’d have to ask the doctor.
The doctor didn’t come in until late afternoon, meaning that I’d have at least one more night there. He gave me a thorough exam, took off my bandages and checked my bullet wounds, both of which seemed to be healing well, and said that I could leave the hospital the next day.
Kona showed up a couple of hours later and we made arrangements for her to take me home around midday. She didn’t stay long—she had a new homicide to deal with and was sure she’d be at 620 for most of the night.
I had a quiet evening. With the phasings over and the pain in my ribs a little more manageable, I slept pretty well.
The paperwork and billing took most of the next morning, and by the time Kona came to get me, I was ready to be done with hospitals for good. She drove me home, where the Z-ster was waiting in the driveway—Margarite had driven her home for me. The place still looked like hell—no surprise—and I wondered how I was going to pay for the repairs as well as my share of the hospital bill. I put those questions out of my head, since I knew that I wouldn’t be working for a few weeks. No one was going to hire a PI who had only one good arm and leg.
Kona helped me into the house and got me settled in the living room. She’d brought me some food, including some leftovers from a meal Margarite had made, and she stocked my refrigerator while I took in the cracked walls and ceiling, the broken windows, the mess on my furniture and floors.
“You’re awfully quiet,” she said, emerging from the kitchen after a few minutes.
“I’m wondering how I’m going to get this place fixed up.”
“With all that reward money it shouldn’t be too hard.”
I stared at her. “What?”
“Twenty-five thousand dollars, my friend. From the Deegans, remember?”
I’d forgotten all about it. “But you—”
Kona shook her head. “You know I can’t take any of that money. Department regulations. No rewards accepted. That money is all yours. And believe me, Hibbard’s good and pissed.”
I gave a little laugh.
The reward money. Funny how a little thing like that could improve a person’s mood.
CHAPTER 25
A couple of days later I drove to Maryvale. I wasn’t supposed to get behind the wheel for a few weeks, but I was going crazy alone in my house. Shifting was a challenge with only one good arm and one good leg, but I managed it. I still didn’t like going to that part of the city, but I wanted to see how Orestes was doing.
When I arrived, Q was sitting outside in his rocking chair, which, as far as I could tell, was one of the few pieces of furniture to survive Red’s attack. He had casts on his leg and arm, and bandages on his head. But he smiled when he saw me get out of the Z-ster, and he raised his good hand in greeting.
“Justis Fearsson, where have you been? With your arm in that wrap you look like Q’s twin.”
I laughed, hobbling toward him. “How you doing, Q?”
“Q’s doin’ all right.” He gestured at one of the folding chairs. “Sit down, sit down.”
I unfolded the chair next to his and sat. I could hear noises from inside the shop and I raised an eyebrow.
“That’s Q’s boy in there,” he said. “He’s helpin’ Q with repairs.”
“I didn’t know you had a son.”
“Yup,” Q said, grinning and sounding proud. “Q got a little girl, too.” The grin tightened. “’Course she’s with her mama, and doesn’t come around as much as Q’d like.”
A moment later a sweet-faced kid with short black hair came out of the store, struggling with a trash bag that was filled almost to bursting. He couldn’t have been more than thirteen or fourteen years old, and he didn’t look much like Orestes. But when Q called to him, he rolled his eyes, the way any kid that age would when his father asked him to do something.
“Come here, boy,” Q said. “Justis Fearsson, this is Quincy. One day Quincy will be Brother Q, just like his papa.”
Another roll of the eyes and the kid was gone.
“Well, I just stopped by to make sure you were doing all right, Q. I should probably be going.” I started to stand, but he put his hand on mine.
“Wait a minute, Jay.” Q’s voice had dropped, as had his gaze; there was something on his mind. “You know, when a man is hurt, and fearin’ for his life, sometimes he’ll say crazy stuff. You know what Q’s sayin’?”
I wanted to laugh out loud—I knew exactly what he meant—but I managed to keep a straight face. “You mean the other night? You seemed pretty lucid to me.”
“No, Q was . . . he was sufferin’. Q had no idea what he was sayin’.”
“So then you don’t even remember.”
“Well . . . no, Q remembers some of it.”
At that point I started laughing. I couldn’t help myself. “Don’t worry, Q. If I need information, I’ll be coming to you. And I’ll bring cash.”
He beamed. “You’re a good man, Justis Fearsson. Q’s always said that about you.”
“Thanks.” I limped to the car. “Take care.”
After leaving Maryvale, I stopped by the store and with some help from a clerk I managed to buy a few things for my dad. Then I got on Grand Avenue and drove out to his place. For the first time in years, I’d missed my usual Tuesday visit, and after the week I’d been through, I felt a strong need to see him.
He was in his chair when I drove up to the trailer. He glanced over at me, but he didn’t wave and he didn’t get up. It was hot and windy. The tarp over his chair snapped like a flag and my father sat there squinting against the glare and the dust.
“How are you feeling today, Pop?” I said, stooping to kiss his forehead.
“Not so good,” he said. “One of those days, you know? Things seem . . .” He shrugged. “I don’t know . . .”
“Muddled?”
“Yeah.”
I sat beside him and stared out over the desert.
“It just Tuesday?” he asked.
“No, Thursday. Sorry I didn’t get here sooner.”
He noticed the bandaging on my arm and leg.
“What happened to you?”
“Got shot.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “No joking?”
“No joking.”
“What happened to the other guy?”
“He’s dead.”
My dad nodded and faced forward again.
“Where’s that girl you brought out the other day? What was her name again?”
“Billie.”
“That’s right. Billie. Where’s she?”
“We’re not together anymore.”
He twisted his mouth for a moment. “Phasings?”
He said he was muddled, but he seemed pretty sharp to me.
“How’d you know that?”
“Just a guess.”
“How did you do it, Dad? How’d you make things last with Mom for so long?”
“I didn’t,” he said. “She did. She held on, even when I was too screwed up to do much of anything. I still don’t know why.”
“She loved you,” I said.
“Right. And I’m telling you I still don’t know why.”
We sat there for a long time, saying nothing, watching the day drift by with the tumbleweed and the dust devils.
“I tried one of your spells the other day,” I said, breaking a long silence.
“My spells?”
“Namid said it was yours. Dual transporting—moving myself and putting my weapon in my hand at the same time.”
He nodded. “I think I remember that one. Can’t do it anymore, but I remember.”
“You still conjure?”
“A bit,” he said, glancing at me. “Now and then. Just for the sake of doing it.”
I don’t know why, but it was strange for me to think of my father doing magic. I know that he used to, but I figured he gave it up when he left the force, though, of course, there was no reason he should. I thought about what Namid had said, about how the two of us might have worked together if things had been different.
“So, did it work?” he asked.
“What?”
“The spell. Did it work?”
I shook my head. “No. I moved, but I left my weapon where I’d been.”
“Focus on the weapon first.”
“What do you mean?”
“When you work the spell, do the weapon first, your move second. That way the pistol gets to your hand before you move yourself. Worst thing that happens is you stay where you are but you’re armed.”
I stared at him as if he’d done the spell right there. “I thought you said you were muddled today.”
“I was, ’til you got here.”
I smiled, and he did, too.
“There food in the car?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Good. I’m outta most everything and I’m starved. I’ll make you a sandwich.”
I handed him the keys and he unloaded what I’d brought him. After a while he emerged from the trailer with a couple of sandwiches.
We didn’t say much more, but I was glad I’d made the trip, and I know that he was, too.
I started the drive back to Chandler a short time before dusk. As soon as I was back on the highway, Namid materialized in the passenger seat, the pinks and yellows and reds of the western sky shimmering in his waters.
“Ohanko.”
“Where have you been, ghost? You missed all the excitement.”
“I have been speaking with my kind.”
It all came back to me then, how he had saved my life in Robo’s and warded my house, breaking the most basic rules of the Council of Runemystes. “Did they punish you?”
“They warned me not to act on your behalf again.”
“That’s it?”
“No. They told me to ask your forgiveness. We were careless and you nearly died. We have done what we can to make certain such a thing does not happen again. But we will remain vigilant, lest others in the council make a similar attempt.”
I wanted to ask what they’d done to keep the othe
r runemystes in line, but I knew he wouldn’t tell me.
Instead, I asked him something that had been bothering me for the past several days. “Why did he come here, Namid? Why Phoenix of all places? Why didn’t he do all of this in France?”
“He could not,” Namid said, sounding like I should have known this already. “France is where he was bound into service as a runemyste. To escape that fate, he first had to leave his native land.”
I suppose that made sense. “All right, but why here?”
“I cannot be entirely certain,” the runemyste said. “He would have required the presence of a university, so that he could find young victims for his magic. He might also have wanted a warm climate, so that his potential victims would be out of doors throughout the year.”
“You think he came for the weather?” I asked, incredulous. I thought of Sophie Schaller. I couldn’t imagine anyone who had less in common with Cahors; I didn’t want to believe that the two of them could have come to Phoenix for the same reason.
“I am merely saying that it is possible,” Namid said, his expression remaining the same. “I also think he would have chosen a place with powerful ties to the craft. That might have helped him, too. My people have been using magic in this part of your world for many hundreds of years. And he has known me for a long time.”
I hadn’t expected that. “He came here because of you?”
“I believe so. In part at least.”
I didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry, Namid.”
“I believe I should be apologizing to you.”
“No,” I said. “That’s not necessary.” I’d never felt sorry for Namid before; it was unsettling. “Anyway,” I said after a minute or two, “thank you. For saving my life, I mean. I know you weren’t supposed to.”
“Of course. Tread like the fox, Ohanko.”
I tried to think of some clever response, but nothing came to mind. In the end, I merely nodded, and Namid faded from view.
It was almost dark when I got back to my house, which may be why I didn’t recognize the car that was parked out front. I pulled into the driveway and had hobbled halfway to my front door before I noticed Billie standing on the walk. My heart began to hammer so hard in my chest that I was sure she’d see my shirt move.