Changes

Chapter 32

I was tied down, but my hands weren’t. I flexed the fingers of my right hand into the mystic position of attack—holding them like a pretend gun—and snapped, “Arctis!”

The spell tore the heat from all around the gun and drew water from the air into an instant, thick coating of ice, heaviest around the weapon’s hammer. The shooter twitched in reaction to the spell and pulled the trigger.

The encrusting ice held the hammer back and prevented it from falling.

The gunman blinked and tried to pull the trigger several more times, to no avail. Forthill hit him around the knees. Both men went down, and the gun came loose from the gunman’s cold-numbed fingers as they hit the floor, and went spinning across the room. It struck a wall, cracked the ice around its hammer, and discharged harmlessly into the wall with another roar.

The gunman kicked Forthill in the face and the old priest fell back with a grunt of pain. Molly threw herself at him in pure rage, knocking him flat again, and began pounding her fists into him with elemental brutality and no technique whatsoever. The gunman threw an elbow that got her in the neck and knocked her back, then rose, his eyes searching the floor, until he spotted his weapon. He started for it.

I killed the light from the amulet. He tripped and fell in the sudden darkness. I heard him scuffling with the dazed Forthill.

Then there was a single bright flash of light that showed me the gunman arching up in pain. Then it was gone and there was the sound of something large falling to the floor. Several people were breathing heavily.

I got my fingers onto my amulet again and brought forth light into the room.

Forthill sat against one wall, holding his jaw, looking pale. Molly was in a crouch, one hand lifted as if she’d been about to do something with her magical talents, the way she should have at the first sound of the shots, if she’d been thinking clearly. The gunman lay on his side, and began to stir again.

Butters wheezed, “Clear,” and touched both ends of the naked wires in his hands to the gunman’s chest.

The wires ran back to the emergency defib unit. When they’d been melted off the paddles, it had left several strands of pure copper naked on the ends of both of them. The current did what current does, and the gunman bucked in agony for a second and sagged into immobility again.

“Jerk,” Butters wheezed. He put a hand on the small of his back and said, “Ow. Ow, ow, ow, OW!”

“Butters!” Molly croaked, and hugged him.

“Urgckh,” Butters said. “Ow.” But he didn’t look displeased at the hug.

“Grasshopper, don’t strain him until we know how bad it is,” I said. “Dammit.” I started fumbling with the straps, getting them clear of my upper body so I could sit up and work on my legs. “Forthill? Are you all right?”

Father Forthill said something unintelligible and let out a groan of pain. Then he heaved himself to his feet and started helping me with the buckles. His jaw was purple and swollen on one side. He’d taken one hell of a hit and stayed conscious. Tough old guy, even though he looked so mild.

I got off the backboard, onto my feet, and picked up the gun.

“I’m all right,” Butters said. “I think.” His eyes went wide and he suddenly seemed to panic. “Oh, God, make sure I’m all right!” He started clawing at his shirt. “That maniac freaking shot me!”

He got the scrubs top off and turned around to show Molly his back. He was wearing an undershirt.

And on top of that, he was wearing a Kevlar vest. It was a light, underclothing garment, suitable only for protection against handguns—but the gunman had walked in with a nine- millimeter. He’d put both shots onto the centerline of Butters’s lower back, and the vest had done its job. The rounds were still there, flattened and stuck in the ballistic weave.

“I’m hit, aren’t I?” Butters stuttered. “I’m in shock. I can’t feel it because I’m in shock. Right? Was it in the liver? Is the blood black? Call emergency services!”

“Butters,” I said. “Look at me.”

He did, his eyes wide.

“Polka,” I said, “will never die.”

He blinked at me. Then he nodded and started forcing himself to take slower, deeper breaths. “I’m all right?”

“The magic underwear worked,” I said. “You’re fine.”

“Then why does my back hurt so much?”

“Somebody just hit it twice with a hammer moving about twelve hundred feet per second,” I said.

“Oh,” he said. He turned to look at Molly, who nodded at him and gave him an encouraging smile. Then he shuddered and closed his eyes in relief. “I don’t think I’m temperamentally suited for the action thing.”

“Yeah. Since when are you the guy in the bulletproof vest?” I asked him.

Butters nodded at Molly. “I put it on about ten seconds after she called me and said you needed help,” he said. He fumbled a small case from his pocket and opened it. “See? I got chalk, and holy water, and garlic, too.”

I smiled at him, but felt a little bit sick. The gunman had put Butters down for the simple reason that he had been blocking the shooter’s line of sight to the room. If he’d been trying for Butters, the two shots to clear his sight line would have included a third shot to the back of Butters’s head. Of course, if Butters hadn’t been in the way, my head wouldn’t have fared any better than his.

We’re all so damned fragile.

Footsteps sounded outside the door, and I raised the gun to cover it, taking a grip with both hands, my feet centered. I was lining up the little green targeting dots when Sanya came through the door carrying a platter of sandwiches. He stopped abruptly and lifted both eyebrows, then beamed broadly. “Dresden! You are all right.” He looked around the room for a moment, frowning, and said, “Did I miss something? Who is that?”

“I don’t think there’s anything broken,” Butters told Forthill, “but you’d better get an X-ray, just to be sure. Mandibular fracture isn’t anything to play around with.”

The old priest nodded from his chair in the living quarters of the church’s residents, and wrote something down on a little pad of paper. He showed it to Butters.

The little guy grinned. “You’re welcome, Father.”

Molly frowned and asked, “Should we take him to the emergency room?”

Forthill shook his head and wrote on his notepad: Things to tell you first.

Now I had a pair of guns I’d swiped from bad guys: the security guard’s .40-caliber and the gunman’s nine-millimeter. I was inspecting them both on the coffee table, familiarizing myself with their function, and wondering if I should be planning to file off the serial numbers or something. Mouse sat next to me, his flank against my leg and his serious brown eyes watching me handle the weapons.

“You found out something?” I asked Forthill.

In a way, he wrote back. There are major movements afoot throughout South and Central America. The Red Court’s upper echelon uses human servitors to interface with mortals. Many of these individuals have been sighted at airports in the past three days. All of them are bound for Mexico. Does Chichén Itzá have any significance to you?

I grunted. Donar Vadderung’s information seemed to have been solid, then. “Yeah, it does.”

Forthill nodded and continued writing. There is a priest in that area. He cannot help you with your fight, but he says he can offer you and your people sanctuary, care, and secure transportation from the area when you are finished.

“It seems like begging for trouble to plan for our victorious departure before we know if we can get there in the first place,” I said. “I can get us to the general area, but not into the ruins themselves. I need to know anything he can find out about the security the Red Court will be setting up in the area.”

Forthill frowned at me for a moment. Then he wrote, I’ll ask him. But I’ll need someone to talk for me.

I nodded. “Molly, you’re with the padre. Get a little sleep as soon as you can. Might not get a chance to before we move out, otherwise.”

She frowned but nodded instead of trying to talk me out of it. It’s nice how brushes with violent death can concentrate even the most stubbornly independent apprentice’s better judgment.

Forthill held up a hand. Then he wrote, First, I need to know how it is that you are back on your feet. Dr. Butters said that you would be too injured to get out of bed.

“Magic,” I said calmly, as if that should explain everything.

Forthill eyed me for a moment. Then wrote, I hurt too much to argue with you. Will make the calls.

“Thank you,” I said quietly.

He nodded and wrote, God go with you.

“Thank you,” I repeated.

“What about me?” Butters asked. There were equal measures of dread and excitement in his voice.

“Hopefully, we won’t need any more of your help,” I said. “Might be nice if you were standing by, though. Just in case.”

“Right,” Butters said, nodding. “What else?”

I clenched a hand and resisted the urge to tell him that he would be better off hiding under his bed. He knew that already. He was as frightened as a bunny in a forest full of bears, but he wanted to help. “I think Father Forthill has a car. Yes, Father?”

He started to write something, then scratched it out and held out his hand in a simple thumbs-up.

“Stay with them,” I said. I slapped magazines into both guns, confident that I knew them well enough to be sure they’d go bang when I pulled the trigger. “Soon as Forthill is done, get him to an emergency room.”

“Emergency room,” Butters said. “Check.”

Forthill frowned and wrote, Are you certain we shouldn’t turn our attacker over to the police?

“Nothing in life is certain, Father,” I said, rising. I stuck a gun in either pocket of my duster. “But if the police get involved, they’re going to ask a lot of questions and take a long time trying to sort everything out. I can’t spare that time.”

You don’t think this gunman will go to the authorities?

“And tell them what?” I asked. “That he got kidnapped off the street by a priest from St. Mary’s? That we beat him up and took his illegal weapon away?” I shook my head. “He doesn’t want the cops involved any more than we do. This was business to him. He’ll make a deal to fess up to us if it means he gets to walk.”

And we let a murderer go free?

“It’s an imperfect world, Father,” I said. “On the other hand, you don’t hire professional killers to take out nice old ladies and puppy dogs. Most of the people this guy has an appointment with are underworld types—I guarantee it—mostly those who are going to turn state’s evidence on their organization. Sooner or later one of them gets lucky, and no more hit man.”

Live by the sword, die by the sword, Forthill wrote.

“Exactly.”

He shook his head and winced as the motion caused him discomfort. It will be hard to help a man like that.

I snorted. “It’s a noble sentiment, padre, but a guy like him doesn’t want any help. Doesn’t see any need for it.” I shrugged. “Some men just enjoy killing.”

He frowned severely, but didn’t write down any response. Just then, someone rapped on the door, and Sanya opened it and poked his head in. “Dresden,” the Knight said. “He’s awake.”

I rose, and Mouse rose with me. “Cool. Maybe get started on those calls, padre.”

Forthill gave me another thumbs-up rather than nodding. I walked out, Mouse stolid at my back, and went to the utility closet with Sanya to talk to our . . . guest, I suppose.

The blocky hit man lay on the backboard, strapped down to it, and further secured in a cocoon of duct tape.

“Stand him up,” I said.

Sanya did so, rather casually lifting the gunman, backboard and all, and leaning it back at a slight angle against the wall.

The gunman watched me with calm eyes. I picked up a wallet from the little folding card table we had set up and opened it. “Steven Douglas,” I read from the license. “That you?”

“Stevie D,” he said.

“Heard of you,” I said. “You did Torelli a couple of years back.”

He smiled, very slightly. “I don’t know any Torelli.”

“Yeah, I figured,” I said.

“How is he?” Stevie D asked.

“Who?”

“The little guy.”

“Fine,” I said. “Wearing a vest.”

Stevie D nodded. “Good.”

I lifted an eyebrow. “Professional killer is happy he didn’t kill someone?”

“Had nothing against him. Wasn’t getting paid for him. Don’t wanna do time for hitting the wrong guy. Isn’t professional. But everything I heard about you said I shouldn’t dick around waiting to get the shot off, so I had to get him out of the way.”

“Stevie,” I said, “this can go a couple of different ways. The simplest is that you give me who hired you, and I let you go.”

His eyes narrowed. “No cops?”

I gestured at his bound form with one hand. “Does it look like we want cops all over this? Spill and you’re loose as fast as we can take the tape off.”

He thought about it for a moment. Then he said, “Nah.”

“No?”

He made a motion that might have been a shrug. “Did that for you, I might never work again. People get nervous when a contractor divulges personal information about their clients. I gotta think long-term.”

I nodded. “I can respect that. Honoring a bargain and all.”

He snorted softly.

“So we can go to option two. I’m going to go call Marcone. I’m going to tell him what happened. I’m going to ask him if he’s interested in talking to you, Stevie. I’m sure he’ll want to know who is purchasing hits in his territory, too. What impact will that have on your long-term productivity, do you think?”

Stevie’s nerve cracked. He licked his lips. “Um,” he said. “What’s option three?”

Sanya stepped forward. He beamed at Stevie D, picked the backboard up off the floor without too much trouble, and in his lowest voice and thickest Russian accent said, “I pick up this board, break in half, and put both halves into incinerator.”

Stevie D looked like a man who suddenly realizes he is sitting near a hornets’ nest and is trying desperately not to run away screaming. He licked his lips again and said, “Half of what I hear about you says Marcone wants you dead, that you hate his guts. The other half says you work for him sometimes. Kill the people he thinks need killing.”

“I wouldn’t pay much attention to rumors if I were you, Stevie,” I said.

“Which is it?” he asked.

“Find out,” I said. “Don’t tell me anything.”

Sanya put him back down again. I stood facing him expectantly. “Okay,” he said, finally. “A broad.”

“Woman, huh. Who?”

“No name. Paid cash.”

“Describe her.”

Stevie nodded. “Five-nine, long legs, brown eyes,” he said. “Some muscle on her, weighed maybe one fifty. Long dark hair. Had these tattoos on her face and neck.”

My heart just about stopped in my chest.

I closed down every doorway and window in my head, to shut out the gale that was suddenly whipping up in my heart. I had to stay focused. I couldn’t afford to let the sudden tide of emotion drown my ability to think clearly.

I reached into my pocket and drew out my own wallet. I’d kept a picture of Susan in there for so long that when I pulled it out some of the image’s colors stuck to the plastic sleeve. I showed him the picture.

The hit man squinted and nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s her.”