Darkwalker

CHAPTER 26

“This place is small,” Zach said, scanning Lenoir’s apartment with an air of faint surprise.

“It is,” Lenoir agreed, “though it is surely more comfortable than your quarters at the orphanage.”

“Not much,” Zach said with the brutal honesty of the young. “You really live here?”

“You thought it would be grander, perhaps?”

The boy shrugged. “I guess so, yeah. I mean, you’re an inspector.” He pronounced the word almost reverently.

“Indeed. A poor public servant, alas.” Lenoir gave a mock bow. “I do not wish to blunt your ambition, Zach, but it is not so very glamorous being a hound. The truth is, we hounds occupy a modest rung on the social ladder. I suspect there are talented whores who earn more than I do.”

“A good whore does pretty well, from what I’ve seen.”

Lenoir regarded him with rueful affection. A child in one breath, a seasoned adult in the next. Perhaps that was what drew him to the boy—that compelling mix of innocence and experience. Living proof that it was possible to live among the poison without becoming fatally ill, that one could see the world for what it truly was, yet still work toward something better. “Would you prefer to sleep at the orphanage?” he asked.

Zach shook his head. “I won’t get any sleep there. The sisters will ask me a million questions, and the other kids too.”

“So I thought. Rest here, then. Later on, you can go down to the station and give your statement.”

Zach looked up at him. “What do you mean, I can go down? You’ll come with me, right?”

Lenoir pasted on a smile. “Yes, of course. Now rest.”

The boy was fast asleep within minutes. He was exhausted, but otherwise appeared none the worse for his ordeal—except, of course, for the scar on his wrist. Lenoir found he did not have it in him to explain the nature of the injury, or how Zach came to have it. Lenoir had not spoken of it again since they quit the tower, and Zach had not asked. The boy seemed to accept the scar as a relatively benign consequence of his captivity, and considering what had almost happened to him, Lenoir could not disagree.

He left Zach in peace and headed for the station. He would send one of the watchmen to the orphanage to tell the nuns that Zach was safe. He had debated going himself, but he needed to use these last few hours to file his report, for there would never be another opportunity, and he did not want the details of the case to die with him. Not that there would be much for the Metropolitan Police to follow up—there were no arrests to be made, at least not with the evidence on hand, and anyone whose involvement could be proven had already received judgment. But Kody’s family, and Hardin’s, deserved to know what had happened to their sons.

The station was nearly deserted. The hounds were still swarming the streets in search of Hardin’s killer. Lenoir found the chief in his office, poring over a stack of recently penned reports, his leathery face pulled into a forbidding scowl.

“Where in the flaming prisons of the below have you been?” Reck said as he looked up from his papers. “I was beginning to think you got the same treatment as Hardin!”

Lenoir sat. He had not been invited to, but he did not think he could stay on his feet for much longer without passing out. He had never been so exhausted in all his life. “I told you I was tracking down the kidnappers.”

“That was two days ago!”

Lenoir snorted incredulously. “Two days,” he whispered in amazement.

“Is something funny, Inspector?”

Lenoir rubbed his eyes, the lids feeling like rasps against the bloodshot orbs. “No, Chief. It’s just that I can hardly believe it has only been two days. So much has happened.”

Mollified, the chief sat back in his chair, arms folded. “So let’s hear it.”

“I know who attacked Kody and Hardin,” Lenoir said without preamble. “At least, I know who ordered it done, and where it took place.”

Reck grunted. “I’m relieved to hear it, because we’re getting nowhere out there.” He gestured dismissively at the pile of papers on his desk. “Fifty reports, and the best information we have is that Kody bought a meat pie across the street. The rest of it we already knew. He talked to Izar before he left, but he didn’t say where he was going, or why. Izar is in a state, as you can imagine. Thought he should have seen it coming, and other such guilt-ridden nonsense.”

“Ridiculous. It would have been nearly impossible for anyone to reconstruct Kody’s lead based on what he learned at the prison, even if the prisoners cooperated fully.”

“Which they manifestly did not. Stedman, idiot that he is, started off the interview by telling the prisoner that Hardin was dead. Guess how eager she was to talk after that.” Reck shook his head in disgust. “If I thought I could get by with only three inspectors, I would just fire him and get it over with.”

You had better hold off on that, Lenoir thought wryly. Aloud, he said, “I suspect what Kody learned at the prison went to motive, which he was able to piece together in conjunction with information we found in Berryvine.”

“Well?” The chief spread his hands impatiently. “Don’t keep me in suspense. Who do I have to round up?”

“No one. Hardin’s killer is already dead. Her name was Zera, known as Lady Zera by those in her social circle.”

Reck’s eyebrows rose. “Lady Zera? Well, that certainly explains a lot, like why we were called to the scene of a shoot-up at her place last night. Do I have you to thank for that little massacre?”

Lenoir shifted uncomfortably. “I was there, although I only killed one man myself.”

“We found two killed by gunfire. The rest were strangled with some sort of barbed rope. Looks like the barbs were poisoned too.” The chief narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing Lenoir intently.

“Zera had powerful enemies,” said Lenoir, choosing his words carefully. “I stayed out of their way, so long as they were working in my interests. Our interests.”

The chief frowned. “Let’s come back to that in a minute. You want to explain to me why we got word of the incident from a neighbor, and not you? Why didn’t you wait for backup before you confronted her? You’re too seasoned an officer to be pulling greenhorn crap like that, Lenoir.”

I had backup, Chief. Better backup than any hound. “I was in a hurry. A boy’s life was at stake.”

Reck seemed to accept that. “You knew this Zera, didn’t you? Seems to me you’ve been seen at her salon once or twice in the past.” He paused to let that sink in. Lenoir wondered how long the chief had been waiting to spring that little warning on him.

“I knew her well,” Lenoir said. There was no point in denying it.

“Why would she want Kody and Hardin dead?”

“I don’t know the full story, but she obviously believed they knew something that could connect her to the kidnappings, so she wanted them disposed of.”

Reck rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I wonder how Kody figured it out.”

“I’m not sure he did. He might only have sought her out as a source of information about the Adali. We might never know for certain.”

“Wouldn’t that be a kick in the ass?” Reck said sourly. “Death by coincidence.”

“Kody is dead, then?”

“He’s the same. I was talking about Hardin.”

Lenoir nodded. “Anyway, I would be surprised if Kody actually knew much about what the kidnappers intended.”

“Which is what, exactly? And how was Lady Zera involved?”

“I believe that a small group of Adali was in the process of procuring a very significant favor for someone powerful, in exchange for major land concessions to their clan. Zera was the liaison.”

The chief shook his head blankly. “I don’t get it. What does that have to do with kidnapping children?”

Lenoir sighed and passed a hand over his eyes again. “I will explain everything, I promise. I came here to file a full report. Better for you to read that. The story is . . . complicated.”

To his immense relief, the chief only grunted and said, “Sounds like it.”

“I had better get started,” Lenoir said, rising. “Have you sent word to Kody’s family?”

Reck inclined his head briefly. “They came in on the stagecoach last night. The mother isn’t taking it well.”

“They never do.” Pausing at the door on his way out, Lenoir said, “It has been a privilege to work with you, Chief.”

Reck eyed him suspiciously. “Going somewhere, Inspector?”

Lenoir gave a thin smile. “I was only thinking that it has been a very long couple of days.”

“That it has,” Reck said quietly. “That it has.”

Lenoir scanned the cramped lines of his handwriting, reading over the report one last time. He had not bothered to use a scribe. He told himself that was because he needed time to sort through his thoughts, but the truth was that he wanted to be alone while he recorded the depressing history of his investigation. It was so easy now to connect the dots, to trace the constellation among the stars. He spared himself nothing in the retelling, and he was sure that the chief, in reading the report, would shake his head in disgust at Lenoir’s incompetence.

Lady Zera’s frequent questions surrounding the investigation should have betrayed an unusual interest in the case, Lenoir read. I should have noticed these signs, but my judgment was clouded by my personal relationship with the accused. Dipping his quill in ink, he added a note in the margins: I was also quick to dismiss coincidences that Sergeant Kody remarked upon. If Kody died, Lenoir wanted it known that the sergeant had not been as blind as his supervisor.

In other details, he was more economical. While he could not avoid mentioning khekra, and the intention of Los and his cronies to use Zach in their magic, he did not go into particulars. Let his colleagues get that information from Merden, if they chose to interview him. Spelling it out in his report would make him sound insane, or at least backward and superstitious. That might damage the credibility of everything else in the report, and Lenoir did not want to provide any excuse for the case to remain open. He owed that much to Kody and Hardin. On the matter of khekra, therefore, he confined himself to the bare minimum, saying only, It is a common belief among the Adali that magic can produce curses or windfalls, and such spells often go for a steep price. I have concluded that Los and his followers intended his magic to result in something of great value to the Duke of Warrick, in exchange for which they hoped to secure grazing rights to His Grace’s lands.

Lenoir’s eyes paused on the next line. While the motive is clear, there is no tangible evidence of any contact between the kidnappers and the Duke of Warrick. He read the words aloud, and they stuck in his throat.

“What did you know, you bastard?” he whispered at the page. He was not sure what he himself believed. It was possible the kidnappers had not yet approached Warrick with their plan, intending to contact him only once they had succeeded. Or Warrick might have been in on it from the start. In the end, what did it matter? Lenoir had no proof. Carelessly accusing Warrick would cause the Metropolitan Police no end of grief, and for what? Even if he was guilty, the odds of him being held to account were virtually nil.

Dipping his quill again, Lenoir underlined the words tangible evidence. He was confident that Lendon Reck would understand him perfectly.

No amount of editing, however, would address the most glaring flaw in the report, which was the absence of any mention of Vincent. Nor was it simply a lie of omission; to account for the shoot-up at Zera’s, Lenoir had been obliged to fabricate something. His report described an unknown Adal, implied to be a member of the Asis clan, who pursued the kidnappers and picked them off one by one.

If my information is correct, the report said, the man called Raiyen was exiled from the Asis clan for performing khekra, which was forbidden among them. It is my belief that Raiyen’s designs were in part intended as an act of atonement, a way of regaining his status within the clan. He reached out to his kinsman and fellow witchdoctor, Los, to assist him in the enterprise. However, if their actions were not sanctioned by the clan elders, the clan could well have taken the law into their own hands, as Adali are frequently known to do, preferring their own traditional justice to the more formal mechanisms here in the Five Villages.

With any luck, the deaths at Zera’s apartments, as well as those at the cathedral, would be explained as an act of vigilante justice. The Metropolitan Police would make some effort to track down the culprit, but the Asis clan would claim to know nothing about it. And they would be telling the truth. It was an unavoidable loose end, but Lenoir was reasonably confident that it would not be enough to prevent the case from being closed.

He gazed at the finalized report for a long moment. Absurd as it was, it felt as if his entire life were on those sheets of parchment. It was the last record he would leave behind.

It was shortly before dusk when Lenoir left the police station. For some reason, he found himself heading for the market square, the place where he had first spoken to Vincent. It seemed like the most appropriate place to meet the spirit again, for the last time.

Lenoir sat on a bench and watched the evening routine unfold. He felt much calmer than he had two nights before, when last he sat here waiting for Vincent to appear. There was no longer anything to fear. It was not that he welcomed death—he would happily have deferred it indefinitely—but he could face it now, serene in the knowledge that Zach was safe. Lenoir had done what he set out to do. “There is no redemption,” Vincent had said, but he was wrong. Lenoir had reclaimed something of himself in these, his last hours of life. He was no longer filled with self-loathing. His apathy had given way, if not to peace, then at least to acceptance.

He might have dozed off, for darkness seemed to come upon the square suddenly. Lenoir felt eyes on him, and he twisted in his seat to find Vincent watching him from the shadows. In spite of his resignation, he could not help the spasm of fear that jolted his limbs. Would Vincent speak to him, or simply attack without warning? Belatedly, Lenoir wondered if the market square had been a poor choice of venue after all. At least my death will cause a spectacle, he thought wryly. It would be nice to be remembered for something.

Vincent sat down on the bench beside Lenoir. He said nothing at first, his uncanny gaze sweeping over the square. He watched the flower merchants and the street musicians, the young couples and the stray dogs, his expression utterly inscrutable. Lenoir would have given anything to hear his thoughts.

“The boy lives?” Vincent asked finally.

“He does, thanks to you.”

“I have never used my weapon on a child before. I was not certain he would survive, even for a short time.”

There was another stretch of silence. Lenoir said, “You went for Zach instead of Zera. I was . . . surprised.”

Vincent looked at him. “As was I.”

“Oh?” Lenoir cocked his head. “You were surprised that . . . it . . . commanded you to save the boy?”

“It did not.”

Lenoir looked at him blankly. “I don’t understand.”

“It commanded me to kill the woman. The boy . . . that was my own choice.” If Lenoir had failed to understand the significance of these words, the look in Vincent’s eyes would have driven it home. His gaze burned with emotion—genuine, human emotion—intense and complex and utterly unexpected. There was confusion, excitement, and even a little fear. There was also something more difficult to identify. Pride, perhaps?

“Your choice?” Lenoir echoed in disbelief.

“Yes.” Vincent’s voice was low and intent, as though he were relating a powerful secret.

“You defied it?”

“Not exactly. But I chose.”

“I thought you said that your will was not your own?”

“I chose,” Vincent repeated, as though to himself. “I decided to act, and it worked. It has never worked before. I stopped trying centuries ago.”

“Well,” said Lenoir, for lack of anything better.

Vincent looked back out over the square. Lenoir waited. When several minutes had passed in silence, Lenoir said, “Should we go somewhere else to do this? Can you make it quick?” His voice betrayed him at the last moment, choking off the final word. He just wanted to get it over with.

Vincent shook his head, and for a moment, Lenoir thought it was in response to his question. Then Vincent said, “It no longer seeks your death.”

Lenoir stared, certain he had misheard. “What did you say?”

“You are no longer marked.” He did not elaborate. His expression was once again inscrutable, his eyes reflecting the world around them without offering a hint of what lay behind.

Lenoir looked into the face that had haunted his nightmares for a decade, and for the first time, he found nothing to fear. Neither did he find anything to celebrate. He was so stunned, so drained, that he could not even rejoice. All he could do was nod, indicating that he understood. That seemed to be enough; Vincent stood.

“Will I see you again?” Lenoir heard himself ask.

Vincent’s lip quirked into something just short of a smile. “Let us hope not.”

Lenoir started to thank him, but the spirit was already gone. Lenoir sat dazed for a moment. Then he began to shake. He felt weak, as though his bones were melting, leaving only a sack of flesh. He slid onto his side, lying down on the bench, his breathing sounding thickly in his ears, as if he were underwater. He closed his eyes against the harsh glare of the streetlamps. He slept until morning.