Red Iron Nights

50

"Now what?" I groaned as I stepped aside so Block could come in. "Don't tell me you screwed up again. I couldn't stand it if you told me you screwed up again."

"Winchell got away, Garrett."

"I begged you not to tell me you screwed up again."

"It wasn't my fault."

"The hell it wasn't. You were in charge. The guy was tied up in a gunnysack. How could he get away?"

"Some damned fool decided he wanted to take a look, so he opened the sack."

I nearly screamed. "And the butterflies got after him and Winchell just politely crawled out and waltzed away. Right?"

"Right."

"What I ought to do is take you and this other damned fool and tie you both up in a gunnysack and dump you in the river."

"This other damned fool is Prince Rupert. And he's been quite good about not trying to shift the blame."

"Well, good-ee. I'll cheer when he's crowned. So what? Why're you here bugging me?"

Block sneered. "I'm not. I want to see your partner. He's done well guessing what the killer will do."

"Because he has a diseased mind too. I'm sure he knows you're here. He has somebody with him right now. Just hang out in there." I indicated the small front room. "He'll call you. I'm having lunch." And you're not invited, you incompetent sonofabitch.

I sat down opposite Belinda. "Why don't we kiss off TunFaire? Why don't we get married and run off to the Carnival Islands and open a fortune-telling booth?"

"That's an interesting proposition. What brought it on?"

"The Watch let the killer get away. That madman is back on the street and he's got eight or ten hours to play his little prank."

"But if Candy and I are here—"

"He'll kill somebody else. He has to kill somebody."

Somehow, like it or not, my house became the tactical headquarters of the hunt for Elvis Winchell. By sunset Prince Rupert had made himself a guest. I couldn't keep him out, but I was a hardass about his yes-men. Jumped in there with a ferocious, confrontational smile and said, "Your lordship, I haven't the facilities to serve all those men." When he wasn't instantly offended enough to holler for the headsman, I went so far as to suggest, "Their numbers are attracting attention." It was way late, but the night people were out there and they were noticing the crowd.

We compromised. He didn't bring anybody inside.

This Prince Rupert was the first royal I'd met. What I saw didn't impress me either way, though later the Dead Man did blather on about the good intentions he'd found in the man's mind. At that time I wasn't in one of my better moods, so just remarked that the road to hell was paved, and so forth.

The sun hadn't yet risen when word came that they'd found Emma Setlow, AKA Dixie Starr, in the usual state. The troops had arrived while the ritual was winding down. Winchell had taken another successful powder but his helper had been captured. The knives had been recovered.

"Knives?" I asked. "What knives? We already broke the knives."

The knives in question turned out to be plain old kitchen knives, not the best for the job they had done.

The Dead Man observed, I suspect we will find that the knives were not the vehicle for the curse.

"Hell," I muttered, "I had that figured. Winchell wouldn't still be on the hoof if they were."

The knives are broken, shattered, but the curse goes on.

"Cute. What about the guy they caught?"

The helper was a retarded ratman (an oxymoron again) who admitted he'd been baby-sitting Dixie since her kidnapping, which had taken place well before the snatch on Candy. Meaning Winchell had decided to stock up on brunettes. After he had escaped from Block and the Prince he'd just run off to where he'd had Dixie stashed.

I muttered, "I don't like this. This Winchell sounds too damned smart."

"Winchell?" Block sneered. "Winchell needs help tying his shoes."

It is the curse, gentlemen. This time around —meaning this return to the world —it has reached some critical stage of growth. I suspect it would not be false to state that it has reached a point where it has begun to teach itself, not just to learn in the slow way a dog does, through numerous repetitions. It might behoove us to consider the horror of the possibility that it may develop an ability to reason.

"Wait a minute. Wait a minute. A curse makes your cow go dry or gives you shingles or makes your kid crosseyed. It isn't something that—"

In the world of your village charm seller, you are correct. Probably no sorcerer alive today could cast this spell. But this spell comes down from a time when giants walked the earth.

Giants were walking the earth right outside. Well, within a mile, anyway. But I didn't argue. One of the earliest lessons I learned about dealing with Old Bones is: don't get him going on the good old days. "Giants? Well, maybe. But we're here to develop a strategy."

Considering the Prince and Captain Block, that strategy would be as much political as it was aimed at removing a major villain from the streets.

The Dead Man agreed with me. Winchell will keep as short a profile as possible but he will not be able to remain hidden. He may be able to do without a helper, but his need to kill is on a short and shortening cycle. Six nights from tonight he will have to kill again. Inasmuch as Miss... Altmontigo... has been rescued, he will have to develop his next victim from scratch—assuming we can keep our two houseguests isolated. That he sent to me alone. Our guests didn't need to know we had anyone special squirreled away. He will be hunting. If he manages to get his victim without help this time, he will still have to recruit helpers. He cannot stop killing and he cannot stop the circle of death growing smaller every time, so that he has to kill sooner.

"Whoa! Whoa!" Block said. "There a point to all this yammer?"

Yes. Winchell's financial resources cannot be vast. Counter his recruiting efforts by offering a substantial reward for his capture.

"Who's Miss Altmontigo?" I asked, regretting it before I finished speaking. Yet I wondered why he'd hesitated that instant, before and after. Because of Block and the Prince?

Candy to you. Or Mickey.

One very unsettling point here. The Altmontigos are an ancient and honored family from the highest heights of the Hill. What was I getting into? I had a royal prince and as high-toned a young woman as could be found visiting at the same time? Not to mention I was giving shelter to a princess of the underworld.

All of that meant notice. I don't like being noticed by people with that kind of power.

The arguments went on and on. Dawn came and went. I said the hell with it. I wasn't contributing anything and wasn't hearing anything useful to me. What suggestions I did make were ignored. So let the great powers scope things out their own way. After they screwed up and looked like complete fools, I could lean back smugly and tell them they should've listened to me in the first place.

I stopped at the foot of the stairs. Belinda was up there. Candy was up there. Dean was on the daybed in the small front room again.

That damned kitten started rubbing up against my ankle, purring, trying to get in good. I picked him up. "Little buddy, first thing in the morning you get to learn a valuable lesson. You can't get by on cute and the kindness of strangers. You're going to hit the street."

The cat purred. And somebody pounded on the door.