Shattered Circle

CHAPTER FORTY

Johnny considered tackling the old man and taking the key by force.

“I’m sure Aurelia a-told you where the locker’s located,” Plympton said. “I mean, that’s why you’re here, isn’t it? You came to get this key.”

Staring, aware that he couldn’t play off his presence here or pretend he hadn’t known Aurelia was dead, he wondered which of the Omori had leaked details to the diviza. Then another thought hit him. “Why did you come to get the key?”

Plympton tossed the key up and caught it in his palm, then tucked it back into his pocket and paced to the left again. He scratched thoughtfully at his chin.

Johnny knew he had the ability to kill the old man and take the key, but having the ability to end someone’s life didn’t mean he had the willingness to follow through. And not just because there’d be another body to worry about.

What he knew of Plympton wasn’t much: Wærewolf. Diviza. Old. Cajun. Enjoyed negotiating. Visited a voodoo priestess who put molten silver inside him. Heard lots of rumors. May never have met Aurelia before today, but she was undoubtedly a source of some rumors he’d heard. She was not, however, his only source.

He asked again, “Why do you care what’s in the locker?”

Plympton spread his arms, posing like the Christ the Redeemer statue in Rio de Janeiro. “For thirty years I’ve haggled with wærewolves and for wærewolves. I know how they think, how they act and react.” His arms dropped. “I’ve walked the line between our world and the human world so many times that, hell, I know that damn line like the back of my hand.”

Johnny squinted at him, thinking.

“I can see you’re a-running it all through in your head. I’ve achieved a fair amount of rank. Aside from my knowledge of certain sensitive information about the Zvonul, my experience alone makes me a valuable resource.” Plympton stopped and faced Johnny, that one eye scouring him for a moment, then he resumed his seat and continued. “I don’t have a choice now. I have to trust you. I have to believe that when I tell you this, you will live up to your good character . . . and that you will see mine.”

The old man’s dilemma about trust reminded Johnny of his own current difficulty with it. “Tell me.”

“I was approached by a vampire. Over the course of a few months, she repeatedly showed up at various public functions my office was part of . . . then she started showing up at more private functions. Always, there was a hello and a brief, inconsequential chat. Each grew longer, held more questions, offered more details. Then she asked me to provide information about the Zvonul.”

“What made her think you were willing to spy on your own kind for her?”

“I advocate for changes, which means I bitch with style.”

“Did you agree?”

“This is where it gets difficult, John.” He paused. “You see, I contacted the Omori for advice. They wanted me to proceed, pretending to be a traitor. My handler used a voice changer during calls, nothing was done in a manner that was documented. When I tried to record the calls, something about the voice changer scrambled the voice on the recording, so it seems like I’m talking to no one. We never met in person—but I have reason to believe that Aurelia was my handler. Now that she’s dead, my reputation may be at stake.”

“Surely they’ll have a backup plan for situations like this.”

Plympton patted his pocket where the key was. “This is the backup plan.”

Johnny blinked. The information about his son was supposed to be in the locker. Aurelia didn’t mention anything else. “Wait, wait. You think she was your handler, so you’ve come to her rooms, dug through her things to find a locker key, and now you’re certain she’s put info about you in a locker somewhere.”

“I’m a-telling you, this is how my handler operated. Public lockers. When I was given instructions, they were always in a public locker.”

“I thought you said there was no documentation. Written instructions—”

“The paper disintegrated when I touched it. I had to read it in the locker, then touch it to destroy it and leave.” He scratched at his chin again. “I may have been set up. I don’t know. Hell, I’m not even sure it was a representative of the vampires that approached me.”

“You said she was a vamp.”

“Yes. Doesn’t mean she’s on their side.”

“Huh?”

“Maybe she’s working for SSTIX. You’ve heard of them?”

“Specialized Squadron for the Tactical Investigation of Xenocrime. Yeah. I’ve heard of them.” He did not tell Plympton about his run-in with Special Agent Damian Brent and Special Agent Clive Napier over the lines of glass on Lake Erie’s shore—the only traces of a supernatural battle that he and the wærewolves had taken part in. “You mean there’s a vamp out there that you think is not sleeping her day away in a haven?”

“SSTIX is recruiting, John.” He let that sink in for a moment. “They’re a-looking for haters. If they don’t find them, they’ll manufacture them, do you a-understand me?”

“You mean they will have the vamp make more vamps? That’s not supposed to be easily done. . . . ”

“No. I mean they will plant seeds, make their own kind not trust the one they are after until that one is a-ripe for the picking.”

Johnny sat in silence as Plympton stood and took the key out again.

“My handler intercepted information that I was being bribed, that I had been giving out classified information to the vamps. Thing is, that information was selected by my handler for the giving. It was modified data. Spies apparently deal not only in information, but in misinformation to make their enemies reveal themselves. When my so-called contacts tried to use the information against me, to make the Zvonul banish me, then I’d have nowhere to go but to them. Do you see? They are going to use our own against us to bring us down from the inside.”

“And you believe the information in the locker is what your handler intercepted.”

“Yes. I have to get that data. It’s the only thing that can maintain my credibility—and you need me to be credible, to vouch for you when Aurelia’s death is made public.”

Johnny stood. “She told me what was in the locker. She didn’t mention anything about any of this. What if you’re wrong and she wasn’t your handler?”

“I’m certain she was. If she told you there was something in the locker for you, there is. But she meant for us to get it together.”

“How do you know that?”

“She directed some veterinarian to call my number; she’d given him a message for me. It was in code, but it meant that I was to come and get the key from her suitcase, and to wait for the monarch. Here you are. She had to have told you where the locker is. That’s why I was to wait for you.”

Johnny walked across the suite to a dark corner. He pulled out his phone and punched the numbers for Doc Lincoln. That part would be easy to verify.

The doc answered with a voice thick with sleep. Johnny asked, “Did you make a call for Aurelia?”

Silence.

“Doc. Did she give you special instructions before she died?”

“John, it was crazy talk. It made no sense. She said not to tell you.”

“Good enough. Get back to sleep.” Johnny shut his phone and, shoulders squared, returned to Plympton. “I carry the key.”

“I prefer to keep it.”

“If we run into trouble, I can protect it better than you.”

“If we run into trouble, you’re going to change and lose your clothes.”

Good point. “But I can change parts of me and keep the pants on.”

“Look here, John. If you want to kill me for it, go on and do it, but I am not giving you this key. Show me where it goes, and you can open it with me. There must be something in it for you, you can have that, but I get the documents pertaining to me. That’s all I want. Isn’t that fair enough?”

• • •

The cabbie was literally going out of his way to make his fare larger, and it pissed Johnny off, but he said nothing as the man made another turn.

When they pulled up in front of the blue marquee, Plympton, who had been silent the whole way, got out. Johnny handed the cabbie a twenty, letting his hand go furry as the man reached to accept it. He recoiled with a gasp. “Superior to Thirteenth was the shortest way,” Johnny said to the driver, who was cowering against his door. “If you ever drive me again, don’t try to cheat me.” He hurried to catch up with Plympton, who’d already disappeared inside the silver-steel doors.

Inside, the yellow and white checkerboard floors gleamed in the bright lights. The old man was approaching the lockers, checking numbers against the one on the key. When he found it, he stopped and turned, waiting.

To Johnny’s surprise, Plympton offered him the key.

He accepted it, then wondered if the locker might be booby-trapped. Or if Plympton planned to whack him in the head when he was distracted.

Stop it. Still, he angled himself slightly away from the diviza as he slid the key into the lock. Gently, he turned the key and heard the mechanism inside click. Delicately, he opened the door a crack. He did not see any wires or smell anything that made him wary. So he pushed it wider. Plympton moved closer.

Inside lay a key fob, with one key and a paper tag secured to it with a green twist tie. Johnny lifted the key and examined the tag. Written on it in Aurelia’s scripted cursive was:

AKRON-CANTON AIRPORT. Long-term parking. White Nissan Altima.

A license plate number was printed on the tag.

The two men locked gazes. “Looks like we’re a-needin’ another cab.”

Shortly later, a different driver for the same company dropped them at the RTA Flats East Bank station. This one had wisely taken the most direct route to get them there.

Plympton made a comment about Johnny’s “racy-looking vehicle” and grumbled as he climbed into the Maserati’s “low” passenger seat, which explained why they had used the Cadillac Escalade limousine earlier.

Johnny knew it was about an hour’s drive from here to the Lauby Road airport, and about forty-five minutes from there to Red’s, plus the time it took to find and deal with the Altima—it better not send them on to another location. He didn’t have the time to run around all night. Demeter was on her way. In fact, she should arrive at the farmhouse in an hour. He texted Kirk: Get an update on the arrival time of the Pittsburgh group for me.

By the time they were on I-77, the reply arrived: ETA 1 hr 23 mins as per their GPS. Took some time 2 reach someone @ Pittsburgh den, have them reply to the request & find 2 wæres 2 take the job, then get them 2 the tattoo parlor 2 pick up the passenger.

Johnny texted back: Good enuf. Thx.

So he had to haul ass on the interstate to be able to get to the farmhouse when Demeter did. He locked in the cruise control at 90 mph.