Shadow's Blade, page 9
“Sounds like abuse to me. How much more evidence do you need?”
“You know full well how much more. Abuse is hard to prove. I shouldn’t have to tell you that; you were too good a cop for too long a time to be as naïve as you sound right now. She’s denied repeatedly that he ever hurt her, and as incriminating as some of those injuries were, none of them was conclusive enough to convince any of the attending physicians to take action. They had a break-in at their house not that long ago. You want me to arrest him for that, too?”
I didn’t answer. She was right: proving abuse without the cooperation of the victimized spouse was next to impossible.
“I should also tell you,” she went on after a tense silence, “that as far as we can tell the kids have never shown up in an ER, except for one time when the little girl had an appendicitis.”
“Well, I suppose that’s something,” I said. “What are you going to do?”
“My job.” She sounded exasperated; I wasn’t making this any easier for her. “She’s wanted for murder. I have witnesses who say that she killed two men.”
“Two?”
“Oh, yeah. John Doe number two died overnight. We still don’t have a name for either one of them, by the way.”
I wondered if Saorla was listening to this phone call, laughing at our ignorance.
“Anyway, the woman’s wanted for murder. And now she’s in violation of her custody agreement. That’s two strikes against her. I don’t have any choice in the matter, Justis. I have to find her, and one way or another, she’s probably going to jail.”
“Judging from what she did to those guys in the Burger Royale, I’m not convinced you’ve got a jail that can hold her.”
“Well, that’s what I want to hear.”
We lapsed into another silence. At this point if my life, I felt little residual loyalty to the PPD, but I didn’t like the idea of pitting myself against Kona.
“You asked me a minute ago what I was going to do,” she said. “I think I’m the one who should be asking that question of you.”
“I have paying clients,” I said. “They want their daughter and grandkids back, and they don’t want them anywhere near Neil Davett.”
“Right. I had a feeling you’d say something like that.”
“Sorry, partner.”
“No, I get it. You have a job to do. But so do I, and anyone who gets in my way and helps this woman is going to be on the wrong side of the law. You understand what I’m telling you?”
“Of course.”
“All right then. I guess I’ll be talking to you.”
“Right. Bye, partner.”
It wasn’t the most awkward conversation I’d ever had with Kona, but it definitely made the top five.
I closed my phone and looked back at Billie. She was wide awake, propped up on one elbow, her eyes on me, her expression grim. Her brown curls spilled over her bare shoulder, and she had the blanket and sheet pulled up almost to her neck.
“That didn’t sound so good,” she said.
“It wasn’t.”
“A magical vampire?”
I cringed.
“You combine that with the wereowl, and I think you could pitch this to a Hollywood agent.”
At least she was able to joke about it.
“I should probably get going,” I said. “This woman I’ve been hired to find is pretty hot right now. I need to get to her first.”
Billie’s eyebrows went up. A grin crept over my face.
“‘Hot’ meaning a lot of people are after her. It’s an investigative term.”
“Right,” she said, sounding unconvinced. But she was smiling and she caught my hand in hers before I could get up. “I had a nice time last night.”
I leaned over and kissed her. “So did I.”
She gave me a little push. “Okay, go find this hot woman you’re after.”
“I’ll do my best.”
I showered, dressed, grabbed an apple from the fruit basket on her counter, and was out the door well before eight o’clock. The air had grown cool and the sky was a clear, deep blue. Perfect autumn weather and a fine day for a drive into the desert.
But even after I was in the Z-ster with the engine running, I sat staring out the window, watching as Billie’s quiet neighborhood came to life. I had no idea how to find Gracie Davett, and I was all-too conscious of the fact that Saorla was probably watching my every move from her magical perch, wherever that might be. The last thing I wanted to do was lead her and her weremancers to Gracie and the children.
In the past, I had used spells to keep Saorla from listening to my conversations. Perhaps I could keep her from tracking me, as well. The problem was, doing so would tick her off, and she would take out her anger on Billie and my dad, both of whom would be appalled at being used as leverage in that way.
But thinking of my dad gave me an idea.
I pulled away from the curb and drove back to my place in Chandler to pick up a change of clothes and a new toy I’d bought myself with some of the money I’d been earning. It was a Sig Sauer P938 Edge, a new back-up weapon that fit far more comfortably into an ankle holster than my bulky Glock ever had, and more comfortably in my hand than the Smith and Wesson Bodyguard 380 I’d been using as a backup for the past several years. The S&W wasn’t a bad weapon—far from it. I liked it at first, but I’d never gotten to the point where I truly felt at ease with it. The trigger pull was too long, and thing just didn’t settle right in my hand, and so I hadn’t been willing to rely on it. My new Sig Sauer . . . well, let’s just say that it was love at first sight, literally.
From Chandler, I made my way to the Phoenix-Wickenburg Highway, which was the quickest route to Wofford, where my old man’s trailer was located on a small plot of open desert.
Wofford wasn’t much of a town and while I loved desert wilderness I had to admit that my dad’s place was not the most scenic spot in the Sonoran Basin. The trailer sat at the end of a short, rutted road on top of a gradual rise. When it was new, the trailer was kind of nice, but it hadn’t been new in fifteen years. During the summer, Saorla’s weremancers used spells to fracture the cinderblocks that served as its foundation, causing the entire trailer to topple over.
We had managed, using the ten grand Amaya gave me, to prop it back up and repair the shattered windows. We had also replaced most of the kitchenware and picture frames that broke when it fell over. But the place remained tired and rundown, a bit like my dad.
He liked to sit out front on a lawn chair, holding an old pair of Leica binoculars that he trained on every bird that soared past his place. His doctors didn’t want him to get too much sun, so a few years back I rigged a sort of covered patio using two-by-sixes and a plastic tarp. That had been destroyed this summer as well, but I’d set up a new one that worked even better than the first.
My father was subject to delusions and hallucinations. He had days when he could barely function, and when even the simplest attempts at communication left him flummoxed and frustrated. And he had others when he seemed damn near normal. He wasn’t really a danger to himself or to others, which was why I had been able to keep him out of a mental health facility. But he didn’t do well around crowds; he grew confused and quick-tempered. So, I did his shopping for him, coming out to restock his refrigerator and pantry every Tuesday morning, and I only took him into the city on those occasions when he needed to see his doctors.
If he had managed to keep track of the days this week, he’d be surprised to see me. But that was a big if.
These trips out to Wofford were always a bit of a crap shoot. I never knew what condition I’d find him in, what mood. He could be ornery and lucid, or docile and utterly incoherent, or pretty much anywhere else in between those extremes. Today I was counting on him being clearheaded enough to function and help me out, which, I knew, wasn’t very realistic.
I drove up to his place, the Z-ster bouncing over the dirt road, and stopped the car. A cloud of red dust billowed behind me, twisting in the cool wind. Dad sat slumped in his chair, long legs stretched out in front of him, the binoculars resting in his lap. He wore an old flannel shirt over his usual t-shirt and jeans, which was a good sign. When he was really out of it, he didn’t bother with weather-appropriate clothing. I could also see, however, that he had on tennis shoes but no socks. I muttered a curse. In the many years I’d spent scrying my father’s state of mind, I had learned that more often than not, no socks meant he was out of it.
He had looked over at the car as I pulled up, but now was staring out over his land, his eyes fixed on the New River Mountains to the east, an unsteady hand raised to his brow to block the sun, which still hung low in the eastern sky.
“Good morning, Pop,” I called, climbing out of the car and shutting the door.
He glanced my way and lifted his other hand in a half-hearted wave, so at least he knew I was here. But he didn’t say anything and soon turned away once more. Mixed signals.
I walked to where he sat and leaned down to kiss his forehead. His skin felt cool, and he didn’t smell bad, as he did when he hadn’t showered for a few days. “How are you feeling today?”
He shrugged, but said nothing, his gaze never leaving the mountains.
“Are you hungry?”
He considered the question and nodded.
“How about a bowl of cereal?”
Another nod.
I stepped into the trailer, filled a bowl with raisin bran, and poured a little bit of milk over it. Dad could be particular about the foods he ate. He only liked a certain brand of cereal, and he could tell the difference if you tried to slip a cheaper brand into his breakfast bowl. I’d learned that one the hard way many years ago. He liked milk on his cereal, but not too much. He had other preferences as well, all of them specific and none of them open to negotiation. But that was okay; at his age, with all that he had been through, he’d earned the right to be a little picky.
I brought him his cereal, along with his favorite spoon—don’t ask—and then pulled out a second lawn chair, which I set next to his.
He took a spoonful of cereal and chewed it slowly, following the the flight of a hawk with his eyes. Usually he would have told me the species, but he didn’t say a word.
“Have you been sleeping all right?”
He nodded.
“And you’ve been eating?”
A frown crossed his features, but after a moment he answered with another nod. I guessed that he had last eaten sometime yesterday, but couldn’t remember when.
I let him down the rest of his breakfast in peace, wondering if I had wasted a trip. I needed his help, but he wouldn’t be able to do anything for me in this state.
It occurred to me that if he hadn’t eaten before my arrival, he probably hadn’t had anything to drink, either. I went back into the trailer and filled two glasses with ice water. When I walked outside again, his bowl was empty. I took it from him and handed him the glass. He drank deeply, draining half the glass.
“Thank you,” he said.
“You’re welcome. You’re talking.”
His brow creased. “Was I not?”
“Not a word.”
“Sorry. I thought I was.”
“You feeling all right?”
He lifted a shoulder. “I suppose. A little muddled. It Tuesday already?”
I shook my head. “Saturday.”
“Was I in bad shape on Tuesday?”
“No, you were fine. I came out today because I need some help.”
“From me?”
I nodded.
“Magical?”
“In part.”
He sat up a little straighter and took another sip of water. “I don’t know, Justis.” He and Kona were the only people in the world who called me by my full name. “It’s been a while since I cast any spells that matter.”
“Since this summer?” I asked. “When we fought Saorla?”
“Yep, I think that would be the last time.”
“Well, if you can’t do it, I can try to find another way.”
“What is it you’re trying to do?”
I looked him in the eye. “Hide from Saorla.”
He grimaced, ran a hand through his white hair so that it stood on end. “She’s not going to like that.”
“No, she probably won’t.”
“Then I’m in.”
I laughed.
“Why me, though? You know other weremystes.”
“Honestly? Because Saorla knows I come out here a lot. And she thinks you’re nothing more than a burned out old weremyste.”
“I am nothing more than a burned out old weremyste.”
“Dad, that’s not—”
“It’s all right. I think I understand. Going to another weremyste would draw her interest. But she doesn’t think much of me, and she doesn’t pay too much attention when you come out here.”
“Exactly. I need to track down a woman, another weremyste. I think Saorla and her friends are after her, and I want to get to her first, without Saorla knowing about it.”
“So what kind of spell would you need me to cast?”
I stood and peered around the far side of the trailer to where my father’s 1989 Ford F150 pickup was parked. It was one of those two-tone models, chestnut brown with a broad tan stripe along the side panels. “Well, first of all, when was the last time you started up that old truck of yours?”
He swiveled in his chair so that he could see it. “My truck? What’s the matter with your car?”
“Saorla knows it, and so do her flying monkeys.”
I could tell he didn’t like the idea of lending it to me. He probably hadn’t driven the thing more than ten times in the last year, but that truck had been his baby for a quarter century.
“Keys are in the trailer,” he said, sounding like he begrudged every word, “on a hook inside the door.”
I went inside, found the keys, and walked to the pickup. The driver’s side door groaned a bit when I opened it, and the interior had that old-burnt-vinyl smell that’s unique to cars and trucks that sit out for too long in the desert sun. It probably could have used an oil change, and the paint had faded over the years. Still, the truck had less than sixty thousand miles on it, and when I turned the key, it started right up. It might not have been vintage, or even “classic,” according to the definitions used by car dealers, but if my dad had wanted to sell it, he could have gotten a good price. I almost laughed at the thought; that was never going to happen.
I shut it off and walked back to where he sat. He glared off toward the mountains, muttering to himself. He was cogent, but I’d ticked him off a little bit by asking for the truck.
“I’ll be careful with it,” I said. “I take good care of my own car, I’ll do the same for yours.”
“You’d better. That thing’s vintage.”
“Doesn’t vintage mean it’s from the Twenties?”
He cast a nasty look my way. “You know what I mean.”
“I told you I’d be careful with it. I’ll even bring it back with a full tank.”
“Fine.”
“Thanks.”
He nodded, his expression thawing. “Now, what’s this magic you want me to do?”
I sat once more. “Well, that’s a little more difficult. I’ve used spells to, in effect, mute conversations I didn’t want her to hear. I want to use a similar spell to make it so that she can’t find me. I’ve never cast a spell like this before, and I’m not exactly sure how it would work. But I have a feeling that if I cast it on myself, she’ll still be able to track me. She knows my magic. That’s not enough for her to overcome the spells I’ve used to keep her from eavesdropping, but it might allow her to follow me. If you cast the spell, though . . .” I left the thought unfinished.
“Interesting. Have you asked Namid about this?”
“Namid isn’t allowed to interfere.”
“I know that. But he’s allowed to teach, and we need to be taught a spell.”
Put that way, it made a lot of sense.
“Namid,” my dad said, calling out the name. “We need your help.”
An instant later, the runemyste materialized before us, sunlight sparkling on his smooth waters.
“You summoned me, Leander Fearsson. This is something you have not done in many years.”
“I know. I’m sorry. But Justis and I need to do a bit of magic, and we’re not sure how to cast the spell, or even if it’s possible.”
Namid glanced at me, but then addressed my dad again. “And what is this spell?”
“Tell him,” my father said.
“I want to make it impossible for Saorla to find me. Is there a camouflage spell that would work against someone with her powers? Something that would allow me to come and go as I please, without her following me?”
The myste’s waters roughened. “She follows you?”
She follows me; she sends her weremancers after me; she even sent a note tied to the leg of a were. I considered telling him all of this, but in the next instant thought better of it. He would confront her, and that in turn would make her even more angry with me than she was. I was handling her little harassments. I didn’t need to tell on her, like some kid in school tattling on the locker room bully. On the flip side, I sensed that she truly feared Namid. If she had been following me today—and I suppose it was possible—his arrival would have been enough to frighten her off.
“She seems to be keeping track of where I go,” I said, hoping I could leave it at that.
“How long has she been doing this?”
“Long enough. It’s not a big deal. But I don’t want her following me today. I’m trying to find a weremyste, and I think Saorla is after her, too. I don’t want to lead the dark sorcerers to her.”
“She should not be harrying you,” the myste said, as much to himself as to me. “I have made this clear to her.”
“Namid, it’s all right. Just tell me whether or not there’s a spell that’ll do what I want it to.”
