The Night Sheriff, page 23
Oh, Hollywood, if this is the case, I shall never complain about you again. I’ve encountered people like this before, determined to make you appreciate the full breadth and scope of their genius instead of just killing you. This is always a mistake, for as long as one is alive, one has a chance. “All right,” I say carefully. “Tell me where to go.”
After I hang up, Bone Cat is still glaring at me. “What?”
“Once again you were ready to sit on your ass and just die. I’m losing patience with you.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll do my best.” I grip his shoulders. “Please help me to get Vandy out,” I ask simply, “and I shall try to not get killed.”
He resists for a moment, and then pats my wrist. “I was gonna do that anyway, you jerk. I just wanted you to think about it.”
Several minutes later, we find ourselves before the Haunted Monorail Station. “Can you figure out where Vandy is being held?”
He concentrates. “She ain’t here.”
That makes sense, I suppose. “Can you find her?”
He concentrates so hard he actually begins to fade out—then snaps back into focus. “I can find her, but …” He looks at me. “She’s still in the park, but she ain’t close.”
This will be tricky. As far as we can ascertain, Bone Cat is only able to manifest because of me, when I am in contact with the land itself. While he normally is within arm’s reach, he can operate independently. However, the farther he gets from me, the more difficult it is for him to exist. He can do it, but I have to be actively thinking about him. This means that I will not be able to devote my full attention to whatever is happening to me.
“Don’t worry about it, boss,” he says reassuringly. “Thinking has never been your strong suit to begin with.” I take a deep breath and raise my hand. Instantly he smacks it in an enthusiastic high five and scurries off into the darkness. I straighten up and examine the building before me.
The Haunted Monorail Station is considered the back entrance to Futureopolis, as opposed to the front entrance overseen by the Gremlin’s brewing tower, and if you alight there from the park-encircling monorail, you actually have to make an effort to avoid going through it. The first time you hear about it, you may be excused for being a bit confused. Futureopolis is supposed to be everything that the 1950s thought Science was all about. Buildings that looked like they were built inside a wind tunnel, moving sidewalks, a total abandonment of spiritualism and superstition. It’s diametrically opposed to the park’s Whitechapel Wonderland District, both philosophically and geographically, with its twisty cobblestone streets, it’s Victorian-Gothic architecture, and its collection of faux-scary and supposedly unsavory rides, such as the aforementioned Pirate Cruise to Nowhere.
The whole thing was a terrible mix-up. To this day, no one is quite sure how the mistake occurred, but where the Haunted Asylum was supposed to be to be built, the gleaming Palace of Enlightenment was constructed, and, on the opposite side of the park, the promised Future of Transportation ride had morphed into the now famous Charles Addams-designed Haunted Monorail Station. Mr. Bartholomew was furious when the error was discovered, but by that time the cost of correcting it would have been prohibitive, especially as the construction costs of the park were already soaring. Plans were made to grin and bear it and do something about it in a couple of years. Naturally, these changes were never made, as even before the park officially opened they so delighted visitors that everyone assumed that the dichotomy had been deliberate. It was hailed as a triumph of design, and they are now two of the most popular rides in the park. That said, Mr. Bartholomew was annoyed about it until his dying day—and beyond. I walk into the entryway, and a large video screen blinks on. I stare at the figure revealed and experience a most peculiar turn.
It is Mr. Mortimer.
Chapter Eleven
After a brief moment of existential disorientation, I look again, drawing upon a thousand years of experience observing the vagrancies and the peculiarities of genetics. Of course. This can only be Mr. Mortimer’s son. He must be in his fifties, but he looks younger. Some of that can no doubt be explained by exercise and diet, but surely not all of it. This fellow is positively radiating good health.
He is examining me as keenly as I, him. He shakes his head. “Well, you certainly don’t live up to your rep, old man.”
I roll my eyes. He certainly has none of his father’s subtlety. He is baiting me. I think about Bone Cat and try to look ineffectual. “You are a surprise as well.” But his patrimony explained a few things that his file had not; his supposedly preternatural knowledge of the company’s inner workings was a bit more plausible now. But there was still the central mystery … “Why the name Zoiden? If you have a claim to the Zenon family name …?”
Herr Zoiden smiled ruefully. “Technically, I suppose, I would be labeled a bastard.”
Ah. That explained some things. The Zenon Corporation had always been rather leery about admitting that any of the founding family even knew what sex was. Oh, there are subsequent generations of the Zenon family hanging about, ostentatiously displayed throughout the company’s organizational chart. But in actuality they were all too willing to sit back, cash checks, and forgo the tedious business of administration, or indeed, anything that might be mistaken for actual work.
Now even if our young fellow here was a member of the family, and passed the inevitable DNA tests, there was no getting around the fact that he was a wild card, raised outside of the familial politics that, according to Mr. Shulman, keep the rest of the younger generations of Zenons in line. A person with his lineage, along with his demonstrated business savvy, suddenly showing up to claim a piece, however theoretical, of one of the largest companies on Earth, would not be a threat taken lightly. Legally, his would be a Sisyphean task at best. But from what I knew of Mr. Mortimer, his place would have been secured, legalistic legitimacy aside, unless … “Your father didn’t know of your existence,” I hazarded.
Herr Zoiden nodded and glanced off to the side. He was not alone, wherever he was. “That is true. I’m told he would have interfered.”
Oh, my. Now that was a charge I had heard leveled against Mr. Mortimer any number of times, usually as someone’s plans and/or death fortress was crashing down around us. But one of Mr. Mortimer’s gifts was that, initially, you never suspected him capable of anything more than finishing his beer, and by the time you realized that he had destroyed everything you’d been working towards for the last twenty years and stolen your beer as well, it was usually one of those supreme moments of clarity that come to a person as they are hurtling face first towards a cauldron of molten steel or some similar Armageddon.
Very few people had the experience required to develop that level of paranoia regarding Mr. Mortimer, and only one of them might have gotten close enough to produce the man appearing before me now. “Hello, Polina,” I called out. “It is a fine-looking boy you have there.”
Herr Zoiden’s face went blank, and he again glanced to the side. But this time there was a bark of laughter, and Madam Polina Urakhov stepped into view. Grand Witches are known to live for a very long time, though they tend to suffer unfortunate physiological effects as they age. But in Polina’s case, it appeared that time was treating her extraordinarily well. I would have sworn her to be no more than thirty. She was wearing a severe black pants suit, and the only outré touch I could see was one of those westernized ladies’ turbans that had not been fashionable for close to forty years. This was also rather unusual, as your typical witches’ fashion sense seems to degenerate as they do. Older witches invariably favor a hodgepodge of rotting Romany finery and junk-shop new age jewelry.
“I quite thought you were dead,” I admitted. To be fair, most people you encase in a sealed vat full of boiling mercury have the good taste to take the hint. “So did Mr. Mortimer or, I assure you, he would have continued to send you those roses.” Ah, now that hit a nerve of some sort. She grit her teeth and opened her mouth—
“Is he the one who sent those?” Zoiden interrupted. “I always suspected.”
“Don’t tell me she kept them?”
“Every single one. I thought it was charming—”
With a snarl, his mother twisted her fingers into a knot and Zoiden acted as if he’d been punched in the stomach. “Shut up, you fool!”
Ah. This was one of those happy families. I filed that away and addressed her in Russian. “I must assume that trying to kill me is your idea, Polina. I confess that I don’t know why. Surely whoever is really running your country at the moment doesn’t care about me, and, come to think of it, I would be very surprised if they actually knew of your existence at all. That means it must be personal, which seems rather petty on your part. I mean, yes, we were colleagues who tried to kill each other, to be sure, but—”
Zoiden broke in, also in Russian. “I’m afraid I really didn’t believe you, Mother, but you were right. He articulates every single thought he has.”
She nodded. “It was one of the reasons your father kept him around. He made him look positively Machiavellian.”
Grand Witches are particularly good at getting under one’s skin, both literally and figuratively. “Where is the girl? Tell me or I am leaving.”
Another screen lights up and I see Vandy. She is naked, which almost causes me to start breaking things then and there. She is strapped down on some sort of table, and a fellow in a set of medical greens is standing beside her. There is a rack of rather medieval-looking instruments to hand. Her face shows signs of bruising, and I can see several angry-looking marks upon her arms and torso. They are in a rather well-lit room that I recognize. It is, in fact, in the Palace of Enlightenment. They have chosen well. It is all the way across the park, and even if I could fly, it would still take me several minutes to reach her. I think very hard about Bone Cat and try to focus on Vandy’s face.
Evidently this is a two-way connection, as she sees me. I cannot feel her emotions, but she puts on a brave smile. “Hello, Sheriff.”
“Hello, Vandy.” I shift my attention back to Madam Urakhov. “Cover her.”
The witch shrugs. “You’ll have to earn that, Dehazzaki!”
“Gesundheit.”
The witch rolled her eyes. “No, you imbecile, a Dehazzaki is what you are!”
Well. That is interesting. I roll the word over my tongue. I wonder how she’d discovered it. “Thank you,” I say. “Now I know what to put on my business card.” I take a deep breath. “But seriously, Polina, what is this about?”
“Where is Mortimer Zenon?”
This was the last question I expected. “I assure you that I have no idea. I’m afraid that he’s dead.”
“He is supposed to be,” she spat. “But you couldn’t even do that!”
“… You’ve lost me.”
“That fool was supposed to die,” she said. “He must die! That is the final step!”
“Wait. Are you telling me that Mr. Mortimer is still alive?” I desperately tried to understand. Mr. Mortimer had always been the one who was able to work out even the most convoluted plan. “Why would I kill him? How would I have killed him? Do you know where he is? I never saw him after …” I had a sudden flash of insight. “You grabbed him the night I was bound to this place, didn’t you?”
She looked away. “Yes. It was the perfect opportunity. I knew he would never come to me of his own volition.”
“May I point out that you were the one who broke our last truce. In Vienna? 195―”
“Cut her!” With a nod, the fellow next to Vandy selected a scalpel.
“Stop,” I shouted, but to no avail, as he methodically made an inch long slice in her arm. Vandy tried to endure it, but a small scream escaped.
“Damnation, if you captured him, then why would you expect me to kill him?”
She stared at me, her jaw sagging open in a most unbecoming manner. “I thought the two of you had thwarted me,” she muttered. “Had set one of his devilishly subtle plans into motion. The years I’ve spent trying to divine it …”
Suddenly she screamed and pounded the wall beside her in fury. “You didn’t figure anything out at all! You just didn’t kill him?”
I shrugged.
She snarled, “Cut her again!”
I dropped to my knees, which so surprised Polina that she held up her hand and the technician paused, scalpel raised. “What do you want of me!”
The witch gave a vinegary smile. “To begin with, I don’t want to hear any more of your endless prattle. All I want to know is: Where is Mortimer Zenon?”
“I don’t know! You just said you had him! I haven’t seen him since the night I was imprisoned! I swear!” Polina considered this, and then turned back to the screen, obviously about to order more torture. “Why do you think I should have killed him?”
She paused, and then her mouth closed with a click. “Because he would have been a monster and killing monsters that attack this park is what you do.”
I stared at her. “You turned him into a monster?”
“Yes.” The memories she was mining were taking a dark turn, it was evident from the look on her face. “Yes, I took him that night. I was prepared to give him one last chance to be together. Ideologically there truly was no longer any reason to fight. The Communists were as bad as the Fascists, and, secretly, they all wanted to become Capitalists.” She shook her head. “He told me that back in 1943, but I didn’t listen to him …” Her voice ran down, and she spent almost a minute adrift in some other time and place, until suddenly her eyes snapped back towards me, and they were filled with hate.
“But while your last little death trap failed to kill me, it started my … changes prematurely.”
Oh dear. I knew what that meant. She made a complicated gesture, and her glamour—a glamour that had been so artfully woven that I had not even been aware that it was there—dropped.
Contrary to popular fiction, glamours and charms manage to survive things like mirrors or photography quite well, let alone electronic transmission. This is a good thing, since, as I have mentioned, I’ve been inadvertently photographed or filmed thousands of times over the years. It’s hard to explain, but really it just takes some practice, Oh, there were some rocky patches in the beginning, when actual silvered mirrors first made an appearance in our remote little village, which was not until sometime after the first World War, if you would believe it. But I was able to train myself to overcome its effects. That said, I can usually recognize the signs of a glamour—a sort of shimmer, reminiscent of the ripples in the air one sees above pavement on a hot day—but more in the ultraviolet spectrum. These are conveyed perfectly well via television, as well as photography; you just have to know what to look for.
But Polina had taken the art to a whole other level. Which in this case meant that when she dissolved it, the revelation was even more shocking. I confess that I made a sudden hiss of indrawn breath at the sight of her true visage. Time had not treated her well after all.
Oh, she was still alive, which certainly counted for something, but like I said, Grand Witches do not age well, and Polina was either a lot older than I had thought or had had a particularly rough time of it. She had the nose, of course, and the hump, and now resembled nothing so much as a malevolent scarecrow made of dried apples and beef jerky. But even beyond that, she looked half melted. I had seen some rather extreme cases, in my time, but Polina eclipsed them all. Psychologically, it must have been very traumatic, as Polina, like all Grand Witches, started out as quite the ethereal beauty.
I suspect this is why Grand Witches, of either sex, have a tendency to turn mean once they begin to change, though there is no denying that some of them start that way and only get worse. You may think I’m being rather shallow and focusing on superficial appearance, but Polina, and every other young witch I’d met, had taken great pride in their ability to seduce, and there was no getting around that she was now extraordinarily hideous.
“Very pretty, don’t you think?” She twirled with an echo of the sensual grace I remembered, which just made it worse. She glared at me. “I was supposed to have another century before I was reduced to this,” she hissed. Grand Witches are very closemouthed about how and where they acquire their power, but one does get the opinion that it is bargained for. “In order to save my life after our last encounter, I had to burn through all of my youth!”
This offered some tantalizing clues as to how she’d managed to survive most of our other, admittedly more casual, deathtraps. Personally I had thought the whole mercury thing to be a bit extreme, really, but evidently it had not been extreme enough. Looking at the resulting ruin, I could only assume that what awaited her after death must be even worse.
Now, before you feel any sympathy for her, I want to make it clear that this was all brought about because she had betrayed us in that restaurant back in Prague, but I knew that pointing this out would cause Vandy nothing but pain. Under Mr. Mortimer’s tutelage, I had learned how to project sincere contrition.
“I’m very sorry, Polina. No one deserves this, and least of all you. If Mr. Mortimer was here―” Even before the words have left my mouth, I realize my mistake. When they get this old, a witches’ sanity is delicately balanced, and it doesn’t take much to send it skittering about.
“I gave him a chance,” Polina rasped. “Your precious Mortimer screamed when he managed to dispel my glamour! I told him not to! I did! But he never listened to me!” She spun about again. “Cut her,” she screamed. “Cut her face!”
“No!” I roared, but of course Polina’s servant wasn’t about to listen to me. Mechanically he again applied his scalpel, and deftly sliced her cheek. Vandy screamed this time and strained against her bonds.
“So I wrung a child from him,” she crooned, “and then I turned him into a monster. One that will give me control of this place.”
I desperately tried to understand what she was talking about—and suddenly the pieces came together. “You’re using Inheritance Magic!”
