by Sharon Shinn
“Good luck,” she called up to him. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, you could return the Blue Devil. If not, let me know when you’re done and I’ll send somebody after it.”
“Will do,” Drake said, and slammed the door shut.
He was already cleared for takeoff, but it took him ten minutes to check all the operating systems, familiarize himself with the comboard and strap himself in for liftoff. All Moonchild vessels, as a matter of course, were fitted with tracking devices, and, also as a matter of course, most Sayos disconnected them, but this one time Drake didn’t bother. Captain Rolf was doing him a favor to lend him the trim little planet-hopper, and there was only one place Drake was interested in going anyway. Semay.
He rocketed off Fortunata with a burst of power that surprised him even though Rolf had warned him, and he weaved his way out of the crowded Fortunata skies with great skill and care. She had been right; this little beauty far surpassed every other Blue Devil in maneuverability and pickup. Half his brain registered admiration for the ship’s responsiveness and fleetness. The other half could do nothing but worry about Laura.
For Dapple had her picture now; and he would undoubtedly arrive on Semay hours before Drake could; and Laura had been known, before this, to walk the dangerous streets of Madrid alone and indifferent . . . Drake accelerated.
Speed, space and starlight. From the time he had been a child and first accompanied his father off-world to some intergalactic ecumenical conference, Drake had been infatuated with these three elements. Once the ship was racing through the void at its highest attainable velocity, both speed and space evaporated, leaving only starlight. The ship seemed to be suspended, motionless, weightless, in a crystalline and infinite web. Time lost all meaning. Location could be gauged only by small blinking lights on a metal console. Even existence, to the pilot flying solo, seemed a concept to doubt.
It was at moments like this that Drake was most certain and most uncertain of the divine presence of a god. Was it only gravity, mass, inertia and a forgiving vacuum that kept all the heavenly bodies leaping in their choreographed orbits? Or had each dot of light, each massive bulky planet been laid by design into the mosaic of the galaxy? Did it matter to any sentient being but himself that Laura lived out the day—or was Ava even now clearing out the clutter of space before him, guiding his hands upon the controls, exhaling her ghostly breath on the ship’s gildore hull to push him faster toward his goal?
He did not believe—but he did not for certain not believe. Hands clenched on the console, he closed his eyes to shut out the hallucinatory starlight; and he prayed.
Chapter Nineteen
It was an hour before midnight when Drake requested emergency clearance and landed smartly in the spaceport of Madrid. He had been frustrated to learn, after repeated requests to the landing tower, that even within orbiting distance of the planet he could not be patched into a comline at the hombueno headquarters. The personnel at the landing tower had agreed to pass on a message to Capitan Benito, however, and Drake had made it brief: “He’s on Semay now. Tell Fideles and Triumphantes. Star on face correct ID.” The entire Madrid police force would be deployed once Benito got that message, and everyone would be safe.
A tower attendant had been waiting for Drake on the landing field, shielding his eyes from the dust and heat thrown out by the Blue Devil’s landing gear. Drake had scarcely jumped from the cockpit when the man hurried forward with a folded note in his hand.
“From Capitan Benito!” the messenger shouted over the incessant roar of ships coming and going. Drake nodded and held up the note to catch the reflection of the airstrip lights.
“Message received,” the letter ran. “Ermana Laura is missing.”
* * *
* * *
He ruthlessly commandeered a city cab and drove himself, much too fast, back to his hotel. Raced up to his room, bounding up the stairs like a cheetah after prey. His hands shook so badly he could scarcely fit the key in the lock. Once inside the cool dark room he had to pause and think, and for a moment his mind was terrifyingly blank.
Of course. Bottom drawer of the wicker dresser.
Within seconds, he had retrieved the metal strongbox that Benito had issued him the day he arrived on Semay—the box that held his laser and to which only Benito had the key. The sharpest corners in the room were on the marble ledge that served as a sill for the window. It took three hard blows of the lock against the stone before the metal whined free and the lid fell open.
Drake snatched up the Hawken with a brief grunt of relief and spun the cartridge to check its strength. Maximum; no charges fired. He could kill fifty men with the power in this single weapon. Always assuming he wasn’t killed first. Always assuming that his rage was not so hot he did not instead attempt to kill a man with his bare and deadly hands.
He leapt back down the stairs and ran through the lobby. His sedan was outside and he flung himself into it. Wrenching the car onto the streets, he drove with a maniacal speed toward the murderous barrios.
* * *
* * *
She could be, he realized, anywhere. On any street, walking between destinations. In any home, giving succor to the sick and dying. In any back alley, with her throat cut. The hombuenos would be looking in the logical places—the main thoroughfares, the side roads. He must search through the less likely places, the streets and the buildings that the local police might overlook.
He remembered the first day he had begun to quarter this area, seeking out abandoned buildings where the killer might have taken refuge. The day Lusalma and Nochestrella had been attacked, he and Lise had found a length of wire in one of those buildings, perfect for garroting. There had been other signs of occupation. He would try that place first.
He had driven these streets so often in the past few weeks that all the twists and turns and alleys were familiar to him. Now he rattled down the middle of the roads at an unsafe speed, taking curves too quickly and more than once causing an unwary pedestrian to jump from his path. He almost came to a screeching halt before the tumbledown building he was seeking, but at the last minute his instincts for stealth took over. He killed his lights and circled the block. One street over, he parked the sedan and got out without slamming the door. Laser wrapped in his left hand, he cautiously approached the one-story building, using what shadow cover was available.
Five yards away, he caught the sound of muffled voices inside, and he stiffened, straining to hear. One voice was definitely male; the other, too low to hear distinctly, could be a woman’s. The man at least was angry. Drake could not distinguish any words.
He stole closer, willing himself to blend with the sounds and colors of the night. The voices were coming from the front of the house, so he tiptoed around back to see what kind of entry he could force from the rear. The cracked marble of the porch did not betray him with a creak or groan. The door was unlocked, but a rusty chain, secured from the inside, held it in place. Drake thumbed the laser controls—white-hot pinpoint—and sliced through the metal links in one quick motion. The two halves of the chain fell apart with a small tired clink. Drake waited, but no one inside had been alerted by the sound.
Carefully he pushed the door open, just far enough to squeeze himself through. Balancing on the treacherous wood floor, he paused again, still trying to make out the conversation. The man’s voice was raised in repetitive anger. The woman—it did sound like a woman from inside the house—made hopeless, sobbing denials. “You did it, I know you did it, didn’t you?” the man was demanding. Drake caught the sound of a blow, fist against flesh. “You did it. Tell me you did it. I know you did it, didn’t you?”
“Please,” the woman murmured. “Please, I already told you—”
An open-handed slap. “You did it. Tell me you did it. I know you did it, didn’t you?”
They were directly ahead of him in what would be the living room of the house. Drake glided forward
on the toes of his boots, one hand against the wall to help him keep his balance. The laser was back in his right hand and he was dialing down the intensity with his thumb. He would easily kill a man if the razor-point of the high beam caught him in the head or chest. Although it was tempting . . .
“Stop it,” the woman begged. “Please, just stop it—”
On the words, Drake burst through the door, gun extended. “Hold it!” he thundered, and the two people in the room froze in place. Not Laura; that was the first thing he registered. A bitter disappointment made him shaky, and he glared at the feuding couple he had surprised mid-quarrel.
“Who are you?” the woman whispered. Her face was bruised and bloody, and she sat cowering against one wall. Her antagonist—or her lover—had whirled to face Drake’s intrusion, but he had not stepped more than one angry pace forward when he saw the primed laser.
“What the fuck do you want?” was his question.
Drake felt an insane fear turn him evil and careless. “Back off from her,” he snarled, though he had no idea who these people were and what their normal relations might be. “Back off from her, do you hear me?”
“None of your fucking business,” the man replied, his own face ugly. Despite the raised gun, he came closer to the Moonchild. His hands were knotted into fists and ready to use again. “Get outta here. Get out!”
“Make him leave me alone!” the woman cried suddenly. “You an hombueno? Make him stop hitting me!”
With a low growl, the man turned on her, swatting her head with such force that it smashed into the wall. Drake jerked the trigger, then let his hand fall, just watching. The man stumbled, lost balance, and in almost comical slow motion crumbled to the floor at the woman’s feet. His eyes wore that wide, astonished look that Drake had seen so many times before. His hands fluttered once and were still.
The woman stared at him uncomprehendingly for a moment, then leapt to her feet, screaming. “You killed him! You killed him! Ava tiene merced, what am I going to do?”
“I didn’t kill him,” Drake said curtly. He tucked the Hawken inside his belt and cast one more quick look around the room. Were they the people who had found shelter here before, leaving behind a few rags and some scuffed-up piles of dust? “He won’t be able to move for an hour or so. If you want to leave him, now’s the time to do it.”
“Leave him! Ava dulce, where would I go? Rico, Rico—” She knelt on the floor beside her fallen lover and took his head into her lap.
Drake spun on his heel and strode out, repulsed, furious and terrified. Where was she, where was she? Ava and all the gods of the universe guide him. He flung himself back in the car, sent it forward with an unwary foot on the accelerator. Safe? Dead? Injured? Where was Dapple, where had he taken refuge?
Three blocks down the street, he spotted an hombueno car cruising his way, and he swung the sedan over to block the car’s progress. “Drake,” he called out, identifying himself. “Any news? Have you found her?”
“No,” the officer called back. “Not the ermana, nor the suspect.”
“She wearing a wrist alarm?” the Moonchild asked.
“She was,” the hombueno said.
Drake’s heart actually skipped a measure. “She was? What do you mean?”
“Found one. Couple miles over. Catch was broken—looked like it had been ripped off her arm.”
Ava, diosa dulce de merced . . . He could not breathe. “What else?” he managed to choke out.
“No blood. No ojodiosa. No body.”
“She’s alive,” he said.
“Hard to tell,” the officer said.
“She’s alive,” Drake said fiercely. He wheeled the car into reverse to make room for the hombueno to pass, then gunned the sedan forward again. Where was she, where was she, where had Dapple taken her?
To the deserted two-story building he had found a few days before Dapple’s last attack . . . Unbidden, the picture came to Drake’s mind: the dilapidated exterior, the well-kept interior, dusty hardwood downstairs and stained carpet upstairs. His brain could account for no reason why Dapple should take Laura so far out of his way, either to kill her or question her, but his instincts screamed at him to hurry, hurry, for she was there and she was in danger. The car whined around a tight corner under the pressure of his heel. He could not drive fast enough. He hit rocks and glass fragments and lumps of metal in his haste to get from one street to another. The car rattled and his head hummed with tension. Ava, sweet goddess of mercy . . .
Again, caution reasserted itself once he got close enough for it to matter. He abandoned the car halfway down the street and came forward in a soundless crouching run. By moonlight, the house looked even more disreputable. It should be an easy thing to force a lock or window and get in.
Except all the windows on the ground floor were boarded up and the back door was boarded up and the front door was secured from the inside with a bar. Someone was inside, then. Laura, it must be Laura. Drake circled the house a second time, prowling like a wild animal. Would they be upstairs or down? Could he break into a ground-level room without alerting Dapple?
He backed off a few paces, glanced up at the heavily curtained windows of the second story. Surely that was a flicker of light from the window that faced the back—light from a candle, an electric torch, even Laura’s hair. That was too fanciful. He shook his head and forced himself to focus his attention on the fragment of what might be light. Yes. Definitely light. Someone was upstairs.
He moved to the side of the building, away from the street, away from the light, and brought his laser into play again. The wood of the covered windows gave off a faint scent of burning as the beam cut through, but there was no smoke, no flame. He removed the section of the board he had carved out and peered inside. This window seemed to overlook a half-landing between the basement and the ground floor. The smells of mold and dust made a peculiar mix. It was hard to see anything, and Drake had no light.
He pulled his head out, turned himself around and inserted his feet through the window, lowering himself silently to the rough stone floor of the stairwell. Inside, he paused a moment to let his eyes adjust to the dark. Feeling his way, he crept up the steps and into the ground-level story of the house, trying to remember what it had looked like by day. Stray snatches of light from the moon and the street lamps filtered in past the window boards and gave shadowy contours to the walls and door frames. The stairwell loomed ahead of him.
He had been so intent on finding his way through the house that he had not stopped to listen for voices, but suddenly they intruded on him from above. There was a heavy crash of glass, the thump of a body falling, and what may have been the sound of a foot stamped in rage.
“Tell me where it is, you whore, or I’ll kill you like I killed the others!” The first voice, definitely a man’s—an angry man’s.
“I told you where the money is,” came a second voice. Laura’s. Once more, Drake felt his heart stop and then begin pounding. Her words were muffled, hard to distinguish; was her head being crushed against the carpet or did she speak through battered lips? But she was alive, she was alive . . . “It is with Ava.”
There was another curse, another blow, and Drake used the sounds to cover his ascent up the first half of the stairway. Then he paused, waiting for the conversation to resume.
“Tell me, damn you! I’ll beat you to death.”
“Then you’ll never know where it is,” she said coolly.
Another thunder of punches. Drake shut his mind to what that violence meant, and used it to mask the sound of his own approach. He was five steps from the top landing now. One more exchange of pleasantries and he could be through the door at the end of the hall. But only if it was unlocked—sweet Ava, could he burst through and shoot Dapple all in one motion? No, no, he must proceed with more caution. He must move like a cat, all icy calculation and deadly intent.
Another furious que
stion, another unhelpful reply, and Drake gained the top of the stairs. He crept forward only as Dapple screamed or struck, and he paused to listen whenever Laura spoke. Her voice was fainter each time but completely without fear. He expected her to say, “Kill me, then,” which would be the end of it; but she did not. She did not.
He was before the door now, scarcely breathing. He examined the quality of the light seeping from around the close fit of the frame, trying to tell if a bolt or a chain created a denser shadow anywhere along the perimeter. It was impossible to determine. Slowly, moving by fractions of an inch, Drake put out a hand to grasp the doorknob, and with a painful slowness turned the tarnished gold ball. It slipped completely around, but the door did not give. There was a deadbolt on the other side, holding it in place.
Now Drake studied the construction of the door, running his hands silently over the old wood. Sturdily built, this house. The door was solid, a good two inches thick, and would not yield easily to a shoulder thrown against it. Drake could break it in eventually, no doubt, but not without giving his quarry a good five minutes’ warning, and that would not do.
He dialed the Hawken down, low charge on a razor-fine beam. This would have to be gauged with an extremely delicate accuracy, for he did not want the heat or the light of the laser to penetrate the door. Just the first inch or so of the wood, a long slim gouge from floor to ceiling that would splinter in two the first time a body was flung against it . . .
He drew one long straight line from the top of the door to the bottom, leaving a small trail of black and an almost imperceptible smell of burning wood in the wake of the beam. He checked the depth with his thumbnail; eighth of an inch. He traced the line a second time, and the faint odor of fire curled back at him. If they were burning candles inside, the smell would be unnoticed. Even if it was noticed, it was not strong enough to alarm Dapple quite yet . . .
A third time, Drake ran the beam of the laser down the narrow strip in the wood, then measured the depth of the groove with a splinter from the floor. Behind the door, the counterpoint of interrogation and violence went on, but he shut out the noise, ignored even the sounds that must be booted feet kicking at unprotected ribs. One more pass might be one too many, but if he stopped now he might be unable to break through on his first lunge. He sliced once more down the smoking black ribbon on the door, took two steps backward, and rammed himself through the solid wall of wood.
