Water to Burn

by Katharine Kerr

  “Where’s Brian?” I said. “Ari would be glad to teach him, too.”

  “He says he doesn’t want to mess around with guns,” Michael said. “I can’t figure that out.”

  I could. Mentally, I saluted Brian as a fellow sane person.

  “When I drove up, you know?” Michael continued. “I saw some graffiti on your steps. A black circle thing, and then the Norteños tag.”

  “Norteños?” Ari said. “A street gang?”

  “Yeah. Theirs is the red one, Nor Fifteen, but they use the Roman number for the fifteen. I dunno what gang has the black circle, but you can bet that the Norteños wanted to tag over it.”

  “We’ll clean that off before we go,” Ari said to me. “I’m very glad the landlords painted the building the way they did.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “A real time and stress saver.”

  Ari packed his sports bag with the two pieces, wrapped in black cloth, of what I assumed was some kind of rifle, a couple of pairs of earmuffs, and two sets of goggles. The sight of the safety equipment soothed my nerves.

  I went downstairs with them to deal with the graffiti. Someone had spray-painted a big NORXV above the unbalanced Chaos symbol. A thrown ward had no effect on the red gang tag. While I waited for Ari and Michael to fetch the hose and rags, I examined the circle and its fringe of seven arrows more closely. I’d noticed the crisp edges and the smoothness of its paint before, but not the face that suddenly appeared in the center of the black circle. A white man, egg bald, with blue eyes in a narrow face stared out at me. He looked faintly familiar, but I was too surprised to place him.

  “Join us.”

  I heard his high, fluting voice as distinctly as if he were standing in front of me.

  “Join us,” he repeated. “You can’t fight us and win. Join us and receive the angel’s gifts.”

  I wrenched my gaze away and stepped back just as Ari and Michael returned.

  “Let me throw a couple of wards at this sucker,” I said.

  The first ward shattered with a spray of electric-blue glare; the second made the symbol hiss and writhe; the third killed it.

  “Did you see the thing move when I threw the second ward?” I said to Ari.

  “No. Did it?”

  “What about the face?”

  “Face? No, I didn’t.”

  “I didn’t see anything, either,” Michael said. “Except you waving your hand around.”

  “Okay, I guess the message was for my eyes only. While you’re gone, I’m going to report this to the Agency. I wonder if I’ve just heard from the man who talks to the Peacock Angel.”

  “Should we stay here?” Ari said.

  “No reason to. If they wanted to come see me, they wouldn’t be painting stuff on the walls.”

  Michael and Ari washed the mess off, then drove off to the firing range. I double-checked on the Internet to make sure I was remembering the Chaos magic symbol correctly. It indeed should have had eight arrows emerging from the circle instead of seven. There had been seven members in Belial’s coven, too. Connection or coincidence? I didn’t know.

  I filed a report on the talking graffito, then got down to work on other Agency business. I wasn’t expecting to hear from my handler till Monday at the earliest, but he surprised me. When I logged on to TranceWeb, I found good news waiting for me, a message from Y, stating that he would do his best to get the secret office at the State Department to produce some papers for Lisa/Sophie. They owed him several favors, he reckoned, for taking Ari off their hands. His contact at State still remembered Ari’s lack of manners and what he called “Ari’s infuriating arrogance.” Y promised he’d pursue the matter on Monday or as soon as his contact could accommodate a meeting.

  As for my suggestion about bringing Michael onboard to see if he could find other gates, Y counseled caution.

  “He’s young, and you feel responsible for him,” Y’s e-mail said. “Think about it very carefully before you act. I can’t say yes or no.”

  NumbersGrrl had yet to reply about the video I’d sent her. She had a life, I assumed, to live on weekends.

  That left Caleb and his possible role in Evers’ murder. The pressure on Sanchez had, in a sense, shoved the case into my jurisdiction, to investigate or drop in turn. My “to do” list was already too long to take on anything else, but murder is murder. No matter how unpleasant the victim, an unjust death upsets the Balance that I’m sworn to serve. I picked up my cell phone and called Caroline Burnside.

  Karo not only remembered me. She was glad to hear from me. No one had bothered to tell her that the police had ruled Bill Evers’ death a suicide.

  “Damn them damn them damn them!” she said. “I know that’s not true. Yeah, Bill saw that he’d gone too far with that Persian white shit. He also knew that he could get into programs and see doctors and get his life back. He could be really stubborn, but he wasn’t dumb. Someone killed him. I’m sure of it.”

  “You could be right,” I said. “That’s why I’m calling you. But if I’m going to take up the case, you’ve got to be honest with me.”

  I could feel the silence on the other end of the connection turn to fear. I waited.

  “About what?” Karo said.

  “Blackmail.”

  Karo gasped.

  “Was Bill putting a squeeze on some of his clients?” I said.

  “What? No, never!” Her relief sounded too deep to be feigned. “Sorry, I didn’t get what you meant at first.”

  “Was someone blackmailing him?”

  Again the gasp, and finally, “Yeah, or so he said. But it was too weird, and I don’t know if it was true, or if the smack was talking for him.”

  My hands began to itch, ready to reach out and grab the information.

  “You don’t have to worry anymore about protecting him, unfortunately,” I said. “What did he tell you?”

  “He was being blackmailed by a guy who knew about the coven and the drugs. You can imagine how well that news would have gone over with Bill’s clients.”

  “I sure can. How did this person find out about those things?”

  “He told Bill that Brother Belial himself had informed on him. But this guy didn’t want money from Bill. He wanted dirt, news he could use, y’know? Speaking of blackmail like we were. People tell their divorce lawyers some pretty hairy stuff about their exes.”

  “This begins to make sense,” I said.

  “It does?” Karo sounded honestly surprised. “I thought maybe Bill was hallucinating.”

  “Heroin doesn’t make people hallucinate. Why did you think that?”

  “Here’s the weird part. Please don’t hang up on me.” Karo paused for a giggle of pure anxiety. “Bill said this guy had occult powers. That’s what he called them, occult powers. He is a master, Bill told me, and Brother Belial’s his familiar.”

  “Did he ever tell you anything concrete about this guy? What he looked like, where he came from, his age, that kind of thing?”

  “No, and he never told me the guy’s name. Bill was pretty sure that the name the guy gave when he made his appointments was fake, anyway. But still, that’s why I wondered if the guy really existed.”

  “Did Bill give in to this person’s demands and supply him with material for blackmail?”

  “Bill told me no. Maybe he was telling the truth, but I dunno, junkies lie. Y’know?”

  “Yeah, I’m afraid I do. You wanted to believe him, but you couldn’t.”

  “If only he’d cleaned up.” Karo’s voice began to shake. “God, if only he had. I wanted him to go to the cops about this guy, but he wouldn’t because of the drugs.”

  It’s impossible to do an accurate SPP over the phone. I had to rely on ordinary clues, the sound of her voice, the way her mind jumped back and forth, my former impression of her. I decided that she was telling me the truth as she saw it.

  “I’m sorry he didn’t.” I put as much sympathy as I could into my voice. “If you can think of anything else
that might be relevant, call me.” I gave her my landline number. “Leave a message if I’m not answering.”

  “I will, yeah.” She paused for a long breath. “Do you think you can get whoever it was?”

  “I don’t know yet. One last thing. Don’t go anywhere near the ocean for a while. And be real careful if you go out at night.”

  “I haven’t been going out at night at all,” Karo said. “You mean I’m not just being paranoid?”

  “That’s exactly what I mean. And especially, stay away from the ocean.” I had a rational lie all ready. “I have reason to suspect that the killer’s stalking the coast. He may even be camping out on the beach at times.”

  “Oh, jeez! Okay. I won’t. Oh, crap!”

  I signed off, then wrote up the conversation for my files and sent a copy off to the Agency. A blackmailer, and he claimed Belial was his familiar—the probability of there being two men like that, even in the Bay Area with its bumper crop of would-be occultists, was low. When I remembered Caleb remarking that his resources were limited at the moment, the probability dropped to zero. With Evers gone, he lacked fresh manure to sell.

  Which raised the question, why would Caleb kill Evers, if Evers was his cash cow? Unless Evers was getting ready to do what Karo wanted and go to the police? I remembered him saying how much he wished he’d listened to his girlfriend. He might have been ready to take Karo’s advice—too late. I remembered my feeling that the murder had happened on a sudden impulse. If Evers and Caleb had been having that four o’clock drink together, Evers might have told Caleb that the game had ended. Might, maybe, possibly—I didn’t know, and it rubbed on my mind the way a stone in a shoe rubs a foot.

  By then, it was almost time for the boys, as I was thinking of them, to return. I went into the kitchen to put together some sandwiches. As soon as I opened the refrigerator door, I felt someone staring at me from behind. I turned around and looked out the window on the side wall. No Fog Face, no one at all hovered outside. The feeling vanished as fast as it had begun.

  I shrugged and went back to the counter where I had a loaf of French bread and the bread knife.

  “Remember the angel’s gifts,” a voice said from behind me. It sounded high and lilting, to the point where I wasn’t sure if it were a man or a woman speaking.

  I spun around: no one there. I wondered if I were having a simple IOI, because sometimes the “images,” that is, the intuitions I have, do materialize as sound, not sight. Still, this voice had presented itself to my mind as something completely outside of myself.

  “Belial?” I said. “Is that you?”

  I heard a quick laugh and a snort of scorn. “Belial?” the voice said. “Small fry. Calamari.”

  “Then who are you?”

  No answer, no nothing. I could feel no presence in the flat but my own. I shuddered all over, then went back to making the sandwiches, but I kept my big German steel cooking knife right at hand. When I heard Ari and Michael’s voices on the stairs, I felt like cheering in relief.

  Michael went straight to the bathroom, which gave Ari a moment to ask if everything had been all right during their absence.

  “I guess,” I said. “I heard someone talking to me, but I couldn’t see him or anything. That’s kind of common around here.”

  “Then why do you sound so worried about it?” Ari said.

  “Do I? Well, yeah, it was kind of creepy, but I didn’t get an ASTA or SAWM.”

  “Do you remember what I said about trusting your sodding talents too much?”

  I did, and he had a point. If Cryptic Creep, as I named him to myself, was hoping I’d join whatever group he belonged to, he posed no threat—yet. If I kept saying no, as I intended to do, the threat might move a whole lot closer. When Michael returned, I changed the subject. I didn’t want him worrying about something I couldn’t explain.

  The guys pitched into the sandwiches as if they were starving, though Michael talked almost as much as he ate. Guns, apparently, were his new love in life, though he did allow as how Sophie came first and guns, second. I listened politely to the details of how loud and smelly the guns were, though Michael didn’t use those particular terms. After they ate, we all went into the living room. Ari and I sat Michael down on the computer chair, while we sat on the couch and faced him across the coffee table.

  “Okay, bro,” I said. “Let’s discuss this crazy idea. I’ve heard from the Agency. They’re going to try to get Sophie her papers. Now we have to get Sophie over here to use them.”

  Michael started to smile, then got up. He walked over to the window and turned his back on us so fast that I realized he was crying—in sheer relief, an SPP told me. When Ari started to get up, I grabbed him by the shirttail and yanked him back down. Ari opened his mouth to protest, but when I pointed to my tear ducts, he got the message and stayed silent.

  First love, I thought to myself. It’s always the worst.

  With one last sniffle, Michael made a great show of wiping his eyes on the sleeve of his T-shirt, then turned back with a smile that amounted to rictus.

  “Sorry,” he said. “It uh must be uh tree pollen or something.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Your eyes are red. Allergies.”

  Michael glanced around, saw a box of tissues on the floor by my computer desk, and snagged a couple. He blew his nose before he sat back down. Ari, bless him, picked the conversational thread right up.

  “What’s this José going to think,” Ari said, “when you show up with a gunman?”

  “He’ll be real impressed, that’s all,” Michael said. “You’ll be, like, my wingman. In that world, it’ll mean I’m seriously somebody.”

  “I’m very glad,” Ari said, “that you don’t want to take up permanent residence over there.”

  “Yeah, it would suck.” Michael considered this for a moment. “Y’know, I was kind of afraid that maybe the BGs weren’t going to let me leave one of these days. That’s another reason why I want to get Sophie out of there.”

  “Why wouldn’t they let you leave?” I said. “That scheme of José’s?”

  “Yeah, whatever it is. Sophie can tell us once we get her here.”

  “I’m willing to go with you,” Ari said, “but can I? Nola has some share of your talents. I don’t.”

  “Crap.” Michael slumped a little on the chair. “Yeah, maybe you can’t.” He straightened back up. “Although, if Sophie can do it, you should be able to. I guess we’ll just have to try it and see.”

  “Michael Eamonn O’Grady!” I said. “Are you telling me she’s already been through once?”

  Michael turned bright red. “Just into Nanny’s old room. I mean, why go to all this trouble if she couldn’t make it across?”

  “Okay, you’re forgiven. Does she have talents?”

  “She doesn’t think she does, but she can see Or-Something.”

  “Once we get her here, we’ll find out more.” I glanced at Ari. “The question now is, when are we going to try this out?”

  “The sooner the better, I suppose,” Ari said.

  Michael was looking at me with those “you’re my second mom” begging eyes.

  “Yeah,” I said. “The sooner the better.”

  Which is why, at five o’clock the next morning, I drove Ari and myself over to Aunt Eileen’s house. Ari carried his sample case inside, where Michael, dressed in his best jeans and a white shirt with an actual collar, was waiting in the living room. I could smell coffee cake baking and hear the occasional noise of Aunt Eileen working in the kitchen.

  “Is Uncle Jim up yet?” I said.

  “No,” Michael said. “Bri’s still asleep, too. You can wait in the kitchen with Aunt Eileen if you want.”

  “Wash your mouth out with soap,” I said, and he grinned at me.

  We trooped down the hall to the door that led into Nanny Houlihan’s old sitting room, a storage area now that she’d gone to her heavenly reward. While Michael picked the padlock that Uncle Jim had put on the door,
Ari knelt down and opened one side of his sample case. He brought out the long thin bundle wrapped in the black cloth, then unwound the cloth to reveal two pieces of what I assumed was a gun.

  The barrel and the trigger holder—I don’t know the real name for it—looked like a silver robot arm. While the barrel was a solid tube, the bright red stuff around it had holes in it. Ari snapped this part onto a silver handle or stock or whatever you call those things at the end of a rifle. It also had holes in it.

  “Is that made out of Play-Doh?” I said.

  Ari rolled his eyes skyward. “It was constructed on the model of a biathlon rifle,” he said. “You know, the Olympic event. They make them with piercings to save weight, since you have to ski with them on your back. I had to have it custom built, of course.”

  “Why the of course?”

  “Biathlon rifles are only twenty-two caliber.” Ari spoke these words as if they explained something. “But they’re very high tech.”

  “I can see that much.”

  “Ari?” Michael said. “Were you on the Israeli biathlon team?”

  “There isn’t one.” Ari was putting bullets into the rifle as he talked. “Israel’s a bit short on snow.”

  Michael blushed scarlet and opened the door to the storeroom—and that gate to another world. I marveled all over again that the thing lay right to hand. Logical, I suppose, given what my family was, but improbable all the same. Yet deep in my mind something nagged at me, a thought trying to rise, pointing out that there was a damn good reason if only I could see it. At the moment the gate looked fairly ordinary, with a tidy row of cardboard cartons, stacked four deep, along one wall and an open box of old magazines in one corner.

  Or-Something materialized near the window and trotted over to sniff at Ari’s pant legs, not that Ari could see the little blue creature. Michael brought a plastic bag of salami out of his jeans pocket and took out a couple of slices before stuffing the bag back in. Or-Something rose up on its hind legs to beg. From the other pocket Mike took a note and a rubber band. The note went around the meat, and he tossed the entire thing, rubber band and all, to Or-Something. The creature caught it in yellow claws and gulped it down.