Good Guys

by Steven Brust

  4

  LOCAL POLITICS

  State Senator Caren Wright was swimming laps naked. I wished she were wearing a suit. Yeah, I know, that’s stupid: If I’m going to take someone’s life, feeling shitty about invading her privacy is kind of mindless. But the fact is, I did.

  I made it happen as fast as I could. I remained behind the shrubs and pulled the smooth, polished, glimmering red and gold stone from my pocket. I wasn’t in direct sunlight, but it seemed to sparkle nevertheless—was that magic, or just a property of the stone? I don’t know. I’d never seen one like it. I held it in my palm, and extended my hand, fingers pointing toward the pool. I didn’t shout; I didn’t whisper. I just said, “Kahta dondurauma” or something like it, making sure I trilled the “r” as Charlie had taught me.

  The stone did nothing, but I heard a gasp, and then a scream. I moved out from the shrub and watched. When the spell was done, she was still alive, still thrashing about. Somehow it seemed as if she saw me, but the pleading look in her eyes has to have been my imagination. Fuck my imagination. I did it, and I did not—do not—regret it.

  Eventually she stopped moving, and I left the way I’d come.

  * * *

  They sat in a rented Toyota, Donovan at the wheel, Marci next to him, Hippie Chick in back. The scent of the ocean was unmistakable, maybe two hundred yards northwest of them, just past a close-packed pair of what Donovan supposed could be called houses, although “mansions” might be more accurate.

  “Jesus H,” said Donovan. “What would you guess is the square footage on that thing?”

  “Nine thousand feet?” said Susan. “Ten? Eleven?”

  “God. Who needs that much space?”

  “Well, Caren Wright doesn’t,” she said. “Not anymore.”

  “That’s cold,” said Marci.

  “Yeah,” said Donovan. “All right. Anyone have any ideas? We don’t have a lot of time—the PO-lice around here don’t like cars that are just stopped for no reason, especially at night.”

  “We haven’t looked at the scene yet,” said Marci. “We have no idea how to get there, much less what to do.”

  “That’s what I meant. Any ideas for getting into that place. There must be alarms. For all I know, there’s even a rent-a-cop. It’s not a public place. We need to figure out how we’re going to get in there without inviting the PO-lice to the party.”

  “That’s why you told us to wear black,” said Marci.

  “Well, that, and I was afraid Susan would show up in tie-dye.”

  Hippie Chick ignored that. “The pool is supposed to be outside, right? So we don’t have to actually break into the house.”

  “There’s that,” said Donovan. “But I wish I knew what we’re likely to find getting to the pool.”

  “Would you like an aerial view?” said Marci. “I can get you some pictures of the pool and the approach. It might help figure out where the alarms are, and if there’s a live guard.”

  “That’d be good,” said Donovan.

  Marci took out her cell phone and stared at it.

  After a couple of minutes, Donovan turned the key in the ignition and rolled the window down. At about the same time, there came several “clicks” from Marci’s cell as it made its camera sound.

  Marci silently handed the phone over to Donovan. “Sorry about the heat,” she said. “It’s a bit of distance to the grid line.” Donovan looked at her—she seemed a little haggard.

  “I need you in top form, just in case,” he said. “How long—”

  “Twenty minutes, maybe thirty.”

  “All right.”

  Donovan studied the pictures silently, then passed the phone to Susan. She also studied them, then passed the phone back to Marci, who laughed.

  “What?”

  “I hadn’t noticed before. There’s a porta-potty. They have their own porta-potty. Why—”

  “Construction,” said Donovan. “See the sheeting around the fence? Can’t let workmen into the house to pee, you know.”

  “Jesus,” said Marci. “For real?”

  “For real.”

  “I could get in,” said Susan. “I might be able to disable the alarms.”

  “If you can’t disable the alarms, can you avoid setting them off?”

  “I don’t know what the security system is, but I think so. We covered some of that in training.”

  “All right. We’ll wait here.”

  Donovan switched the dome light off, and Susan got out. She crossed the street, her pace unhurried, though with a grace that pushed the limits of what was natural.

  “We should probably slink down in the seats,” said Marci.

  “I know,” said Donovan. “Only I’m not going to do it.”

  “Um,” said Marci. Donovan glanced over; her eyes were closed and her face had the blankness of working. Donovan kept watching until she opened her eyes again.

  “That’s tight. I should have asked you to do that in the first place,” said Donovan.

  “It isn’t guaranteed. I suck at invisibility spells. This is like tinted windows. If they’re determined enough, they’ll see the car.”

  “Good enough,” he said. “Let’s hope no one has called about us yet, or we’ll need a whole new plan. How much more time—”

  “It was easy, shouldn’t add much to the refractory period.”

  “Never call it that again.”

  Marci seemed puzzled. “Never mind,” he said. “Anyway, it isn’t just nosy neighbors,” Donovan said. “We have to assume whoever tried to kill us before is watching us now, or watching the house, at any rate.”

  “I know.”

  “When Susan gets back, see if you can do that same spell like you put on the car, make it so we don’t attract so much attention, all right? Keep the neighbors from getting upset, and maybe if there’s some dumb fuck who wants to shoot us he’ll have a harder time spotting us.”

  “All right. I can do that.”

  “Can you tell if someone is watching us now?”

  “Not reliably. I can try.”

  “Try,” said Donovan. “It’ll give us something to do while we worry about Susan.”

  Once again, Donovan watched her face turn blank. After a moment, her face came alive again and she shook her head.

  “What? We’re not being watched? Or you can’t tell?”

  “I didn’t detect any hostile attention on the car. That’s all I can tell you.”

  “You could be more reassuring.”

  “I’ll work on that.”

  They waited.

  After nearly half an hour, his phone rang. He looked at the caller ID, then clicked answer. “Hey, Hippie Chick.”

  “Did you guys leave?”

  “What? We’re just where—oh yeah, Marci did a concealing spell. Just look hard.”

  A moment later the door opened and Susan got in. “Nice work, Mar,” she said. Then, “Okay, I’ve killed the alarms.”

  “All of them?”

  Susan looked at him in the mirror. “No. I thought it would be funny to leave a few on.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Shall we?”

  Donovan looked over at Marci and nodded. They got out of the car and trooped through the gate and around the back as if they belonged there. There was another gate there, into the pool area itself, surrounded by a fence high enough to block the neighbors’ view, though it would still be visible from the house. Susan opened the gate, and when nothing sounded, Donovan let his breath out.

  “This is where it was,” said Donovan. “In the pool. They found her at the bottom. She’d been dead for maybe a couple of hours.”

  “No chance she just drowned?” said Susan.

  Donovan shrugged, but Marci was already doing her thing, slowly walking around the pool, arms at her sides, palms out. Donovan watched her; Susan’s eyes kept sweeping the area—full of palm trees and carefully manicured shrubs—as if she expected to be shot at any second. The house, three stories of it, tow
ered over them; she kept watching it as well.

  So far, so good, thought Donovan.

  * * *

  It was almost like a faint ringing in the ears, or maybe a tingling in the fingertips. It was the confused warm blanket of barbiturates, the cold, sharp clarity of solving a mathematics problem. And it had a location, as clear as the direction of a strong breeze, as subtle as the pink haze of twilight. That way—toward the ocean. Perhaps fifty feet beyond the shoreline.

  She reached out for it, touched it easily even from that distance, and let it fill her. Then she opened the eyes that could never be closed and looked-listened-smelt-touched-tasted.

  Here is where it swirled, tasting green and flowing in quiet circles, spreading out to there, and there, and there, down down deeper into the slashing cutting never-stopping blossom of—what was that, chlorine? Yes, but no, and also I’m never going to swim in a chlorinated pool again. Deeper still, and there is motion and the green touch quiets it, quiets it more, the motion slows, slows, slows, and spreads—how long? Seconds, it takes seconds, and is over, and—no, this is the bad part, but let it happen, feel it, but don’t experience it. Distance and control. Observe, and reflect, and ultimately know.

  * * *

  Marci opened her eyes, and Donovan knew at once, but asked anyway: “You have it?”

  “Oh yes. Not a very pleasant way to go. She was in the pool when it froze solid.”

  “What, all of it? That’s—”

  “I don’t know if all of it. Probably not. But at least a solid layer on top.”

  Donovan shuddered. “Nasty.”

  “I’m trying not to picture it,” said Susan.

  “Marci, check the area for hostility again, please. If there isn’t any, we can just—”

  “We’re being watched,” she said.

  “Great,” said Donovan, and looked at Susan.

  “Can you get a location, Mar?”

  “Trying. In the meantime, I’ve put up a—”

  A bright spark occurred twelve inches from Marci’s head. She gasped.

  “Shield,” she finished needlessly.

  There was another spark, this one also directly in front of Marci. “Don’t take it personally,” said Donovan. Her eyes were frightened, but she held herself still. Good, he heard himself thinking. She’s going to do fine.

  There was a third spark, not far from the last one. Donovan had opened his mouth to make a remark about the grouping when Susan said, “Got it. Not in the house, in the shrubs,” as she sprinted off, clearing the wall like a gymnast working the pommel horse. She made no sound.

  “If it turns out to be the same guy,” said Donovan, “I’ll have to admit that Becker was right, and I’d hate that.”

  “There are worse fates,” said Marci.

  “No, there aren’t.”

  * * *

  Step one, don’t be stupid, Susan told herself. Stupid people get dead. You don’t know there is exactly one shooter; you don’t know the shooter has only mundane means; you don’t know if the shooter has planned for this. Don’t be stupid.

  Magic, you might almost say, is as magic does. What Susan did wasn’t magic. What Susan did was the product of between four and six hours of training six days a week for eleven years, and that didn’t count the acrobatics that had started when she was five. But she knew that the result of it all made it look like magic to those who hadn’t been through it, and she was honest enough with herself to admit that this delighted her. That is, when there was time for delight.

  Now there wasn’t time for feeling much of anything; going after someone who is armed without a solid visual doesn’t leave you much attention to spare for anything except eyes and ears.

  Her movements were deceptively smooth—deceptive because she was doing what Sensei called the snake-walk: The traditional bobbing and weaving was hidden behind a motion so graceful that it also concealed her speed.

  By the time she heard the report of the rifle, the bullet was well past her; it hadn’t even been close, and then she was on him. He put up more resistance than the guy in the office had. He swung the rifle at her; she stepped inside the swing and clipped his wrist and he dropped it. His reaction was quick—he let out a flat punch with the other hand; she deflected it and hit the nerve in his biceps. That was enough time for her to realize that he’d had training. When he tried to kick her knee she swept his supporting leg out and he went down. When he started to get up she snap-kicked his jaw—not enough to break it, but enough to make him reconsider standing.

  He used a bad word and started reaching inside his jacket.

  “Really?” she said.

  He stopped, staring at her. He spoke for the first time, his voice even. “Not really. What now?”

  “Take it out carefully, two fingers, and put it on the ground, then slide it over to me.”

  “Give me some reason to believe I’m going to get out of this any better if I do what you say.”

  “I’ll kill you if you don’t.”

  “I know that.”

  She studied him. He was a big guy, maybe a weight lifter. His head was shaved clean, and he had a mustache joined to a wisp of carefully trimmed beard on his chin, giving him a bit of the Anton LaVey look.

  “We don’t torture,” she said.

  He nodded slowly. “All right, I’ll buy it.”

  He took the pistol, a revolver, out as she’d said, and slid it over. She kicked it off to the side next to the rifle—a Remington Model 700 SPS Tactical bolt-action with a stock scope: a deer rifle. She said, “Now stand up slowly. If you fuck around, I’ll break both your knees. And then I’ll have to try to drag you, and that will piss me off enough that I’ll probably break your nose, your jaw, and a couple of ribs just out of spite.”

  “But you don’t torture.”

  “That isn’t torture; that’s just me getting annoyed.” She studied him a bit more. “And you know the difference. If you do what you’re told, you’ll probably walk away from this.”

  He grunted and stood up. He really was very big—tall and wide.

  “Hands laced together behind your neck, and stand still.” He complied wordlessly while she frisked him, finding a cell phone, keys, a wallet, a few dollars, and an ASEK survival knife. She let him keep the wallet and the money.

  “All right,” she said. “You can relax.”

  He gave Susan an evaluating look.

  “Just don’t,” she said. “It won’t turn out well for you. Let’s go this way; I want you to meet the people you were trying to kill.”

  He hesitated. Susan waited.

  “All right,” he said. Susan stepped aside, indicating that he should walk first. She took up a position four feet behind him. He was tense as he walked. Good.

  When they reached the poolside, she said, “Stop.” He did. Don and Marci faced the man. Susan walked around him and handed the knife, keys, and phone to Donovan.

  “Can we keep him subdued in the rental?” said Donovan.

  “I can take him to your place,” said Marci.

  “That thing you were talking about before? A slipwalk without the frills?”

  “Yeah, kinda. I can manage it, I think. I’ll meet you back at your apartment.”

  “You think?” said Donovan. “What if you can’t?”

  “I’ll get hold of you and we’ll figure something out.” She looked at the big man, then turned back to Donovan. “I can keep him under control.”

  Susan saw their prisoner cast an evaluating look at Marci; evidently, Donovan saw it as well. “Better show him,” he said. “It’ll save trouble later.”

  Marci nodded and reached a hand toward their prisoner. His eyes widened and he brought his hands to his throat as if unable to breathe.

  “I find your lack of faith disturbing,” said Marci. Then she smiled sheepishly at Donovan. “I’ve always wanted to do that,” and she released the man, who put his hands on his knees and took several deep breaths.

  Donovan shook his head. “St
ay with her, do what she says, and be nice, and she won’t hurt you.”

  The man cleared his throat. “Where—”

  “We’re just going to have a chat,” said Donovan.

  “I don’t—”

  “Then don’t. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Good idea,” said Susan.

  * * *

  Donovan dropped Susan off just short of where they’d appeared, near the Avis lot, and let her walk to the return point while he returned the car, and then met her at the return point, from where they slipwalked back to Donovan’s apartment in New Jersey. They emerged at the bottom of the stairway behind the dryer. Marci was there as promised, looking drained and exhausted. Their prisoner with her; he seemed nervous, but not about to become violent. The tricky part was getting from the laundry room back to Donovan’s apartment—but it was late and the one guy they ran into, Rob from 301, was much too drunk to be a problem.

  Once they were inside his apartment, Donovan sat the man down and pulled his wallet from his coat, found his driver’s license. “Matthew Castellani,” he said. “Tell me about yourself, Matthew. Do you go by ‘Matt’?”

  Matthew or Matt grunted, shifted, looked like he was about to stand up, glanced at Hippie Chick, and reconsidered.

  “Marci,” said Donovan. “Can you secure him?”

  Marci walked up to him. “Don’t bite, now,” she said, and ran a finger diagonally over Matthew or Matt’s chest, then around his back, outside his arms, and finished with his legs. She stepped back and nodded.

  “What the fuck?” Matt or Matthew’s eyes were very wide.

  “Matt, or Matthew?” Donovan asked again.

  “I—Matt.”

  “Okay, Matt. I’m Donovan; this is Marci. You’ve already met Susan.”

  “How do you do,” said Susan.

  Matt struggled against the invisible bonds. “What did you do to me?”

  “No, no. I’ll do the asking. I’m the DJ; you’re the rapper. What were you paid to kill us?”

  Matt glared.

  “Look,” said Donovan. “There isn’t a lot of point in this, is there? I mean, the whole resisting thing. We’ve got you cold. We can make you disappear. Or worse. But what’s the point? Who are you protecting? He paid you to shoot us. Did he pay you for loyalty, too? Did he even bother telling you not to talk? Is it someone with any loyalty to you? If the PO-lice had caught you, would he have provided a lawyer? Is it someone you’re more afraid of than us? Is it—”