by Steven Brust
But shit. He’d done things.
What was that bit in The Avengers? Where Black Widow had said she had red on her ledger and wanted to remove it? That line came back to him now. Yeah, it sort of hit. But he knew he couldn’t remove the red. Maybe he could remove a little of it.
The thought kept coming back. Red on the ledger, just like in the movie. Whether magic, or something else, there were big things happening, and he didn’t owe anyone anything; he was free to splash around however he wanted, and it’d be really nice, if he was still alive in forty years, to think about having used his skills to do something where he could point to it and say, I made that different, and the different is better, and no fucking civilian can tell me it isn’t.
Okay, decision made. So, what was the first step? Well, the second step—he’d taken the first step almost by instinct, before even leaving the apartment, when he’d realized that Donovan was answering too many questions too easily, which meant either he, Matt, didn’t matter in the least, or Donovan was playing a game of some kind.
Matt stopped by a sprawling complex called Journal Square, surrounded by dollar stores and taxi stands, and planted himself on a bench, where he effortlessly fit in with the homeless who hovered nearby. No, this wasn’t San Diego, but some of the people were the same, and some of the neighborhoods he’d walked through had a familiar feel. A bit of walking and looking and it’d be pretty strange if he couldn’t identify someone who was carrying, and then he’d have a weapon, and maybe some money as well.
And after that, he’d see.
There was a game going on, and someone had made him a player; he wasn’t going to get out now.
* * *
I took United Flight 263, arriving in Chicago around a quarter to eight in the evening. I checked into the Hilton Chicago O’Hare Airport, where they had my reservation all set and paid for—Mysterious Charlie was always good on the details. I gave them a credit card for meals and incidentals and relaxed in my room watching Pacific Rim until sleep took me.
The next morning I had a good overpriced breakfast, then took a shuttle downtown. This was my first visit to Chicago, so I spent some time just looking around. It was cold after San Diego, but not too bad as long as I kept moving; I found it more pleasant than otherwise.
Kind of odd, isn’t it? I’m waiting for my chance to kill a complete stranger, and to kill him in an ugly and gruesome way, so I fill in the time by checking out local architecture and museums. How did I become this person? Well, put that way, it was simple: Some son of a bitch had destroyed my life, and he just didn’t give a shit. To him, I’d been another chance to climb a ladder, add zeroes to his bank account, have more people calling him sir. To him, that’s what mattered. Maybe there really is no satisfaction in revenge, but I can tell you one thing for sure: There’s no satisfaction in letting someone get away with ruining your life, either.
And the Museum of Science and Industry is as good as the hype, so there’s that.
Around one in the afternoon, I had a Belgian waffle at The Florentine. After lunch I walked around a little more. I stopped in a bookstore called After-Words thinking I’d pick up a book, but I couldn’t concentrate well enough to decide on one.
Eventually I made my way to the Willis Tower and spent some time on the Skydeck. That relaxed me a little. I’ve always liked heights. Maybe I should have been a mountain climber. Around four o’clock I went downstairs and crossed Franklin, taking a position near the parking garage. I didn’t expect him until five, but he might leave early, after all.
They aren’t kidding about the Chicago wind, by the way, but that was a good thing, because I didn’t get a second glance for having a scarf around my face or my hands in my pockets.
I fingered the polished carnelian and waited, reviewing things in my mind: I would hold the stone in my left hand, make a fist, and bring it to my shoulder three times as if doing a curl, and then, my eyes fixed on my target, I would say, Darin-lick leerin den jall. The sounds didn’t come naturally to me, so I’d practiced it a great deal—not holding the stone, of course. I felt pretty good about my ability to say it, but there was some nervousness, too—if I screwed it up, I might not have another chance. Charlie had explained that sometimes getting the command wrong would do nothing, but sometimes the power in the artifact would be drained away. I rehearsed the words silently.
At exactly 5:11, Benjamin Lundgren came out, walking almost directly toward me. He stopped and waited for the light. After a minute, it turned green.
* * *
Matt felt better with sixty dollars in his pocket, a Smith & Wesson M&P in his belt, and a heavier jacket with a backup weapon in it. He stopped at a convenience store and picked up a burner phone, also automatically checking out the store in case he wanted to come back and rob it later. No. Stop it. He went off to find a place to eat.
An hour later, fed and warm, he was sitting in the Coach House Diner, drinking coffee. He pulled out the new phone and punched in a number from memory—the only number he had memorized. It answered on the first ring, but there was only silence on the other end.
That was all right. He pulled out his earbuds, plugged them into the phone, put one in his ear, and waited.
* * *
Most of the artifacts were polished semi-precious stones: turquoise, of course, and diaspore. Also black amber, opal, and obsidian. There were a few items carved from glass, which made Peggy realize that glass was an area she needed to study more—off the top of her head, she had no idea what was used to color glass in thirteenth-century Turkey. She made a note to do more research.
But she had more immediate difficulties: She had to do battle with the translation. It was a dialect with which she was unfamiliar, and the writing was none too clear. The author was a mystic, sorcerer, and scholar named Izzet Ibn Karadag who, though clearly striving to be precise and meticulous, evidently saw no need to be consistent with either spelling or syntax, but did think it important to repeat his own name several times during the discourse, lest the reader forget to whom the debt was owed. He also changed the spelling of his name at least three times, which, Peggy supposed, was consistency of a sort.
She knew about the time-stop, and was able to determine that it had been set off by holding the stone loosely and then squeezing it rapidly three times. In addition, there was a device meant to freeze water, and another to part it. The rain of stones spell was set off by holding the stone in one hand while pumping the other up and down vigorously, though whether once or twice and whether it mattered which hand did which she couldn’t say. One stone was intended to dissolve a man’s skin slowly; she wasn’t able to determine how that one worked.
In all, there were forty-four artifacts in the missing cache. She could tell what thirteen of them did, and in six cases she was confident she knew how the artifact was triggered.
She shook her head. It wasn’t bad, but she could have done so much better if she’d had the original document and the additional notes from the anonymous sixteenth-century monk. Those, however, had been in the missing crate.
She organized what she had, and saved it. Then she stretched and stood up, feeling the pleased-yet-empty sensation that always accompanied finishing a task.
* * *
Donovan had three keys. He kept them in his pocket on a key chain with a miniature LED flashlight that he’d never used, but which he was sure was a good idea to have. One key was to the main door of the apartment building and the laundry room. The second opened his apartment door. The third was to an Abloy PL 362 padlock, which closed a closet door that was far better built than anything else in the apartment; it would take power tools and at least a couple of hours to break into it.
Donovan turned the key, removed the lock, opened the door. He scanned the devices inside: the knotnots, a doeskin bag of marbles, a Louisville Slugger, an elaborate cut-glass decanter (empty), a simple glass jug (full of what seemed to be blue sand), a set of keys to a 1955 Dodge that didn’t exist, a hammer, a b
lackjack, a can of spray paint (indigo), some disposable cigarette lighters with the child safety lock removed, a tiny plaster bust of Lincoln, and three pairs of work boots.
He removed a knotnot, the blackjack, the marbles, and a lighter, put them in his coat, and locked the door again, after making doubly sure the key was back in his pocket. Then he went back to his computer to call Susan and Marci, and told them there was work to do. Then he put on the Face and headed down to the laundry room.
* * *
As always when investigating, Donovan arrived first. As always when arriving, he looked around to make sure he hadn’t been seen, even though concealment was part of the spell that got him there. The place the slipwalk left him was dark and relatively secluded—a parking garage in the Chicago financial district; all was well. There being no crime scene to violate, which meant nothing he could learn before the others arrived, he just waited.
Marci arrived next. “Hey,” she said.
“I didn’t expect you so soon.”
“It was either come right away, or start figuring out which bills not to pay, and if I’d started that I’d be at it until midnight.”
“Gotten your first stipend yet?”
“No.”
“Should be soon. It won’t help much, but you know.”
“Yeah. Every little bit. Hey, tell me something?”
“Sure.”
“Why do you call Susan Hippie Chick?”
“Ever been to her place?
“No. Have you?”
“A couple of times.”
“Are you two a thing?”
Donovan laughed. “No, not hardly. The Foundation doesn’t like hookups between team members.”
“That would stop you?”
“Uh, no. But this life doesn’t make it easy. And she’s, I don’t know. She’s got her own things going on.”
“All right. So, anyway, you were saying?”
“What?”
“Why do you call her Hippie Chick?”
“Well, for starters, she lives in Portland.”
“And?”
“She roasts her own coffee beans.”
“That sounds more yuppie than hippie.”
“She orders them from somewhere called Peace Coffee. I mean, for real? Peace Coffee?”
“Is it good coffee?”
“I don’t know. I suppose. Yeah, come to think of it, it was pretty good coffee.”
“There you go, then.”
“Still. Peace Coffee. Goddamned hippie.”
“Speaking of,” said Marci as Susan faded into view.
“All right,” said Donovan. “Shield and all that, Marci. Let’s get to work.”
This time no one tried to kill them. As far as Donovan was concerned, this represented a significant improvement. Other than that, it was similar to the Manhattan investigation—a busy street near a large office building.
When Marci went into her thing, people in Chicago seemed a bit more uncomfortable than New Yorkers had—they hurried past and avoided looking at her, except for one middle-aged white woman with gold hoop earrings who stopped and asked Donovan if the girl was all right. He put on his charming face and said yes, she was attempting to reach the spirit of his mother, who had died in that spot many years before. The woman went on her way quickly.
Shortly after that, Marci opened her eyes and said, “Yes, there’s something. It’s going to be a while; you guys want to go somewhere warm?”
“Mar? Remember the part about people trying to kill us? Especially you?”
“Oh, right. Okay.”
“Can you estimate how long?”
“At least an hour, maybe more.”
“We’ll live.”
So they stayed where they were and got cold and ignored the people ignoring them. White people, in particular, either avoided looking at him standing next to Susan, or went out of their way to make eye contact and smile; when that happened, the Face would smile back. He was past letting shit like that bother him, but he never failed to notice. That was okay; noticing things was in his job description.
* * *
Peggy made a phone call, because she hated texting. She knew she must have woken him up, but there was no trace of sleepiness in his voice.
“This is Becker,” he said.
“This is Peggy Hanson from A and E.”
“Ms. Hanson. A pleasure to hear from you. How can I help Artifacts?”
“Mr. Becker, you put in a request a few days ago regarding time-stop.”
“Yes, I did, Ms. Hanson.”
“Then I believe I have some information for you. Shall I put it in the form of a memo and email it?”
There was a pause. “Ms. Hanson, it is after one in the morning.”
Her heart raced. “I’m sorry, Mr. Becker. I was told to call anytime, when it was done.”
“You are correct. I am merely wondering if you have been working all night.”
“Yes, sir. I found it this afternoon, and I’ve been putting the report together since then.”
“I am very impressed. Yes, please, Ms. Hanson. Send it at once. Email will be fine. Kindly make it a separate attachment, suitable for printing.”
“Very well, Mr. Becker.”
Peggy Hanson disconnected, took a deep, shuddering breath for no reason she was aware of, and turned to write the email.
* * *
Conscience? No, it wasn’t conscience. We’ve been over that already. But the fact is, I couldn’t stay for the whole show. He was on the ground, writhing, his head going back and forth, eyes squeezed shut, making the most horrible sounds, and I couldn’t watch anymore.
Yes, he was a son of a bitch. He’d done things far worse than what I was doing to him, and he was between me and Whittier, so he had to go. I was hard enough, determined enough, to do what I had to, but not to watch it happen.
I stumbled away and into a nearby pizza joint. I paid for coffee I didn’t drink; instead I drank water. I wanted a shot of bourbon so bad I could taste it on my tongue. But I was afraid of it. I hadn’t had a drop since the divorce, because I had the feeling that once I started I wouldn’t stop, and I had something to do first. After, I promised myself. After Paul Whittier was dead, I’d treat myself to a double shot of the best I could find, something top-shelf, maybe Basil Hayden’s if I could find a place that carried it. And then, if I just went down into a spiral like Kent and Billy had, well, that could happen. But not until I was done.
I squeezed my eyes shut, and instead of thinking about Ben Lundgren writhing on the ground, I thought about Paul Whittier, alive, holding that stupid pipe with the silver bands around it, looking at me, frightened, and then smirking.
“Who sent you?” he had asked, reaching into his coat pocket. I don’t know what he had in there, maybe a gun, more likely a phone. I didn’t wait, though. For once in my life, at a time when I had to do something instantly, I did the right thing: I flung my gun at his head and ran as fast as I could, out the door and down the two-lane Connecticut road. When I heard sirens I stepped off into the trees and slowed down a bit, snow crunching under my feet and leaving an obvious track, but I kept moving as fast as I could, sure, sure that any second there would be lights in my eyes and a voice over a bullhorn. I didn’t really believe I’d gotten away until the plane was in the air and I was on my way back to Denver, beat, so numb with failure that I couldn’t even formulate the question: How had he survived four .357 slugs to his head at point-blank range?
After a while, I was ready to drink the coffee, but it had gotten cold. I gave the waiter an apologetic smile when I asked for another. He smiled back, but also gave me the Wait, are you a bum? once-over. I guess I satisfied him, because he came back with the coffee. I ordered food—I don’t remember what—and drank the coffee. When the food came I didn’t eat any of it.
My brain shut itself down eventually, and that was good. I didn’t want to do anything to wake it up again, so I just stayed there. It was after nine when I finally pulled
myself up, left a big tip, paid, and went out to find a cab to take me back to my hotel.
* * *
When Marci was finally done with the investigation, Donovan decided that getting warm was more urgent than getting home, so they found a pizza place on Jackson. The others ordered food, but Donovan explained that if he was hungry he’d go next door to McDonald’s before polluting his body with anything a Chicagoan would call pizza. The others smiled indulgently, and Donovan’s stomach growled. He growled back, then changed his mind and ordered a sandwich. But not pizza.
It was a matter of pride.
Marci had tea; Susan had coffee. When the drinks had arrived, they all looked at one another a little uncomfortably. “So,” said Marci. “Um. How is everyone?”
Donovan smiled. “Now y’all tell me how smart I am.”
Two pairs of inquiring eyes turned his way.
“’Donovan,’ I says to myself, ‘we are liable to be in Chicago for as long as we were in Manhattan, but it’s even colder there, and them ancient legends say it’s got some kind of wind. So,’ I continued to myself, ‘when we’re done, we ain’t going to want to stand outside talking about it like we did in Manhattan, and we won’t have a nice warm place to hang out like we did in whatever-the-fuck Ohio.’ ‘Why, that’s a true fact, Donovan,’ I answered myself. ‘We’ll go to a nice restaurant where they have coffee and such. But then we’ll be surrounded by people, and even though none of the aforementioned people will be paying a rat’s whiskers’ worth of attention to us, we still won’t feel like gabbing away at our private business.’”
Susan saw where he was going, and said, “Yes, Donny, you’re very smart. What do you have?”
Donovan pulled out the BIC lighter and flicked it in all four directions. Abruptly, the noise of conversation around them diminished.
“Now y’all can tell me how smart I am.”
“Brilliant,” said Hippie Chick. “You have such amazing foresight, from now on I’ll call it fivesight.”
