by Simon Hawke
A murderer was on the loose in Santa Fe, a vicious serial killer whose victims were found horribly mutilated and drained of their life energies, their very souls sucked dry. This could only mean one thing. The killer was an adept, a necromancer. A wizard who killed to drain his victim's life energy and absorb it, like a vampire. The police had no idea what to do. This was way out of their league. But there was someone who could stop the killer, three someones, to be precise, who flew in from New York when they heard what was going down. And one of them was Merlin.
Merlin had taught Paulie everything he knew, but this wasn't quite the same Merlin that Paulie remembered. That Merlin had died in a struggle with the Dark Ones, but his spirit had survived, to possess a flaky kid from London by the name of Billy Slade. Then there was Kira, a sexy knockout from Lower Manhattan who had made her living as a thief until she found a greater calling, and Wyrdrune, a dropout student of the thaumaturgic arts who had the ability to shapechange into his alter ego, a cold and ruthless mercenary by the name of Modred, the immortal spirit of King Arthur's son.
From the three of them, Paulie and I learned that there was once another race of beings on this Earth, not unlike humans, with coppery-gold skin and bright red hair, and that they were magic users. It was from them that humans got their legends of immortal gods and demons, vampires and witches. They were called the Old Ones, and they used humans in their sacrificial rites, taking their life energies to empower their magic spells.
As the primitive humans started to evolve, many of the Old Ones came to feel that it was wrong to use them in this way, and they started to practice what became white magic, thaumaturgy, a way of taking only some of their life energy and allowing them to recuperate. But there were others, the Dark Ones, who would not give up the old sorcery of death. They were the necromancers, and the rift between them and the others led to war. In the end, the Dark Ones were defeated, and entombed forever in a hidden cavern deep beneath the earth, while the surviving Old Ones scattered and lived out the remainder of their lives pretending to be human, to avoid persecution by those who had once been their victims.
Over the years, they interbred with humans, until they no longer were immortal, but their abilities were genetically passed on, though they became diluted over time. Humans with abilities like extrasensory perception were people who were descended from the Old Ones, just like those who possessed the natural ability to study thaumaturgy and become adepts. Merlin, himself, had been a half-breed, whose father was an Old One, and when he brought back magic to the world, its power had awakened the imprisoned Dark Ones and they had broken free. And the killer loose upon our streets was one of them.
Paulie and I helped stop the vicious necromancer, and, as a reward, Merlin had cast a spell upon my turquoise eye before he left. He gave Betsy the ability to hurl bolts of thaumaturgic force, but this ability was limited by the strength of my own life force. If I cut loose with Betsy, it would take a while for me to get back enough strength to let 'er rip again, but that's because magic has its own laws of energy that cannot be violated. You won't hear me complaining. I've got something no other thaumagene will ever get. My sweet and trusty Betsy, my own version of Hammer's .45. Don't mess with me, Jack. My claw is quick.
After the necromancer was defeated, things settled down in Santa Fe. Paulie had been injured in that final confrontation, and for a while, he was blind. It was only temporary, and everybody thought he would recover. But it was more than just his vision that the necromancer had burned away. He had burned away a part of Paulie, and what was left was not enough to keep him going. He got his vision back eventually, but he just kept getting weaker. I stayed by him, and I watched him fade away, and it just tore my heart out, for Paulie was as close a friend as I had ever had, but there was nothing anyone could do. One day, he simply closed his eyes and never opened them again. And that was that. I was alone again. I'd been that way before, been alone most of my life, but it just wasn't the same. I missed the man. I missed him with a gnawing in my gut that made me want to take on the whole world and scratch its eyes out.
I left the house and took to the streets once more. I just couldn't go back there. It hurt too much. Every day, I'd go to visit Paulie's grave, and I'd sit there and have a conversation with him. I talked, and I hoped that, somewhere, he was listening. And then, one day, as I was laying on the grave a fresh rose I'd torn up out of some old lady's garden, I heard a voice behind me call out my name.
"Gomez? Catseye Gomez?"
I turned around with a snarl at this unwarranted intrusion on my time with my old friend. "Yeah. I'm Gomez. Who wants to know?"
"The name's Solo. Jay Solo. And Paul Ramirez was a friend of mine."
"Is that so? I never heard Paulie mention you."
I looked him over. Feisty-looking character, not too tall, broad in the chest, dark-haired, maybe in his fifties. Had a look about his face I recognized and liked at once. A tough and lived-in look. The look of a guy who's been around and seen a few things in his life that maybe weren't too pleasant, things that might've bothered him, but not enough to grind him down.
"Paulie?" he said, with a wry smile. "Somehow, I've never thought of him as Paulie. With us, it was always Solo and Ramirez." He shrugged. "It was a long time ago."
"What were you to Paulie?" I asked.
"A friend," he said, simply. "We knew each other back in Cambridge, Massachusetts, when he was studying with Merlin and I was going for my criminology degree. He used to date my sister. I'm afraid it didn't turn out too well. I liked him, you understand, liked him a lot, and I tried to warn him. My sister... well, let's just say it wasn't in the cards and leave it at that. He got pretty torn up about it. After we got out of school, we went our separate ways and kind of lost touch with each other. I don't guess he'd talk about those days too much."
"I see," I said. "Well, if you want some time with Paulie, it's okay with me. I'm about through here, anyway."
"It was you I came to see," said Solo.
"Me?"
"I've been looking for you ever since I got to town about a week ago."
"Yeah? Okay. You found me. So?"
Solo stared at me for a moment, then moistened his lips nervously and took a folded piece of paper from his pocket. "Paul wrote me a letter," he said. "It must have been.. .just before he died. I'd like to read it to you, if I may."
Something suddenly felt real tight inside me. "Yeah," I said. "Go ahead."
"Dear Solo," the man read. "I know it's been a lot of years, and a lot of water under the bridge. But there's one thing time has never changed, even if we haven't stayed in touch too well. I still consider you one of the closest friends I've ever had. I would have said the closest friend, but there's another friend who's just as close, someone who's like a brother to me, even if he isn't human."
I looked away and closed my eyes, feeling as if somebody'd grabbed my heart and started squeezing. Goddamn, Paulie....
"His name is Gomez," Solo continued, "Catseye Gomez, and he's a cat. A thaumagene." Solo glanced up from the letter. "He goes on here to tell me something about you, about how you two got together and what you're like and some of the things you've been through... anyway. ..."
He looked back down at the letter and continued reading. "The thing is, old friend, I'm dying. There's nothing to be done, and by the time you get this, I'll probably be gone. I've taken care of most things in my will, but there's one thing I'd like you to take care of for me, and it's the one and only thing I've ever really asked of you, and the last thing I will ever ask of you. Look after Gomez for me. Not that Catseye needs much looking after, he's a real independent sort. He's very much his own person... well, I tend to think of him as a person... and if he knew that I was writing this, he'd probably get angry and want no part of it. He's a tough old cat who grew up on the streets and knows his way around. He can take care of himself, believe me, but somehow, I just hate the thought of him being on his own, without a friend, back on the streets again a
fter I've gone. He's been a loyal and true friend, Solo, just as you have been, and in different ways, at different times, you two have been very important parts of my life. Neither you nor Gomez are exactly spring chickens anymore, but unless I miss my guess, I think the two of you will find you have a lot in common, and I'd like to do just one last thing before I go. I'd like very much to bring my two old friends together. In a way, it's like completing something, I suppose. I don't know how either of you will feel about the idea, and I'm not asking for anything like a firm commitment. I'm just asking you both to give it a try. One last favor for a dying man. I think you'll both find it hard to turn that down. I hope so. But I'm pretty sure you won't regret it. Do it for me. And think about me when I'm gone. Good-bye, old friend." Solo looked up from the letter. "Love, Paul."
I felt like I had a hairball the size of a Frisbee stuck in my throat. "Damn, Paulie...." I said.
"Well..." said Solo. "I've always been pretty much of a loner, myself, but if Paul Ramirez considers you a friend, then so do I. So what do you say, Gomez?"
What the hell was I supposed to say? Hell, I didn't even know the guy, and I wasn't in the market for any new best friends, but how do you turn down a dying man's request? Especially when it was the best friend you'd ever had?
"Like Paul said, Gomez, we're not talking about any firm commitments here. We're just talking about getting to know each other, and if it doesn't work out, we'll just part company with no hard feelings and I'll take you anywhere you want to go. It's up to you. What do you say?"
I sighed. "Well, what can I say? It's for Paulie. And if Paulie thought you were worth getting to know, then I guess that's good enough for me. But I do what I damned well please and I sure as hell ain't no pet."
"That goes without saying," Solo replied. "Like I said, no strings. We'll just spend some time talking about our old friend and see where, if anywhere, it goes from there. You call the shots."
"Sounds fair enough," I said. It was for Paulie. Besides, I was always a good judge of character, and there was something about this guy Solo that I liked from the beginning. "Okay. Where to?"
"I've got a rented car," he said, jerking his head back toward the lot. "We'll drop it off at the Albuquerque airport and catch the next plane back to Denver."
"Denver?" I said.
"Yeah, it's where I live," said Solo. "Don't worry, you get a round-trip anytime you want it."
"Denver?" I said again. I'd never even considered leaving Santa Fe. I'd never been anywhere else. I didn't know anything about Denver, except that it was in Colorado. I didn't even know what this guy Solo did for a living. "What do you do in Denver? You mentioned something about criminology?"
"I'm commissioner of police."
"A cop, eh?" I said. I couldn't help it. I thought about Mike Hammer and Pat Chambers, the police captain who'd been Hammer's closest friend. Ironic? Maybe. Fate? Who the hell knew.
"Yeah," said Solo. "Hope you haven't got anything against cops."
I smiled. "Aren't they supposed to be the good guys?"
"We're supposed to be," said Solo. "I like to think we try, anyway."
I nodded. "Yeah, well, all anyone can do it try. Denver, huh?"
"Yeah. Denver."
"What the hell. I've never been to Denver."
I glanced back toward the grave and thought, Paulie, I sure hope you know what you're doing. I said a silent goodbye and went with Solo to his car. We got in and he turned the key, activating the thaumaturgic battery. The rental hummed to quiet life and rose about two feet off the ground. Solo turned it around and we softly skimmed off toward Albuquerque. For a while, neither of us spoke. It felt a little awkward, I guess, and neither of us was really certain what to say. We were each doing a favor for a dead man, a man who'd meant a lot to us. What we'd mean to each other, if anything, remained to be seen.
Like I said before, life tends to throw you a curve every now and then. Most of the time, you can't really see it coming, but you roll with the punches and try your best to land on your feet. But then, I'm a cat, and cats always land on their feet. A low rumble of thunder echoed through the sky like a growl as we left the cemetery behind.
Denver, Colorado. A new town. New turf. Maybe a new beginning for an old trooper. Anyway, we'd soon find out.
Two
THE flight to Denver taught me a thing or two about perspective. I'd always thought of myself as a cat who's been around, but though I knew every street and alleyway in Santa Fe like the back of my paw, I learned that I never had any idea of just how much was out there that I didn't know. Oh, I'd read a book or two and watched TV with Paulie, but knowing there's a lot more out there beyond your city limits is not the same as actually seeing it for yourself. Especially from the sky. And I learned something else, as well. I hated flying.
If God had meant for me to fly, he would've given me wings, or at least arranged for the thaumageneticist who designed me to do it. I knew about airplanes, of course, I'm not a moron, but I'd never actually flown in one before and it gave me the willies. The planes they use now, for the most part, are still the same ones that were used back in the old days, except now they don't have jet engines anymore. If you were to go up in the cockpit, and nobody but the crew gets to do that, you'd see two pilot adepts and a navigator sitting up there, in a cockpit stripped of everything except the radio and navigation instruments. The two pilot adepts take turns flying the plane, literally holding it up in the sky through sheer force of will. Levitation and impulsion spells are among the least complicated of magical incantations, but there's a big difference between scooting a taxicab or bus a couple of feet above the ground and holding up a plane at twenty thousand feet. It takes a lot of effort, and the pilot adept has to concentrate like hell. It really wears them out, which is why there are always two per crew, and after every flight, it takes them a few days to recuperate and get their strength back. Airline pilots have to be at least fifth-level sorcerers, and they are among the highest-paid adepts. Much is made of how much safer flying is today than it was back in the old days, but that was little comfort to me.
The Bureau of Thaumaturgy, under the administration of the ITC, the International Thaumaturgical Commission, has certain rules that pertain to public transportation. It's all right for private and rental vehicles to be powered by thaumaturgic batteries, but trucks and public transportation vehicles can only be operated by certified adepts. It has to do with insurance, a concept that survived even the Collapse. Nevertheless, the fact that there were two pilots in the cockpit who unquestionably knew what they were doing did not make the flight any easier for me. Especially since the damned airline regulations required me to travel in a fucking catbox.
I had to give Solo credit, though. He sure as hell put up a fight about it. I didn't know what kind of experience he'd had with thaumagenes. Most people, if they didn't own one, have at least encountered thaumagenes, but I had no idea if Solo was a pet owner or not. He'd mentioned being a loner, though, so I'd kinda assumed he meant that literally. Nonetheless, perhaps I should've asked. I could see things getting a bit sticky if the police commissioner had an attack-trained dobra hanging around the house. In any case, he made one hell of a stink about their goddamned "policy," and he even made them bend a little. If they'd had their way, I would've been tranqed and stuck back in the cargo bay. Yeah. Good luck getting near me with a needle.
Even if they'd tried one of those cute little dart guns, I would've had a surprise in store for them with Betsy. Fortunately, that one never came up. Solo wound up buying another fare, and I got to ride with the regular passengers, but I had to stay inside that stupid wire cage. Solo was very apologetic about it, though, and made sure I had the window seat, which, quite frankly, I couldn've done without. He got the stewardess to put some pillows on the seat, so the box could sit higher and I could see out through the window. At first, I thought it might be interesting, but once we gained some altitude, I changed my mind. Yeah, it was interesting, all right, but down
right unnerving. I decided that when I'd had enough of Denver, Solo could damned well put me on the bus.
My first sight of Denver as the plane came in for a landing told me that it was going to be a very different scene from Santa Fe. For one thing, it was a hell of a lot bigger, sprawled out in a huge valley at the foothills of the Rockies. The tall buildings of the downtown area stuck out like a small island in a sea of business and residential structures that glowed like the embers of a dying campfire at sunset. The plane came in over the runway, only not on a descending approach. The runways had been laid out in lighted grids. The air-traffic controllers directed the pilot to the proper one and, once he was over it and had the okay to land, the plane simply descended in a gradual drop, like an elevator. There was a shuttle waiting to take us to the terminal, where we didn't have to wait for our luggage. Solo had only a small canyon and me, well, I travel light. I was just glad to be out of that damned box.
We took a cab to the downtown area, where Solo had an apartment in one of the luxury towers. On the way, he kept up a sort of running commentary, pointing things out and telling me about the town. I wasn't too impressed with my first sight of it.
Guess I was spoiled by Santa Fe. See, the folks in Santa Fe have always had a thing about preserving the special atmosphere and culture of their town. Development was a dirty word in Santa Fe, and there were strict regulations about such things as the height of buildings and the style of the structures within the city limits. In Denver, the people didn't seem to care that much about what happened to their town. The architecture was a garish mix of old and new, and the streets had no charm about them whatsoever. Neither did the drivers. Traffic was dense, and everybody fought for what little available lane space there was. Not much chance for grass to grow with so much traffic blocking out the sun above the vehicular causeways, and Denver, Solo said, suffered from chronic water shortages, so the scrubby short prairie grass we skimmed above looked decidedly anemic.
