by Dan Willis
“I think you’ll find that these men were killed with a blade, not a gun,” Alex said.
The cop smiled, showing a jagged row of yellow teeth.
“I don’t think the Captain will see it that way,” the policeman said. “He’s going to point the finger at the man standing over all these bodies.” His grin managed to get even wider. “I’ll make sergeant for bringing you in.”
He tossed Alex’s gun onto the kitchen table among the cards and cash, then pulled out a set of handcuffs.
“Put these on,” he growled, his expression letting Alex know that he would prefer it if Alex were to resist.
Letting the sigh through this time, Alex snapped the cuffs around his wrists.
“When you call this in,” he said, “tell them to alert Detective Danny Pak. He’s already looking for a knife killer.”
“Don’t tell me how to do my job,” the cop yelled, then motioned for Alex to move into the parlor with his gun.
As Alex sat on the dead man’s couch waiting for Danny or some other responsible policeman to show up and rescue him, his mind kept drifting back to the dying words of the man in the bedroom. He’d said a girl had done this. His mind was still foggy and he longed for another swig from the rejuvenator, but it was in the bedroom with his jacket.
Someone else had said something about a girl, he was sure of it, but for the life of him, Alex couldn’t remember who, or where he’d heard it. Sitting back on the couch, Alex closed his eyes and tried to focus his thoughts. Surely if he thought about it, the answer would come to him.
23
Johansson
Someone was yelling. Well, not really yelling, but speaking very loudly. It was making it hard for Alex to sleep.
“-Don’t care who you are, that’s my suspect and you’ll just have to wait your turn.”
Alex tried to pry his eyes open, but they seemed to be stuck shut. Through the fog that seemed wrapped around his brain, he recognized the voice. It belonged to the pug-nosed policeman. The one who had arrested him for the massacre at the little house. Where the girl had...had—
“Johansson,” he gasped, sitting up.
Immediately, his head started throbbing like he’d been coshed. He tried to grab the back of his neck but only succeeded in hitting himself in the face due to his hands still being cuffed together.
“Ow,” he muttered, finally managing to force his eyes open. For a moment he had no idea what he was seeing. He sat in a strange parlor with policemen standing everywhere. When he saw the sheet-covered body on the floor, it all came rushing back to him. He must have fallen asleep.
“Do you mind?” Alex said, focusing his barely working eyes on the pug-nosed policeman who stood talking to a man with his back to Alex. “How’s a fellow to get any sleep with all this yelling?”
The policeman’s face, which was already the color of steamed beets, shifted toward purple and he took a breath, most likely to continue yelling.
“That’s enough,” a familiar voice cut him off. “I don’t care what you or your captain want with Lockerby, I get him first and I get him right now.”
Alex recognized Agent Redhorn’s voice. He’d expected Danny, but it was quite likely that no one had told his friend about this yet.
“Agent Redhorn,” Alex said, not even trying to stand. “You do care.”
Redhorn turned, shooting Alex a stern look.
“About time you woke up,” he said. “Did this flatfoot brain you or something?”
Alex shook his head and shrugged.
“No,” he said. “I was just waiting for something interesting to happen. It was a long wait.”
Redhorn looked around at the body on the floor and the blood in the kitchen.
“You and I have different ideas of what’s interesting,” he said. “Get your things. Miss Kincaid wants a word.”
Alex held up his hands, showing the handcuffs.
“Keys,” Agent Redhorn demanded, turning back to the cop.
The pug-nosed cop set his jaw and stuck out his chest.
“I don’t care who you are or where you’re from,” he growled. “I ain’t turning over a suspect to anybody without authorization.”
“Who wants our suspect?” Danny said, stepping around the covered body as he entered. Alex breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t know how Redhorn had found him; as far as he knew sorcerers couldn’t trace people like one of his finding runes, so that ruled out Sorsha. However he’d managed it, he was clearly involved in a jurisdictional pissing match with the policeman. It was a contest Redhorn could win, but without Danny there to cut through posturing and the egos, it was likely Alex would be handcuffed for the rest of the night.
“Are you in charge here?” Redhorn said, shouldering his way past the officer.
Danny produced his gold detective shield and held it up.
“Detective Pak,” he said, keeping his voice calm but firm. “Now just who are you?”
Redhorn flashed his FBI badge.
“Now I’m taking that man with me and I’m leaving,” Redhorn said through clenched teeth as he jerked his thumb over his shoulder in Alex’s general direction. “If you still want him, I’ll bring him down to your office in the morning.”
Danny looked around Redhorn, and Alex gave him a big smile and a wave with his cuffed hand.
“Oh for the love of…” Danny muttered, rolling his eyes. “Unlock him, Wilkins,” he said to the cop.
Wilkins looked like they’d just canceled Christmas, New Years, and his birthday, but to his credit, he wiped the outraged expression off his face and stood straight.
“Yes, sir,” he said, then marched over to Alex and unlocked him.
“Thanks, officer,” Alex said, standing. He almost expected Wilkins to take a poke at him, but the short cop just stalked away, muttering.
“That’s better,” Redhorn said, motioning for Alex to join him. “I’ve already wasted too much time here; let’s go.”
“Just a minute,” Danny said, moving to intercept Alex. “I need a word with our suspect before you take him.”
Alex could see the muscles in Redhorn’s jaw tighten but before he could explode, Alex spoke up.
“My jacket is in the back bedroom and my pistol is on the kitchen table,” he said. “A Colt 1911, you can’t miss it. Why don’t you grab those while I talk to the Detective?”
“Fine,” the FBI man grumbled, then headed for the kitchen.
“What happened here?” Danny asked, glancing at the body on the floor. “Did you kill someone?”
“Not me,” Alex said. He quickly ran through what had happened, and what he guessed had happened before he arrived. Unlike with officer Wilkins, he didn’t leave anything out.
“He said it was a child?” Danny asked incredulously.
Alex could only shrug. He knew how it sounded.
“That would explain the footprint at The Philosopher’s Stone,” Danny continued. “It has to be the same killer. It also means that the disappearance of Charles Grier and the attack on you and Miss O’Neil are connected.”
“That’s what I figure,” Alex said.
“Anything else?”
Alex shook his head in frustration.
“I could swear I’m missing something, though,” he said.
Danny raised an eyebrow, expectantly, but said nothing. Alex tried to remember what he was thinking about when Redhorn’s yelling had pulled him from sleep, but nothing came.
“Okay, Lockerby,” Redhorn said, stepping over the pool of drying blood and back into the parlor. He carried Alex’s jacket and had removed the clip from the 1911. “Let’s go.”
“I’ll walk you out,” Danny said, as Redhorn passed Alex his coat and the clip, then handed Alex’s pistol to Danny.
“It hasn’t been fired recently,” Redhorn said. “But you should check it anyway.”
“I’ll get it back to you as soon as I can,” Danny told Alex as he escorted them to the lawn in front of the house. A half-dozen poli
ce cars were parked along the curb, including Danny’s green sedan. Sorsha’s sleek, black floater hovered over the grass at the edge of the lawn with Roger, her chauffeur, leaning against it, smoking.
“Make sure your people keep a close eye on Jessica and the doc,” Alex said over his shoulder as he followed Redhorn to the floater.
“I will,” Danny promised.
Redhorn didn’t say much during the short trip in the flying car, and Alex wasn’t in a talkative mood. He kept going over the crime scene and the words of the dying man. It still bothered him, but he simply couldn’t put his finger on why.
When the floater came to a stop and Alex got out, he found himself in front of the neat home of Dr. Leonard Burnham.
“What’s all this?” Alex asked. “Did you find something new?”
“That’s what you’re here for,” Redhorn said.
Alex followed him inside and found Karen Burnham sitting at the kitchen table with Sorsha and Agent Mendes. The former was wringing her hands nervously, while Sorsha drank tea from a china cup.
“Sorceress,” Alex said, acknowledging her as he entered.
“It’s about time,” she said, slipping a sidelong glance at Agent Redhorn, who moved to the kitchen and stood by the stove. Clearly she was in a mood. It must not have gone well with William Henderson, the Chinese Ambassador.
“How did things go with the Ambassador?” Alex asked with an absolutely straight face.
Sorsha glared at him, and then sipped from her steaming cup of tea.
“He has an airtight alibi,” she said after carefully replacing the cup on its saucer. “From the moment he landed in New York, he’s been a guest of the Governor.”
Alex shrugged at that.
“Doesn’t mean he didn’t have the fog machine stolen,” he said. “I’m sure he knows people.”
“He was convincing,” Sorsha said.
Alex gave her a penetrating look. Sorsha knew how to use illegal truth spells, and he knew from experience that she wasn’t above using them, but her face was an unreadable mask.
“What about his family?”
Sorsha shook her head.
“His wife doesn’t have the mind for this kind of game,” she said. “And their only son passed three years ago.”
“So why am I here?” Alex asked. “How did you even find me?”
Sorsha actually smiled at that, but said nothing. Alex worried if she put some kind of sorcerer’s mark on him that let her know where he was. He used enchanted pebbles or coins to track cheating husbands, so he assumed a sorcerer could do something like that. But Sorsha hadn’t come after him herself, she’d sent Agent Redhorn, and that meant that she didn’t just know the direction and distance to him, she’d known exactly where he was.
“You’re on my call list,” Alex guessed. He knew the police operator had a list of people to alert if certain names were mentioned in a police call. Both Danny and Lt. Callahan were on his list, and so, apparently, was Sorsha.
Her pale eyes slid up from her cup of tea to challenge him.
“I find that you are often nearby when trouble occurs,” she explained, with no trace of embarrassment or deception. “And as I told you when we first met, the FBI pays me to know things.”
“So what do you know that brings me here?” Alex asked.
There was the sound of someone on the stair and Sorsha’s gaze darted past Alex to the front room. Alex turned and found a tall, gaunt man with a sunken face and long, almost skeletal fingers helping Dr. Burnham down the stairs.
Sorsha rose and Karen rushed from the table to take her grandfather’s other hand.
“Thank you, dear,” Dr. Burnham said, giving her a smile. “But I’m all right, really.”
Karen beamed at the tall man.
“Thank you so much,” she said, tears springing to her eyes.
“He looks much better,” Alex muttered to Sorsha.
As Karen continued to help her grandfather to the kitchen table to sit, the tall man approached Sorsha.
“There was swelling in his brain,” he said in a soft voice. “I’ve reduced it as much as I can, but only time can heal the rest. There are certain alchemical curatives that might help, but they would have been more effective if administered right after Dr. Burnham sustained his injuries. I can give you the names of a few excellent doctors with alchemy knowledge.”
“I know one as well,” Alex interjected.
The tall man’s brown eyes shifted to Alex. At just over six feet, Alex was used to looking down at most people, but this man had him by at least six inches. He looked to be of middle years, with a pleasant face and dark, slicked-back hair. Alex hadn’t recognized him initially, but now he knew the man. His name was Malcom Henderson, one of the New York Six.
Alex had researched all the sorcerers who lived in the city, which turned out to be fairly easy, since the tabloids followed virtually everything they did. Henderson had been a surgeon when he came into his powers. He’d spent his time as one of the most powerful men on Earth learning to use those powers to enhance his former profession. To his credit, he’d become one of the most effective and sought-after doctors in the world. The downside of that was that his skills were unique to him. None of his knowledge or skill could be passed on since they also required his talent.
“You must be the detective,” he said with a slight smile. Clearly he’d been sizing up Alex while Alex had been doing the same. He held out his bony hand. “I hear good things about you from Andrew and Sorsha.”
Alex took the man’s hand and found it cold but strong.
“Alex Lockerby,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Henderson.” He was surprised how used to sorcerers he was becoming. Sorsha had been the first one he’d encountered, and she’d been just short of terrifying. Anyone with the kind of power sorcerers wielded should be respected in the same way as an unexploded bomb.
And yet you provoke her every chance you get, Alex reminded himself.
Maybe he wasn’t actually as smart as he thought he was.
“I must be going,” Henderson said, turning to Sorsha. “But I’ll look in on Dr. Burnham in a few days to check on his progress.”
“Thank you, Mal,” Sorsha said with a beaming smile. She stepped forward, and Henderson leaned down so she could kiss him on the cheek.
Straightening, Henderson took his hat from the credenza in the parlor and, putting it on his head, vanished from the room with a soft pop. Alex had been teleported several times now, and the thought still made him shudder.
“He actually likes traveling that way,” Sorsha said, reading his expression. “Now, to work.”
“If Dr. Burnham’s okay now, what do you need me for?” Alex asked.
Sorsha didn’t answer, but motioned for him to follow as she moved back to the kitchen table. Karen and Dr. Burnham were talking quietly while Agent Mendes sat drinking tea, politely pretending not to hear them.
“How are you feeling, Dr. Burnham?” Sorsha asked, sitting back down by her half-empty cup.
“Much better,” he said. His voice was much stronger than when Alex and Karen had found him at the soup kitchen. “I still don’t remember who attacked me, though,” he added.
Alex looked at Sorsha, but her attention was focused on Burnham.
“What about your formula,” she prodded. “For the artificial fog. How did you stop it from combusting when the power was turned off?”
Burnham thought about that for a long moment, then shook his head.
“I know I must have,” he said. “You say the machine is in a working state, and I never would have finished building it if I didn’t know how to control the reaction, but I’ll be darned if I can remember how I did it.”
Alex opened his mouth to speak, but Sorsha held up her hand.
“Would you have written it down?” she pressed.
Burnham nodded vigorously.
“Of course,” he said. “That’s the first rule of science — when you discover somethin
g, always write it down.”
“So it would be in your notebook,” Alex said, seeing where Sorsha was going with her questioning.
Burnham nodded.
“But you said that’s missing too?” he asked Sorsha.
“Unfortunately,” she said. “But now that Mr. Lockerby is here, we hope to be able to find it.”
“Right,” Alex said, pulling out a vault rune and his ornate key. He retrieved his kit and returned to the kitchen table.
“I’ll never get used to that,” Agent Redhorn said from the kitchen, where he stood leaning on the counter.
Alex ignored him and set out the equipment for his finding rune.
“Do you remember your notebooks, Dr. Burnham?” Alex asked as he worked. “I mean, can you see them in your mind?”
“Of course,” Burnham said. I kept my theorizing and my various attempts in the black ones and my discoveries were in the yellow one.”
“Good, then since the notebooks belong to you, I’m going to use you to find them. Give me your hand.”
Burnham put out his hand and Alex guided it on top of the brass compass. He folded up the finding rune and placed it in Burnham’s palm.
“This is going to burn,” he said, pointing to the flash paper, “but it will be so fast you’ll just feel a little heat. Whatever you do, don’t move your hand or stop touching the compass until I tell you.”
Burnham nodded and Alex squeezed the side of his lighter, operating the mechanism that flipped open the cap and struck the spark. The flash paper erupted just as he’d promised it would, and a moment later the pulsating orange rune hovered over Burnham’s hand.
Alex moved the doctor’s hand out of the way and watched the compass. Normally, the needle would spin in time with the rotating rune, but this time it just stayed where it was, obstinately pointing north.
“What’s wrong?” Agent Mendes said, reading the look on Alex’s face.
“It’s not working,” he responded. “The rune doesn’t have anything to grab on to.”
“What does that mean?” Redhorn asked.
“It could mean one of several things,” Alex said. “The notebooks could be too far away, maybe off Manhattan island. Water also blocks the magic, so if they’re across the river in Jersey or out to sea, that could make it impossible to trace them.”
