The Dresden Files Collection 7-12

by Jim Butcher

  “I’m telling you how it’s going to be, kid. So talk.”

  “And if I don’t?” he demanded.

  I shrugged. “If you don’t, maybe I’ll knock your block off.”

  “I’d like to see you try,” he said, more anger in his voice.

  “Suit yourself,” I said. “But we’re in sight of the cop at the entry desk. He probably won’t see who threw the first punch. You just got out on bail. You’ll go back, probably for assault, committed within two minutes of being freed. There isn’t a judge in town who would grant you bail again.”

  I saw him think about it furiously, which impressed me. A lot of men his age, when angry, wouldn’t bother with actual thought. Then he shook his head. “You’re bluffing. You’d be arrested too.”

  “Hell’s bells, kid,” I said. “When did you fall off the turnip truck? They’ll interview me. I’ll tell them you threw the first punch. Who do you think they’re going to believe? I’ll be out in an hour.”

  Nelson’s knuckles popped as he clenched his fists. He stared at me, and then at the building behind him.

  “Nelson,” Molly urged quietly. “He’s trying to help you.”

  “He’s got a hell of a way of showing it,” Nelson spat.

  “Just balancing the scales a bit,” I said, glancing at Molly. Then I sighed. Nelson was holding on to his pride. He didn’t want to back down in front of Molly.

  Insecurity, thy name is teenager.

  It wouldn’t kill me to help Nelson save face. “Come on, kid. Give me five minutes to talk to you and I’ll pay your fare back to wherever you’re heading. I’ll throw in some fast food.”

  Nelson’s stomach made a gurgling sound and he licked his lips, glancing aside at Molly. The wary focus slid out of his posture and he nodded, brushing his hand back through his hair. He let out a long exhale and said, “Sorry. Just…been a bad day.”

  “I had one of those once,” I said. “So talk. How’d you wind up in jail?”

  He shook his head. “I’m not sure what actually happened. I was in the bathroom—”

  I held up my hand, interrupting him with the gesture. Eat your heart out, Merlin. “What bathroom? Where?”

  “At the convention,” he said.

  “Convention?” I asked.

  “SplatterCon,” Molly offered. She waved a hand at her button and at Nelson’s shirt. “It’s a horror movie convention.”

  “There’s a convention for that?”

  “There’s a convention for everything,” Nelson said. “This one screens horror movies, invites in directors, special-effects guys, actors. Authors, too. There are discussion panels. Costume contests. Vendors. Fans show up to the convention to get together and meet the industry guests, that kind of thing.”

  “Uh-huh. You’re a fan, then?”

  “Staff,” he said. “I’m supposed to be in charge of security.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Get back to the bathroom.”

  “Right,” he said. “Well. I’d had a lot of coffee and potato chips and pretzels and stuff, so I was just sitting in there with the stall door closed.”

  “What happened?”

  “I heard someone come in,” Nelson said. “The door was really squeaky.” He licked his lips nervously. “And then he started screaming.”

  I arched an eyebrow. “Who?”

  “Clark Pell,” he said. “He owns the old movie theater next to the hotel. We rented it out for the weekend so we could play our favorites on the big screen. Nice old guy. Always supports the convention.”

  “Why was he screaming?”

  Nelson hesitated for a second, clearly uncomfortable. “He…you have to understand that I didn’t actually see anything.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “It sounded like a fight. Scuffling sounds. I heard him let out a noise, right? Like someone had startled him.” He shook his head. “That’s when he started screaming.”

  “What happened?”

  “I jumped up to help him, but…” His cheeks turned red. “You know. I was kind of in the middle of something. It took me a second to get out of the stall.”

  “And?”

  “And Mr. Pell was there,” he said. “He was unconscious and bleeding. Not real bad. But he looked like he’d taken a real pounding. Broken nose. Maybe his jaw, too. They took him to the hospital.”

  I frowned. “Could someone have slipped in or out?”

  “No,” Nelson said, and his voice was confident on that point. “That damned door all but screams every time it swings.”

  “Could someone have come in at the same time as Pell?” I asked.

  “Maybe,” he said. “On the same opening of the door. But—”

  “I know,” I said. “But they would have had to open the door to leave.” I rubbed at my chin. “Could someone have held the door open?”

  “The hall was crowded. You could hear the people when the door was open,” Nelson said. “And there was a cop standing right outside. He was the first one in, in fact.”

  I grunted. “And with no other obvious suspects, they blamed you.”

  Nelson nodded. “Yes.”

  I mused for a moment and then said, “What do you think happened?”

  He shook his head, several times, and very firmly. “I don’t know. Someone must have gotten in and out somehow. Maybe there’s an air vent or something.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Maybe that’s it.”

  Nelson checked his watch, and swallowed. “Oh, God, I’ve got to get to the airport. I’m supposed to meet Darby in thirty minutes and take him to the hotel.”

  “Darby?” I asked.

  “Darby Crane,” Molly supplied. “Producer and director of horror films. Guest of honor at SplatterCon.”

  “He do any work I might have seen?” I asked.

  Molly nodded. “Maybe. Did you ever see Harvest? The one with the Scarecrow?”

  “Uh,” I said, thinking. “Where it smashes through the wall of the convent and eats the nuns? And the librarian sets it on fire and it burns down the library and himself with it?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Heh,” I said. “Not bad. But I’ll take a Corman flick any day.”

  “Excuse me,” Nelson said, “but I really need to get moving.”

  As he spoke, the cab I’d called pulled up to the curb. I checked, and found my shadowy tail still outside, patient and motionless.

  Mouse let out another almost subaudible growl.

  My shadow wasn’t exactly going out of his way not to be noticed, which meant that he almost certainly wasn’t a hit man. A hired gun would do everything he could to stay invisible, preferably until several hours after I was cold and dead. Of course, he could be trying reverse psychology, I supposed. But that kind of circular reasoning could trigger a paranoia-gasm and drive me loopy fast.

  Odds were good he was just supposed to keep an eye on me, whoever he was. Better, then, to keep him in sight, rather than trying to shake him. I was happier knowing where he was than worrying about him being out of sight. I’d play it cool—give him a while to see if I could figure out what he was up to. I nodded to myself, and strode out to the curb, Mouse at my side.

  “Okay, kids,” I called over my shoulder. “Get in the cab.”

  Mouse and I took the backseat. Molly didn’t give Nelson a chance to choose. She got into the passenger seat in front, and boyfriend Nelson settled into the backseat beside me.

  “Which?” I asked him.

  “O’Hare.”

  I told the driver, and we took off for the airport. I watched my shadow in vague reflections in the windows. The car’s lights came on and followed us all the way out to O’Hare. We got Nelson there in time to meet his B-movie mogul, and he all but leapt from the car. Molly opened her door to follow him.

  “Wait,” I said. “Not you.”

  She shot me a glance over her shoulder, frowning. “What?”

  “Nelson’s out of jail and he’s talked to me about what happened, a
nd he’s in time to meet Darby Crane. I think I pretty much lived up to what I said I would do.”

  She frowned prettily. “Yes. So?”

  “So now it’s your turn. Close the door.”

  She shook her head. “Harry, don’t you see that he’s in some kind of trouble? And he doesn’t believe in…’’ She glanced at the cabby and back to me. “You know.”

  “Maybe he is,” I said. “Maybe not. I’m going to get over to the convention tonight and see if there’s anything supernatural about the assault on Mr. Pell. Right after we get done talking to your parents.”

  Molly blanched. “What?”

  “We had a deal,” I said. “And in my judgment, Molly, we need to go see them.”

  “But…” she sputtered. “It isn’t as though I need them to bail me out or anything.”

  “You should have thought about that before you made the deal,” I said.

  “I’m not going there,” she said, and folded her arms. “I don’t want to.”

  I felt cold stone flow into the features of my face, into the timbre of my voice. “Miss Carpenter. Is there any doubt in your mind—any at all—that I could take you there regardless of what you want to do?”

  The change in tone hit her hard. She blinked at me in surprise for a second, lips parted but empty of sound.

  “I’m taking you to see them,” I said. “Because it’s the smart thing to do. The legal thing to do. The right thing to do. You agreed to do it, and by the stars and stones, if you try to weasel out on me I will wrap you in duct tape, box you up, and send you UPS.”

  She stared at me in utter shock.

  “I’m not your mom or your dad, Molly. And these days I’m not a very nice person. You’ve already abused my friendship tonight, and diverted my attention from work that could have saved lives. People who really need my help might get hurt or die because of this stupid stunt.” I leaned closer, staring coldly, and she leaned away, declining to make eye contact. “Now buckle the fuck up.”

  She did.

  I gave the cabby the address and closed my eyes. I hadn’t seen Michael in…nearly two years. I regretted that. Of course, not seeing Michael meant not seeing Charity either, which I did not regret. And now I was going to drive up in a cab with their daughter. Charity was going to like that almost as much as I like cleaning up after Mouse on our walks. In her eyes, my mere presence near her daughter would make me guilty of uncounted (if imaginary) transgressions.

  The angelic sigil on my left palm burned and itched furiously. I poked at it through the leather glove, but it didn’t help. I’d have to keep the glove on. If Michael saw the sigil, or if he somehow sensed the shadow of Lasciel running around in my head, he might react in a manner similar to his wife’s—and that didn’t take into consideration a father’s desire to protect his…physically matured daughter from any would-be, ah, invaders.

  I predicted fireworks of one kind or another. Fun, fun, fun.

  Should I survive the conversation, I would then be off to a horror convention, where a supernatural assault might or might not have happened, with a mysterious stranger following me while an unknown would-be assassin ran around loose somewhere, probably practicing his offensive driving skills so that he could polish me off the next time he saw me.

  Let the good times roll.

  Chapter Ten

  I told the cabby to keep the meter running and headed for the Carpenters’ front door. Molly remained cool, distant, and untouchably silent all the way over the small lawn. She walked calmly up the steps to the porch. She faced the door calmly—and then broke out into a sweat the moment I rang the bell.

  Nice to know I wasn’t the only one. I wasn’t looking forward to speaking with Michael. As long as I kept the conversation brief and didn’t get too close to him, he might not sense the presence of the demon inside me. Things might work out.

  My already sore head twinged a little more.

  Beside me, Molly rolled her shoulders in a few jerky motions and pushed at her hair in fitful little gestures. She tugged at her well-tattered skirts, and grimaced at her boots. “Can you see if there’s any mud on them?”

  I paused to consider her for a second. Then I said, “You have two tattoos showing right now, and you probably used a fake ID to get them. Your piercings would set off any metal detector worth the name, and you’re featuring them in parts of your anatomy your parents wish you didn’t yet realize you had. You’re dressed like Frankenhooker, and your hair has been dyed colors I previously thought existed only in cotton candy.” I turned to face the door again. “I wouldn’t waste time worrying about a little mud on the boots.”

  In the corner of my eye, Molly swallowed nervously, staring at me until the door opened.

  “Molly!” shrieked a little girl’s voice. There was a blur of pink cotton pajamas, a happy squeal, and then Molly caught one of her little sisters in her arms in a mutual hug.

  “Hiya, hobbit,” Molly said, catching the girl by an ankle and dangling her in the air. This elicited screams of delight from the girl. Molly swung her upright again. “How have you been?”

  “Daniel is the boss kid now, but he isn’t as good as you,” the girl said. “He yells lots more. Why is your hair blue?”

  “Hey,” I said. “It’s pink, too.”

  The girl, a golden-haired moppet of six or seven, noticed me for the first time and promptly buried her face against Molly’s neck.

  “You remember Hope,” Molly said. “Say hello to Mister Dresden.”

  “My name is Hobbit!” the little girl declared boldly—then lowered her face into the curve of Molly’s neck and hid from me. Meanwhile, the house erupted with thudding feet and more shouts. Lights started flicking on upstairs, and the stairwell shuddered as brothers and sisters pounded down it and ran for the front door.

  Another pair of girls made it there first, both of them older than Hope. They both assaulted Molly with shrieks and flying hugs. “Bill,” the smaller of the pair greeted me, afterward. “You came back to visit.”

  “My name is Harry, actually,” I said. “And I remember you. Amanda, right?”

  “I’m Amanda,” she allowed cautiously. “But we already have a Harry. That’s why you’re Bill.”

  “And this is Alicia,” Molly said of the other, a child as gawky and skinny as Molly had been when I first met her. Her hair was darker than the others, trimmed short, and she wore black-rimmed glasses over a serious expression. “She’s the next oldest girl. You remember Mister Dresden, don’t you, Leech?”

  “Don’t call me Leech,” she said in the patient tone of someone who has said something a million times and plans on saying it a million times more. “Hello, sir,” she told me.

  “Alicia,” I said, nodding.

  Evidently the use of her actual name constituted a gesture of partisanship. She gave me a somewhat relieved and conspiratorial smile.

  A pair of boys showed up. The oldest might have been almost ready to take a driver’s test. The next was balanced precariously between grade school and pimples. Both had Michael’s dark hair and solid, sober expression. The younger boy almost threw himself at Molly upon seeing her, but restrained himself to a hello and a hug. The older boy only folded his arms and frowned.

  “My brother Matthew,” Molly said of the younger. I nodded at him.

  “Where have you been?” the oldest boy said. He stood there frowning at Molly for a moment.

  “Nice to see you too, Daniel,” she replied. “You know Mister Dresden.”

  He gave me a nod, said to Molly, “I’m not kidding. You just took off. Do you have any idea of how much it messed things up here?”

  Molly’s mouth firmed into a line. “You didn’t think I was going to just hang around forever did you?”

  “Is it Halloween wherever it is you live?” Daniel demanded. “Look at you. Mom is going to freak out.”

  Molly stepped forward and half tossed Hope into Daniel’s chest. “When does she do anything else? Shouldn’t these two be i
n bed?”

  Daniel grimaced as he caught Hope and said, “That’s what I was trying to do before someone interrupted bedtime.” He took Amanda’s hand, and over half-hearted protests took the two youngest girls back into the house.

  There was a creak from the upstairs of the house and Alicia thumped Matthew firmly with her elbow. The two vanished as heavy steps descended from the second floor.

  Michael Carpenter was almost as tall as me and packed a lot more muscle. He had the kind of face that told anyone who looked that he was a man of honesty and kindness who nonetheless could probably kick the crap out of you if you offered him violence. I wasn’t sure how he managed that. Something about the strength of his jawline, maybe, bespoke the steady power of both body and mind. But as for the kindness, that went all the way down to his soul. You could see it in the warmth of his grey eyes.

  He wore khaki pants and a light blue T-shirt. A hard-cased plastic cylinder, doubtless the one he used to transport his sword, hung from a strap over one shoulder. An overnight bag hung over the other, and his hair was damp from the shower. He came down the stairs at the pace of a man with places to be—until he looked up and saw Molly and me standing in the doorway.

  He froze in place, a smile of surprised delight illuminating his face as he saw Molly. The overnight bag thumped to the floor as he strode forward and crushed his oldest daughter to his chest in a hug.

  “Daddy,” she protested.

  “Hush,” he told her. “Let me hug you.”

  Her eyes flickered to the case still held against one shoulder, and her expression became tainted with a sudden worry. “When are you going?”

  “You just caught me,” he said. “I’m glad.”

  She hugged her father back, and closed her eyes. “It’s just a visit,” she said.

  He rose from the hug a moment later, studying her face, worry in his eyes. Then he nodded, smiled, and said, “I’m glad anyway.” He jerked his head back a moment later, as if the rest of her appearance had only then registered on him, and his eyes widened. “Margaret Katherine Amanda Carpenter,” he said, his voice hushed. “God’s blood, what have you done to your…” He looked her up and down, gentle dismay on his face. “…your…”