"Can you trace her phone? She—"
"We found it in a bunch of weeds off I-25, between the two highways. Unless the kidnapper has a helluva throw, they're heading north."
"They were," Grace confirmed. "That much I could tell. And they'd stopped to make the call."
"You could tell that from the spell?"
"The lack of road noise. I have a tracer spell going now."
"What about the others?" Charlie asked. "Elaine at the state building? Joseph Whitney at Whitney, Whitney, and Ames?"
"We've arranged for them to have police protection. We took care of your friend, Dave, too. They're safe. Let’s concentrate on Rhoda."
"Heather," Charlie muttered. "Her real name's Heather."
"We'll get her back to you," Calloway said, pulling his chair closer to Charlie's. He set a hand on his knee and looked at him until Charlie met his eyes. "The next time the kidnapper calls, the FBI will trace it."
Charlie grunted.
We fell silent, all eyes on the phone.
After a moment, Calloway looked around our lair, taking in the second level constructed with two-by-fours and paneling; the nest of pillows, memory foam pads and blankets that made my bed; the industrial vents that hung under the rusting steel roof; the wooden double doors that led to the areas that still housed boxes of junk from the previous owner. "Interesting place."
"It's home," Grace replied.
"Sorry to hear about the roof." He glanced at the low cart I used to hold my computer.
"Nice set-up."
I sighed. "We can discuss the case here, you know."
Calloway gave the roof a doubtful look. "We're not in a secure facility."
"So don't give a Power Point briefing. There's nothing classified about what we saw. I don't think we're dealing with the same set of guys. The M.O.s are too different."
Grace added, "Or maybe two portals in one day were too much. Our demigod's weakened or used up his or her reserves. I prefer that idea. Gene, the building may not look like much, but it's been magically reinforced. Rain gets in, but secrets don't get out."
Calloway spread his hands. "Regulations. But you are right. The police are already blocking the highways, and we're checking the airports, plus the TV is blasting the news.
Apparently, their producer's second call was to the press. At least he doesn't know why she was kidnapped."
Charlie groaned. "How can I give them what they want? I don't even know what it is!" He turned over his bottle and finished it in a series of long gulps. He spat out the last one as his phone started to play Rhoda's latest hit. He grabbed the phone and choked out, "Heather?" Still, he did remember the tap code Grace taught him. Calloway went into our office to make a call on his phone.
"Well, you finally listened to your messages?" I heard the voice on the other end sneer.
"I want to speak to Heather!"
A brief shuffling; then, "Charlie! Charlie, I'm in a—" Her sentence ended in a shriek.
"Listen, if you harm one hair on her head, you bloody bastard—"
"Sticks and stones—"
"If that's what it takes."
"Tsk, tsk, Herald Wilmot. How very unbecoming of someone of your stature. But to be honest, I have no intention of hurting your beloved. I'm a big fan, actually. I do hope I can coax her out of an autograph. In the meantime, you have information I want."
"No, I don't," Charlie replied. He didn't have to fake the desperation in his voice. "I'm just the courier. I didn't even know I was carrying anything—"
Laughter. "Quite droll, Mr. Wilmot. As a matter of a fact, I believe you. Your duke's twisted humor is well known even here. I also know he fancies your pretty little girlfriend. You have two hours—"
"Two?" Charlie burst out. "To convince Galen of anything? Better make it twenty-four if you want this precious information of yours."
A pause during which I could hear Charlie’s heart pounding; then: "You'd bargain with your true love's life?"
"If it means having a real chance of succeeding, bloody hell, yes! Otherwise, just tell me where you are, so I can go die with her."
There was silence. Then our kidnapper laughed again. Barrel of fun, this one. "Seven."
"Fifteen."
"You try my patience. Nine."
"Twelve. He doesn't trust computers or phones. I'll have to do all of this in person. No matter how much he fancies my Heather, he won't see me privately until after he holds court. I can bribe him with take-out from the Mundane, but that's already putting me late into the evening. He'll have to keep his staff up through the night rebuilding the information. You know as well as I that the only complete copy would have been in my pouch, and if you don't already have it, it's gone. Then, I have to personally carry it across the Gap—"
"You'd best thank the God you love so much that I understand the challenges of logistics.
You have your twelve hours. Then I expect good news for me, or it will be bad news for us both.
I really am quite a fan, you know." He hung up.
Charlie stared at the phone a moment then crumpled. Grace reached over and took the faePhone from his hands. "Sorry 'bout the cussing, Sister," he muttered. His hands shook. Grace took them in her own for a moment before slipping away to her workshop. Soon a kaleidoscope of colors flowed from the windows and danced along our second level.
Calloway strode in triumphant. "We have a trace!"
"And only twelve hours," Charlie grumbled.
"Ten more than we would have, thanks to you. That took some cojones. Let's make the best use of it. Vern, you and Grace pack what you need for a couple nights' work. Charlie, head back to the Gap."
Charlie leapt to his feet. "Are you out of your mind? I'm going with you! My beloved's life—"
"Is riding on their goodwill. If they don't see you making an effort to talk the Duke out of the information they want, they'll suspect something. Trust me. They'll have someone watching the Gap to make sure you go through. You want to give them an excuse to hurt her?"
Charlie's jaw worked, but he said nothing.
"A cab is coming to get you. One of our men is driving it. He'll give you a fake device like the one they're looking for, and then take you to your car. Go to the Duke's castle. Give your report. Make it look good and return when it’s time for them to call again." Calloway took in Charlie's look and grasped him by the shoulders. His voice gentled. "The more time you can buy for us, the better it will be for Heather. Understand?"
Herald Wilmot nodded, once, hard. But I knew Charlie.
"So where are we going?" I asked.
"Airport. How far can you fly?"
"In this country? Without causing a panic? LagosLines has a new airship: Skyhopper. We know the pilot. Bet you can get a flight in an hour if we grease the wheels. Where to?"
Now it was Calloway's turn to chew his cheek. "We'll handle that. We'll pick a spot in the general direction. We can arrange flight plan corrections once we're in the air. Will he really need an hour?"
"We need an hour. The farther from the Gap we travel, the weaker our connection to magic is. That's why you don’t see a lot of Magicals or mages outside Los Lagos, even a holy mage such as Grace. However, we can bring a stockpile of magic." I reached into one of my vest pockets and pulled out a small collection of medallions with saints inscribed on them. Grasping them between my claws I laid them one by one on his open palm. "St. Michael the Archangel for defense. Scapular for protection. St. Sebastian for healing of wounds. St. Zita for...opening doors, you could say." Because I couldn't say "picking locks," after all. I handed one to Charlie.
"This is Grace's latest experiment, St. Kozma, patron of actors."
Calloway pushed the small medals around with his finger, picked one up, and looked at the face of the saint and the inscription on the back. "Is that the spell?" he asked.
"No, just a prayer. But once the spell is set, prayers can recharge them, to a point. Kind of like the first rechargeable batteries. Over time, they didn't hold the c
harge."
"Yeah, my laptop is like that. So Grace needs to charge some up?"
"Plus make some new ones. If we're dealing with a demigod, anyone who goes in with us needs protection, too. It isn't foolproof, but it's better—way better—than nothing. Who's going with us?"
"Just Rak. He knows the Northwestern and northern Midwest states." Calloway poured the icons back into my waiting paw and then looked up at our walls as if noticing them for the first time. The lights flared; then a single ray began a slow circle, strobing around the room, pulsing. "Is that magic?"
"Mm-hm. The outward sign of it, anyway. It doesn't always happen like that."
Calloway didn't answer but continued to stare, his lips parted in wonder. I didn't blame him. I've seen a lot of amazing sites since the beginning of time, but there was something about Grace when magic flowed through her. "You should hear her sing," I commented.
The light settled in a direction roughly north-northwest and faded. A moment later, Grace came out. She handed the phone back to Charlie as a cab horn blared outside. Charlie hesitated, looking from Calloway to me. I nodded my head encouragingly. We both knew what he had to do. He stormed out the door without looking back. The screen door slammed behind him.
Calloway let out the breath he was holding. "All right then. Anything I can do to help you get ready?"
Was he being polite, or politely trying to hurry us? "Get the Skyhopper. I'll call my contact now, but you need to make the rest happen. We'll meet Rak there in an hour."
Chapter Five: Strangers on an Airship
Grace pulled us up to the private entrance of the LagosLines Airfield. We'd packed a bag with some working clothes for Grace and my riding harness and loaded ourselves down for a serious STUC, with magical items for every occasion from stealth to escape, including some passive protections for the entire team. She also bespelled four more scapulars; whoever found Heather would get one around her neck first thing. My lockpick tools and our earpieces and mikes finished the ensemble. On the way to the airport, we made a side trip where I called in a few favors for a little unexpected assistance. We should have been ready for anything, yet I couldn't help feeling we'd forgotten something.
Walking along the tarmac toward the airship, I realized what was bothering me.
"Why didn't McGrue call us? Rhoda Dakota, star and our friend, kidnapped off the set we wouldn't let her on. She must know we're all over it, but it's been hours, and she never called to nag us for details—"
"Maybe she's given up," Grace replied.
"McGrue?" I laughed. "If nothing else, she'd call to gloat about her 'Kitty senses.'"
"After what you said to her?"
"I tried to warn her!"
"You called her irrational, among other things. Do you really think it's so unusual someone would not want to talk to you—no, to listen to your abuse—for once?"
My jaw dropped. "Whose side are you on?"
She just glared at me and strode ahead. Yeah, it was a stupid question. She was on God's side, the side of right and love. I, apparently, had crossed the line. But Kitty had, too. Did that mean we were on the same side? Not a pleasant thought.
Why hadn't that annoying human called? I actually considered calling her to find out; then a myriad of reactions flashed in my mind, from her victorious laugh to her drilling me for information, and I pushed the thought aside. I hurried after Grace, who'd met up with Rakness at the foot of the gangplank to the airship. He was sporting a beard—neatly trimmed but long, with shots of gray through it that matched the sidewalls in his hair. His eyes were a new color, too.
Didn't know contacts came in icy blue.
Skyhopper was the hip little sister to Cloudskater: smaller and leaner, she also lacked the gondola, sporting instead windows that shone along the bottom half of her hull. The tail held an engine almost as large as Cloudskater's though, and the curve and angle of the wings whispered
"speed." I knew that inside four compartments of various sizes and compositions could hold thirty humanoids, a dozen large Magicals with special needs like their own water tanks, or about two thousand pixies, but I didn't think we needed that many.
At the top of the gangplank with the flight attendant waited Sam Nix, former First Officer and co-pilot of Cloudskater, now pilot of Skyhopper. We must have caught the crew by surprise.
Instead of wearing his WWII-style bomber jacket and flyboy scarf with the LagosLines insignia, he had on a pale blue polo shirt with the logo embroidered over the pocket and navy slacks. The cocky smile, of course, was there as always, as was the attitude.
"Tell me again why I want to go to Seattle?" he called out as we walked aboard. Guess that was the official destination.
"Great fisherman's market there, I hear," I replied. "We'll probably make a side trip or two. You'd have to ask this guy," I said, pointing to Rakness with my tail. "Congrats on the promotion, by the way. Sam, meet—"
"We met," Nix said shortly. His eyes narrowed. "Randy Stapleton, reporter for the Denver Times. I knew you and Grace were doing liaison work with the press, but I thought it was all Faerie. Did you know he brought his own parachute?"
Really? Wonder what he was expecting.
Rak chuckled. "They're here to give me the Faerie opinion of the ship. Vern being a large creature and a Magical, my editor thought it was a good angle. And don't take the parachute personally. Nature of my business to be prepared."
"Why? So you can jump if we don't like the direction of your interview?" Nix turned his glare to me. "I'm not taking a bullet for a reporter."
I shrugged. "Me, neither."
Rak laughed; seemed his Stapleton character did a lot of that. "Now why do I sense a story behind that statement? Clarisse, you lovely creature, are you going to show us to our cabins?" He slid his arm around the flight attendant's waist and steered her toward the interior of the ship. She let him. She even giggled when he whispered, sotto voce, "You'll let me interview you, an exposé perhaps?"
Sam's jaw dropped. Grace did a sign of the cross. Clarisse and "Randy Stapleton, Reporter" walked on, oblivious and laughing. As we followed in their wake, I did some quick calculations. How old was this guy, really? Could Coyote have fathered children here? There's a disturbing thought.
Rak's jovial attitude dropped as soon as we entered the cabin, and he saw Charlie wearing down a path in the carpet between the benches with his pacing. The Herald had changed from his attention-grabbing garb into a dark T-shirt and black jeans. I'd hardly seen him in civilian attire, except in publicity photos with Rhoda Dakota, and even then, he tended to wear Faerie dress. I noticed the tight jeans and wondered if that was because he was used to tights, or if Heather had influenced his fashion choices. A Herald's duty is to protect the secrets they carry, meaning they spend a lot of their day running or practicing dueling (and in Charlie's case, target practice with a Glock 26). So I expected the muscles in the shoulders and legs but the six-pack belly? That was for Heather. He'd once told me he wouldn't let some "boy band crooner" steal her away. Now that some potential terrorist who was a "big fan" had, he planned to put his skills to use, I'm sure.
Rak recovered fast from his surprise and kissed Clarisse's hand before she left. Once her and Sam's footsteps had receded down the hallway, however, he burst out, "What are you doing here? Calloway directed you to—"
"Calloway is a bloody fool! We both know neither your government nor mine will give secrets to a kidnapper. Did he really think I'd try?"
"The point," Rakness snarled coldly, "was to make them believe it, old chap."
"I realize that, old chap. A covered carriage with my cousin Philip met me at the Faerie side of the gate. A change of clothes, a little magic, and he's taking my place at the palace while I'm here."
I grinned. I knew he'd figure out what to do with St. Kosmo. I wandered over to the large padded area, circled around a couple of times—yeah, dragons do that sometimes—then settled down. "A Faerie suitor rescuing his damsel in distress? Don't figh
t the cliché, Reporter Randy," I told him.
Surprisingly, he dropped it. As he took his seat, he said, "I do write for the Times as Randy Stapleton." He stretched and placed his hands behind his head, but it didn't hide the fact that he'd buckled himself in tightly. "So, is there some kind of standard safety briefing?" he asked with forced casualness.
Just then the lights dimmed, and the inset screens on either wall came on. A smiling steward—or at least someone who played one on TV—began describing the many wonderful features of the DS-9 airship, Skyhopper. "Smaller and lighter than the workhorses like Cloudskater, the Skyhopper is the corsair of the LagosLines Fleet—fast and luxurious, perfect for businesses seeking an exclusive and fun way to reach your next offsite meeting."
"'Lighter'?" Rak whispered.
Steward Smiley seemed to have heard him. "But don't worry! We haven't scrimped on safety!" He listed the safety features—including iron-threaded puncture-proof air bags for the helium. Guess they learned from the incident when pixies snuck into the engineering section with a straw; they'd sucked out about a fourth of the helium from one of the bags before we found them.
Clarisse came on, welcomed us all by name, and asked us to prepare for takeoff. In the background, I heard Nix give out orders. The ship shook then rose. Rak sucked in air through his teeth but otherwise kept a calm, if forced, composure.
Nix came on with the usual pilot's greeting in his own style: "Welcome, gentlefolk—and you, Vern—to the last-minute, specially chartered for-the- Times’ convenience, flight of Skyhopper, heading in a roughly Seattle-ish direction with possible side trips. You can come up here and explain that one, Vern. Since we've all been called in on our day off, we're going to take this opportunity to put Skyhopper through her paces, have a little fun, and show you her stuff.
We'll start out easy, skimming the prairie then climbing to a thousand feet. Hopefully the Air Force Academy isn't sending out amateur pilots, or things could get dicey. We'll give Pikes Peak a buzz for a photo op; then take her up to her maximum altitude. Maybe even higher."
"Higher?" Rak squeaked.
"The FAA requires us to install oxygen masks in all cabins. We'll see if we can get them to release, shall we? Since our arrival time is open, we'll hit cruising speed of three hundred fifty miles an hour for an hour or so to warm up the engines, during which time our lovely Clarisse will give you a guided tour. Then we'll open up the engines and see what she can do. Afterward, we'll probably do a simulated stall. Who knows? You may get a chance to use that parachute."
Live and Let Fly Page 6
