His Father's Eyes

by DAVID B. COE

  I parked beside a silver Mercedes—apparently silver was the car color of choice for weremancers this year—wound my way through the garden, and approached the front door. There, two more security officers, probably the guardhouse guy’s workout partners, asked me if I was carrying a weapon. I handed over my Glock and let them wand me before I stepped through a metal detector. I thought it ironic that I’d been screened more thoroughly here than I had the other day at the airport. But I kept this thought to myself.

  Regina Witcombe was waiting for me inside the front door. She was wearing beige slacks and a loose-fitting black tunic that might have been silk. Her auburn hair was tied back in a ponytail. She was taller than I’d expected—almost my height. I couldn’t see much of her face—the blurring of her features was every bit as strong as Patty Hesslan’s had been.

  “Mister Fearsson,” she said in that warm alto I’d heard in her online video. She extended a hand, which I gripped. “Welcome to my home.”

  “Thank you for agreeing to see me, Missus Witcombe. I’m sorry to have come unannounced.”

  “It’s my pleasure. Thank you, Andrew,” she said to the guard who had my Glock.

  She led me through an enormous living room and then a rec room, complete with pool table, wet bar, and a television that wouldn’t have fit through my front door, to an open patio that offered a breathtaking view of Camelback Mountain. More chollas and ocotillos grew in a pebbled garden that fringed the terrace. Anna’s and black-chinned hummingbirds buzzed around a pair of red glass feeders like winged, iridescent gems.

  “Can I offer you something, Mister Fearsson? Wine perhaps?”

  “I’m fine, thank you.”

  She indicated a chair with an open hand and took a seat in the one beside it.

  “Patricia says you and she share some history, though she wouldn’t tell me what kind.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Our families are connected by a tragedy. None of us likes to speak of it.”

  “She also said that you came to her under false pretenses. Was that why?”

  A reflexive smile touched my lips. “I suppose. I used a false name. I worried that she wouldn’t agree to our meeting if she knew it was me.”

  She tipped her head to the side; I could see her frown through the blur of magic. “And now you come to me, supposedly with questions about the flight I was on Thursday morning. I’m not entirely sure I believe that.”

  “I understand your skepticism. But I assure you it’s true. Kona Shaw, a detective in the homicide unit, asked me to help her with the PPD’s investigation into the murder of James Howell.”

  “The man they found in the men’s room.”

  “Yes, ma’am. You can call Detective Shaw to verify this.”

  “There’s no need for that. I read about you in the paper a couple of months ago. I know you’ve worked with the police before.”

  “Yes, I have.” I pulled my notebook and pen from the pocket inside my bomber. “Did you know Mister Howell?”

  She quirked an eyebrow, seeming to say, Are you really asking me that? “Yes, Mister Fearsson. He and his white supremacist friends are are on my board of directors.”

  I smirked. “Forgive me. Let me rephrase that. Were you aware of him on the flight?”

  She shook her head. “Not really. I might have seen him come through first class, after I took my seat on the plane. It’s not every day one sees a man with swastika tattoos on a commercial flight.”

  “Did you see him deplane?”

  “No. By that time I knew that Patricia was on board and I was watching for her once I was back in the terminal.”

  “So you and she didn’t sit together.”

  “No, we didn’t. She flies coach; I don’t.”

  “Did you take notice of any of the other passengers?”

  She frowned again. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

  “Did you notice any other weremystes?”

  “Ah,” she said with a sage nod. “I take it Mister Howell was killed with magic.”

  Kona wouldn’t be happy with me, but I didn’t bother to deny it. “That’s right.”

  “Your visit makes a bit more sense to me now. To answer your question, no, I can’t say that I noticed any other weremystes. That doesn’t mean there weren’t any, but I didn’t see them. And so, allow me to anticipate your next question. Patricia and I never went near the airport men’s room. We remained by the gate, and, after the body was discovered, were questioned by the police. Once they were through with us, we went to the club lounge, of which I’m a member. We stayed there—chatting, getting some work done—until our new flight finally departed late in the day.”

  She was pretty convincing, and her story dovetailed perfectly with Patty’s. I wondered if they’d worked on it together, or if they were both telling me the truth.

  “And how was your time in Washington?”

  For the first time, I sensed a weak point in her armor. Her smile slipped momentarily and I thought I saw a flicker of unease in her blue eyes.

  “It was fine, thank you.”

  “You were there on business?”

  “I’m not sure how this relates to your investigation, but yes, I was.”

  “And so was Patty? Excuse me: Patricia.”

  “I don’t know why she was there.”

  I furrowed my brow. “Really? You spent hours with her in the terminal and then in the lounge, and it never occurred to you to ask why she was going to Washington?”

  “Well, I’m sure I must have. I might . . . It was a business trip; I’m sure of that. I think she must have been meeting a potential client, someone who plans to move here in the near future. I was preoccupied with my testimony. I had some last-minute work to do before I appeared before the committee.”

  She shifted in her chair, no doubt trying to look casual; it had the opposite effect. I’d managed to put her on edge, and I decided to push her a little harder.

  “I saw you on television,” I said. “It must be quite an experience to testify before a Senate committee.”

  Her laugh sounded tight, nervous. “It’s not really very exciting.”

  “The last time I was in Washington, I wound up spending some time in Arlington and Alexandria. Nice area. Did you get over to Northern Virginia this visit?”

  “No.” It was too abrupt, too final. I didn’t believe her for a minute. “Is there anything else, Mister Fearsson? My time is quite valuable.”

  “I didn’t recognize the magic that killed James Howell,” I said, ignoring her question. “I used a seeing spell to try to learn what happened in the last moments of his life, but that didn’t tell me much either. And it occurred to me that there have been some odd murders committed in the Phoenix area over the past couple of months. Some in the police department have been talking about cults and ritual killings, but I’m wondering if it’s something else. Do you know anything about dark magic?”

  She sat bolt upright. “Are you suggesting—?”

  “I’m not suggesting anything. I’m certainly not accusing you of anything. I was just wondering what you know about the darker side of what we weremystes do.”

  “Nothing at all. And for you to imply otherwise is . . . is as ridiculous as it is insulting.” She stood, smoothed her slacks with a shaking hand. “Now, I think you should leave.”

  I stood as well, knowing that I couldn’t stay without her permission, and reluctant to get into a fight with her security guys. Before either of us could say more, though, the cordless phone on the table by her chair rang. She glared at me for another moment, but then grabbed the phone on the second ring and switched it on.

  “Yes?” Her gaze flicked in my direction like a snake’s tongue. “Yes, hold on.” She put a hand over the receiver. “Wait here,” she said to me. Before I could respond, she stepped back into the house and closed the glass door. She crossed through the rec room and out of sight, leaving me little choice but to remain there. Several minutes passed; I started to wonder if
I wasn’t being a fool. If this woman was guilty of a fraction of what I suspected, I needed to get the hell out of her house. I recited a spell in my head; three elements: any magic Witcombe might try on me, a shield of power, and me at the center of it. On the third recitation, I released the spell and felt the warding settle over me like a winter coat. Wardings worked better when they were specific to the attack spell, but I wasn’t sure I would have that luxury if it came to a fight. This was better than nothing. With the spell in place, I checked the door connecting the patio to the house, half expecting to find it locked.

  It wasn’t. But as I opened it and took a step back inside the house, Missus Witcombe appeared in the rec room doorway on the other side of the room. She still held the phone, but her conversation appeared to have ended. When she spotted me, she faltered, then strode through the room in my direction.

  “Where were we, Mister Fearsson?”

  “You were in the process of throwing me out of your house.”

  She flashed a smile that made me shiver. “An overreaction on my part. Forgive me.”

  I remained in the doorway. “Still, perhaps I should leave.”

  “There’s no need for that. Come back outside with me. We’ll have a drink and discuss those questions of yours.”

  “The ones that outraged you? The ones about dark magic?”

  “As I said, I overreacted.”

  I shook my head. “I shouldn’t have asked them, and I have someplace I need to be.” A lie, but I wanted out of there.

  “But you did ask them, Mister Fearsson. And I feel that I should have the chance to respond.”

  We stood there for a few seconds, her eyes locked on mine. Eager as I was to be on my way, I found it hard to argue with her logic, and harder still to imagine how I would get past her guards if she didn’t want to let me go. I acquiesced with a lift of my shoulder and backed out of her way. She crossed to her chair and gestured for me to do the same.

  I didn’t trust this change of heart, and so I chose to stay on my feet, though I wandered a bit closer to where she sat.

  “Dark magic is such an odd term, don’t you think?”

  “I suppose,” I said.

  “I mean, for centuries it was all considered dark, wasn’t it? The witch trials and all that.”

  “I had something specific in mind, Missus Witcombe, and I think you understood that when I asked the question. Now, I don’t know who that was on the phone, and I don’t think I want to find out. Thank you for speaking with me. I’m going to leave now.”

  I turned to go. But before I could take more than a step, the air around me chimed like a plucked harp. Magic. For a split second, I was glad I had warded myself. Then her spell took shape, and I realized once more the limitations of such a general-purpose shield spell. I’d protected myself from an attack. But she had cast a barrier spell on the door. I hit it and bounced back, feeling like I’d walked into brick.

  I clung to that image—the brick wall—and added two more elements: a sledgehammer and me swinging it. Her barrier gave way, but by now she was on her feet.

  “Andrew!” she called.

  He must have been waiting for her summons, because almost as soon as she called his name, he loomed in the rec room doorway, also as solid as brick. He hadn’t drawn his weapon, but that hardly mattered.

  I considered another spell: an attack on him; the magical equivalent of a two-by-four to the head. But before I could cast, magic tinged the air once more.

  “I wouldn’t cast if I were you,” Witcombe said from behind me. “Whatever you do to him will rebound.”

  Andrew folded his massive arms over his chest and stared at me, impassive, implacable.

  “Come back outside, Mister Fearsson. Our conversation isn’t finished, and you’re not going anywhere.”

  I faced her once more, then stepped past her onto the patio.

  “Stay where you can see us,” she said to the guard. “If he tries to escape or does anything to me, shoot him.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Witcombe shut the door and sat again. I lingered near the house.

  “Oh, come now, Mister Fearsson. Sit back down. Have a drink. You’re not leaving, but that doesn’t mean you have to brood about it.”

  I returned to my chair.

  “That’s better,” she said, purring the words.

  “Why did you go to Washington?” I asked her.

  “I don’t think I want to tell you that.”

  I nodded, not at all surprised by her answer. “Then maybe you’d like to tell me how an ordinary weremyste like you managed to kill an ancient runemyste granted eternal life by the Runeclave more than seven centuries ago.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I think you’re lying.”

  The smile that touched her lips must have been the one she reserved for employees who had really pissed her off. “You’ll find that I don’t like being called a liar, any more than I do being called ordinary.”

  I opened my hands. “You’re the one who told me that our conversation wasn’t done, who said that you deserved a chance to answer my questions. So talk to me, Missus Witcombe. What do you know about dark magic? What dark spells have you cast recently?”

  “Where did you get the idea that I was involved with such things?”

  “You’re famous here in Phoenix. People talk.”

  “Rumors,” she said, dismissing them with her tone. “Gossip.”

  “I believe what I heard rises above that level. And my friends at the police department agreed.”

  The smile remained fixed on her lips, but some of the color fled her cheeks. “A false accusation. You could face serious legal consequences.”

  “First you’d have to prove it false. What do you know about those ritual killings I mentioned?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I don’t believe that, either.”

  “You don’t seem to grasp how much trouble you’re in, Mister Fearsson. Calling me a liar again and again is only going to make matters worse.”

  “What do you think you can do to me?” I asked, with more bravado than I felt. “Several of your guards saw me come in. Others saw me drive to your house. My car is still sitting in your driveway. And friends of mine at the PPD know that I was headed here. If something happens to me, or I vanish, this is the first place they’ll come looking.”

  The door opened behind us, and a woman’s voice said, “That shouldn’t be a problem.”

  I stood. Patty Hesslan-Fine stepped out onto the patio. She wore the same business suit she’d had on for our meeting this morning.

  “You haven’t been very smart, have you, Jay?” She shifted her gaze to Witcombe. “Why the hell did you let him in here in the first place? I warned you about him when we spoke earlier”

  “He used your name, and made it sound like you wanted me to speak with him. I assumed it was all right.”

  Patty shook her head. “Next time assume nothing. Speak to me first. Do you understand?”

  Witcombe nodded.

  “What were you doing up in Washington, Patty?” I asked. “What was your excuse for making the trip?”

  She eyed me coolly. “It’s Patricia. I haven’t gone by Patty since I was seventeen years old. And I told you this morning: It was a business trip.”

  “And your jaunt over to Northern Virginia?”

  Her expression didn’t change. I already had the sense that, at least in matters of magic, Witcombe answered to her and not the other way around. I could see why.

  “You think you’re terribly clever, don’t you? You were a dead man anyway, but I’m afraid the timetable has been pushed up a bit. It’s your own doing.”

  “What do you mean?” Witcombe asked. “Pushed up to what?”

  Patty continued to regard me, her brow creased. “I am interested to know how you learned about Regina. Surely you’re not intelligent enough to have figured that out for yourself.”

  I said nothing
.

  “Fine.” She faced Witcombe once more. “Tell the guard he can go back outside. Is your assistant still here?”

  “You mean Heather?”

  “Yes, Heather. Is she in the house?”

  Witcombe nodded.

  “Good. Get rid of the guard and then call for Heather.”

  “But—”

  “Just do as I say.”

  Regina pasted a smile on her lips and walked back into the house, leaving the glass door ajar. “Everything is fine now, Andrew. Just a small misunderstanding. You can go back out front.”

  “Are you sure, Missus Witcombe?”

  “Yes, quite.”

  A few moments later, I heard Witcombe calling Heather’s name. I kept my eyes on Patty.

  “Do you really think she’s ready for this?” I asked Patty. “She seems a bit beyond her depth. And murder . . . That’s a big step for someone like her.”

  “She’s killed before,” Patty said, sounding bored. “Nice try, though.”

  When Witcombe joined us again on the patio, her cheeks were pale and she appeared nervous. “She’ll be joining us shortly. What did you mean before? What are you doing to the timetable?”

  “I didn’t do anything to it. Fearsson did, and so did you. But it’s obvious, isn’t it? After all of this, we can’t let him go. You decided his fate the moment you invited him into your house.”

  “You know I’m standing right here, don’t you?”

  Patty shot me a glare that could have melted the skin off my bones. “Shut up.”

  “You mean we have to do it now? Here?”

  “Now, yes. Not here.”

  Witcombe seemed relieved to hear this.

  “But still,” Patty went on. “We need to be sure that we control him.”

  Neither of them had time to say more. A young woman appeared in the doorway—petite, pretty. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-five years old. I would have guessed that Witcombe hired her right out of school. The poor kid probably thought it was the opportunity of a lifetime.

  “Ah, Heather,” Witcombe said.

  The woman hovered in the doorway, clearly unsure of herself. “Is there something I can help you with, Missus Witcombe?”