by Tom Doyle
Endicott hesitated only for a ten-count, a family ritual since Abram to take the emotion out of decision, to avoid old John’s excesses. On a crypto-and-craft secured line, he called his Gideon trackers: Bumppo, Carson, and Sakakawea. They were on alert, fresh from finding some of Hutch’s bloody pieces hidden in the woods of Rock Creek Park. Oh, they’d confirm the ID in the lab, but a Gideon’s nose was hard to fool.
The general’s orders were precise, but so was Endicott’s authority. “You are to find Scherezade Rezvani,” said Endicott. “Her last location was in Pennsylvania; I’m transmitting the GPS now. You will monitor for any signs of unauthorized craft activity in her vicinity. In fact, you may be able to find her through unauthorized craft activity. You will arrest any practitioner of unauthorized craft and you will bring them to me. The practitioner may be extremely skilled, magus level. But you will capture him alive, even at risk to yourselves.”
“Yessir,” barked the Gideons on speakerphone. Then Sakakawea said, “Sir, how old is this intel?”
“Within the quarter hour.”
“We’re at McGuire Air Force Base, sir. We could take them this morning.”
“Outstanding,” said Endicott. Even in a world of manifest spiritual power, this sort of uncanniness impressed him. “If you hustle, you can be there at dawn. Go.”
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
I sat up quick like a vampire, feeling good. Very good. Too good. I’d gotten the shit kicked out of me; I shouldn’t be going anywhere. The room was full of the dull glow of fading craft, a cosmic background radiation beeping its signal to anyone with the sense to look. The Bibles must be ringing out of their drawers throughout the hotel.
My wounds still felt stiff and sore. The craftwork had been too general to fully heal these specific hurts, yet too powerful to be ignored. The craftsman had probably worked from a distance, and didn’t want me truly healed, just marked for the hunt.
I whispered into Scherie’s ear. “Get up. We’re leaving.”
Scherie opened her eyes on darkness. “Five a.m. reveille?”
“Quiet,” I said. “No lights. We’ve been made.” I allowed myself the luxury of a doubt: perhaps she had not betrayed me to this bad Samaritan craftsman.
Scherie moved slowly. Events seemed to have caught up with her. I tried to calculate where my pursuers were, but there were too many variables: the time of the healing, the availability of backup to the individual who had painted me with craft sonar. Assuming the worst, we should already be dead. Most likely they had the motel staked out. If the one craftsman had found me, my ruse with the front desk wouldn’t delay the Gideon hounds. When they were confident of the ground, when they had claimed their territory with sigils and holy piss, they would break in on us. There would be three of them; against a craftsman, trackers always went in threes.
With unprofessional abandon, I peeked through the shade. In the dawn light, my car was just a hunk of mundane metal, plainly visible to all. Roman’s craft was all but gone. But that also meant that the car would draw no particular attention.
Bumppo with his curly golden hair stood next to the rear of the Porsche in front of room 128, speaking on his cell phone, looking about the motel, unhappy and concerned despite the professional poker face. Like a hound, he sniffed the air, and bared his teeth. The Porsche had served as bait, just as I had hoped.
Whoever had healed me hadn’t spoken to these trackers. The eventual result would be the same, however: the healing craft was a telltale of my survival. My luck had been that these Gideons were lazy, relying on a mundane witness and whiff of power instead of their deeper craft.
Bald Carson hauled bodies wrapped in blankets into the trunk of the Gideons’ black sedan. They had killed the people in 128 before they’d realized their mistake. Two civilians. I felt the pain, and then the anger. I had miscalculated the rules of engagement, and two innocents had paid for it. Whatever had happened there couldn’t have been a real fight. These trackers had come for an execution.
Where was the third, Sakakawea? Perhaps questioning the clerk with more thoroughness. Perhaps they had been in a hurry, and only two had come. Wishful thinking. I couldn’t appear in the sights of all three at once. At best, one at a time. Maybe I could handle two. Three would get me.
“You need rest, a hospital,” whispered Scherie.
“I’ll be in the morgue if we don’t move.” I nodded at Scherie’s automatic. “You ready to use that thing?”
She nodded back.
“Good,” I said. “Take cover behind the bed. I’m going to open that door and dash toward reception. That’s going to draw them and their fire.” Scherie started to protest, but I held up a finger. “I need you to count a slow twenty, then come out. Use the car for cover. You should hit them right on their rear flank. Ready?”
I hoped she wasn’t. I hoped she’d hesitate and be captured alive.
Outside, Carson had forced the bodies into the trunk with practiced ungentleness. Finished with packing, he started toward reception, but Bumppo held up an arm to gesture him to stop. He’d caught some scent. Carson joined in the sniffing.
It was now or nice funeral.
With a gun in each hand and a bit of craft speed, I flung open the door and sprinted for daylight. Shooting down would be easier. Up, I thought. I leapt into the air, Peter Pan with no faith, guns blazing.
Oh, I presented such a nice target. But they shot with their silencers first, which fucked nicely with their aim. Before they could bring their craft to bear on me, I hit Carson with a gut shot. He staggered behind the cover of the Porsche, fully occupied with his own bleeding as I came back to earth. Five seconds.
Bumppo was faster. “Heavy,” he said. My legs went to slow-motion lead. Snap! His bullet made a hard ugly slap into my left shoulder. I fell forward, and the gun in my left hand went skittering along the sidewalk. I struggled to bring around my right arm with my remaining weapon, the Colt. “That gun is too heavy,” said Bumppo. And it was. I panted, “Up, up, up,” but I couldn’t move the gun. No craft left.
For the second time in twelve hours, I fell into the fascination of crippled prey. Bumppo came forward like a pale rider of the apocalypse, in no hurry for the end. Too slow, too close to room 108. If Scherie came out on twenty, he’d still catch her in his peripheral vision. “Dale Morton, I presume?” he said. Twenty. “I thought you should know. An Endicott ordered your death.”
He held the gun just feet from my face. No sign of Scherie. Good. She might live. Then Bumppo’s head twitched over in response to movement in my room. Scherie stood in the doorway, gun ready. Freeze, freeze, freeze, I thought, desperately seeking some last edge over the Gideon, but finding nothing left in myself to give. I was dead. Scherie was dead.
Bumppo didn’t freeze. But he was very, very slow. He took a full count to bring his gun around to meet the new threat. Way fucking too long.
Scherie didn’t go for the high probability gut or chest. She caught Bumppo’s golden head as it whipped about toward her. She caught him right between the eyes, and blew out the back of his tow-headed skull.
Even as Bumppo fell and the report of her head shot faded, Scherie ran over to me. Her hands were on me; I felt their slight tremble. “How bad?”
“Bad enough,” I said. The morning’s supercharge of vitality was keeping me alive and coherent. I felt a cage of energy around the bullet in my shoulder, keeping the damage contained. It wouldn’t last. “I’ll hold together, and I know where to go.”
“I’ll get the bag,” said Scherie.
“No, don’t treat this yet,” I said. Sakakawea would be near. “Help me up. We need to get out of here before anyone else shows up.”
“OK. One second.” She went over to the dead Gideon and shoved her hands into his pockets.
“I wouldn’t (pant) do that.”
“Just want to check something.” She pulled out the Gideon’s cell phone. I smiled and shook my head.
“What?” asked Scheri
e.
“Later. Get us out of here first.”
She helped me up and poured me into the Malibu’s passenger seat. Damn thing was soaking up a lot of Morton blood. She squealed out of the parking lot. Steering one-handed, she flipped open the cell phone.
“That’s dangerous,” I said.
“Driving is the least of my worries … shit!” She dropped the phone between our seats. “That fucking hurt.”
“Craft protected,” I said. I fished it up, and tossed it out the window. “Also, a good tracking device.”
“Oh,” said Scherie. “Sorry, I should know that.”
“No harm. They’ll be able to track us anyway, but why make it easier for them. Anyway, I already know who he was calling.” Endicott. Or was it? I had lied in a similar vein to M before killing him. Wheels inside wheels.
“Where are we going?” asked Scherie.
“No choice now,” I said.
“Just tell me.”
“I can’t.” She looked angry and dubious. “For real this time. If I talk about it, it makes it too definite, and ruins it. I just have to show you.”
“Rough idea?”
“South and west. Into the mountains. From which cometh my aid.” Very dubious aid. We’d go see the Appalachian.
* * *
As Morton and Rezvani left the motel lot, they didn’t notice the light of a cigarette in a room that wasn’t 128, or 108, but 118. Through the room’s window, Sakakawea watched the Chevy Malibu peel out. She could let it get a head start; she had seen the car, and that was all the LoJack she needed.
She stepped outside and lightly strode toward the Porsche. She ignored dead Bumppo; survivors were her concern. She heard Carson groaning behind the Porsche; she heard police sirens in the distance, their Dopplered rising pitch closing in with mathematical precision.
She stood over Carson. There was much messy blood, but no immediately fatal damage. “He got you both.”
Carson looked up at her. “No, something else…”
Sakakawea wasn’t interested in excuses or Morton’s companion. But Carson thought he wasn’t finished. “Call 911.”
Tut, tut. He should know better. She couldn’t take him along and couldn’t let the local authorities have him. That left only one option.
She shot Carson. The bullet’s trajectory through his cortex would cut off his consciousness very efficiently—she was an artist. Then she trotted for her motorcycle in the alley area behind the southern building. All working out quite well. She relaxed and let her craft guide her steering. She needed to make two calls. First, a report to Endicott, perhaps the last she’d bother with.
The second call would wait; unlike young Endicott, her real boss was very, very patient.
* * *
Endicott answered the phone. It was Sakakawea. He could use some good news.
He didn’t get it. “Two trackers KIA in Pennsylvania. Need cleanup.” She gave him the GPS coordinates.
Shit, there’d be hell to pay. “KIA? How?”
“Target’s companion took them out,” she said. “It was Dale Morton, sir.”
Endicott chose not to acknowledge this fact. “Where is the target now?”
“I’m in pursuit.” The signal broke up. “… moving north by northwest. They may be going for Canada.”
“I’ll call in the cleanup. You continue to pursue, but do not engage. Keep me updated on target’s location.” He couldn’t let a Morton get across the border. “Understood?”
More signal breakup. “I repeat: communication may be difficult.”
“Take necessary measures to keep me informed. That’s a priority.”
He called the cleanup operation. Local law enforcement and media would be brought into line. Nothing he need concern himself with.
Except that this didn’t feel right. Hutch had asked questions about his Gideons before she had disappeared. Now he felt pressure not to be concerned. With Endicotts and pressure, better to give than to receive. He’d go there himself.
* * *
Two hours later, Endicott was at the Crossroads Motel. Bumppo’s and Carson’s bodies were bagged and in the ambulance. He wasn’t craft forensics; the people for that job were in the bags, or in pursuit. But this was conventional ballistics and physics, so he asked the mundane local to show him what had happened.
“I was told not to ask too many questions,” said the local.
“That’s right,” said Endicott. “Just answers will do.”
The local showed him where they had found the trackers and their blood splatters, and gave a guess to what the shooter had done. Endicott thought this was an easy story: Morton got the drop on Bumppo as he walked toward registration. Then, he used some craft to get a high gut shot off on Carson. He took his time, perhaps got ready to leave, before finishing Carson off with the head shot.
“That all?” asked Endicott.
“That’s all,” said the local. “There are some details, but we can sort those out later. We’ve got this under control.”
“Tell me about the details,” said Endicott.
The local fidgeted a bit. “Well, just for accounting purposes, we’ve recovered bullets that appear to have been fired from the victims’ guns. That leaves the bullets that shot the victims. By caliber and type of ammunition, those appear to have come from three different weapons.”
“OK,” said Endicott. “Maybe he had help.” It would be like Morton to play action hero with two guns, and his girlfriend could handle the third gun, though the gunfight story became a little harder to imagine. “What else?”
“They were playing musical rooms. When the shooting started, the shooter was on the other side of the motel from where he was supposedly staying.”
“Where was that?”
The local pointed. “Near room 128.” The door was still ajar. “The lock’s broken, but nobody home. Looks like the beds have been stripped.”
“Shit,” said Endicott. His easy story was melting away. Something fubar this way comes. Near the room and the trackers’ black sedan was a fancy Porsche. More cars than drivers. “What about the cars? Anyone check those?”
“We were going to take the sedan off-site.”
“Right. Get me something to force the trunks.” But Endicott didn’t wait. He walked over to the cars. The black sedan was unlocked with the keys in the ignition. He popped the trunk, and went around the car. Bodies. Two men.
He slammed the trunk shut. The Gideons hadn’t even looked before shooting. Why were there bodies at all? His orders had been clear. No killing.
Furious, he flipped open the phone to call Sakakawea. He got a Pentagon voice-mail box. He’d leave her a message she wouldn’t forget. He’d …
Do no such thing. Perhaps Sakakawea just had a reason for vengeance not in her skimpy file. Perhaps, just perhaps, Hutch had been right, and there were nonlies buried in Morton’s story. Either way, nothing Sakakawea said was likely to be true.
The bullshit was up to his waist now, if not higher. His one edge was that no one knew how much he knew. Until he knew more, it would have to stay that way. He trusted the general, but his father told everything to the great and powerful and mysterious Chimera, and that made Endicott itchy.
“Get both these cars off-site,” he told the local. “Follow the usual protocols with what you find in the trunk.”
“Yes, sir.”
Endicott stared at the gray horizon. He read the craft signature of this land loud and clear. Here, they’d blame any civilian deaths on hunting or sex. What would they blame his own sudden demise on? Oh, the difficulties of an upright life.
Perhaps he’d call in for sick leave. This was going to take a while. Investigating Chimera was at best a route to a swift discharge. So Endicott would take the other insubordinate path, and hunt for Morton himself. That would mean hunting the Red Death thing too. Endicott knew the quickest way to find them both. Though Sakakawea had no doubt lied to him about her direction, Endicott had other ways to foll
ow her. He would track the tracker.
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
My body had gone one step forward and a Texas two-step back. My shoulder was a playground for all the expected pain but surprisingly little blood, thanks to my surfeit of healing craft. I could feel all that energy burning off. Before my craft tank was empty, I needed a healer for serious regeneration. Regeneration, and another craft service that one healer in particular could provide.
The Appalachian of the Sanctuary. It would take all my concentration simply to get there, particularly if the Sanctuary and its guardian didn’t want me to show, which was likely. Hell, the Appalachian could be running this healing shell game.
If not the Appalachian, who was my guardian avenging angel? Why help me only to send a signal and get me killed? It had the marks of oracular craft scheming. If she weren’t dead, I’d blame Sphinx. Sphinx, are you there? Hutch, where are you? No answer. Instead, Grandpa and Dad were vividly manifest in the backseat, glaring at each other.
“Where do I go?” asked Scherie, snapping me back into the painful present.
“Are you OK?” I asked. Her aura was spiky with fading adrenalin.
“About killing that bastard who shot you?” asked Scherie. “Maybe I’ll feel bad later. But not now. So where do I go?”
No more leisurely strolling to the border. “Head toward West Virginia,” I said. The specific route didn’t matter. All roads led to the Sanctuary, if you already knew the way.
“I won’t allow this,” said Grandpa, nearly shouting, causing Scherie to veer. “You’re not to go to the Appalachian.”
“I agree,” said Dad, to my and Grandpa’s surprise. “Go anyplace else. Get another healer.”
“A Gideon is still trailing me,” I said. “Sakakawea will see where I’ve run, call in support, and get me. I need to get somewhere safe.”
“No matter what the cost to you and that place,” said Dad.
“You’re both sounding unusually loud and close to me, Dad,” I said. Dad was silent at this intimation of mortality. He couldn’t argue against the cold equations: the clock was running down for my healing.
