The Enchanter Heir thc-4

by Cinda Williams Chima

  “Is there anything I can do?” Jonah asked.

  “Get me a pop from the fridge,” Kenzie said.

  When Jonah returned with cans of pop, Kenzie was moving files around. “Got it. I’m going to copy all this over to a safe place so we make sure they don’t disappear again.”

  “Can you tell when the files were removed?”

  “Harry. Show info.” Kenzie’s eyes scanned over lines of data. “Looks like it was in the last couple weeks. I guess I could’ve compromised something when I was looking for Jeanette.”

  “Maybe,” Jonah said.

  Once he had the files where he wanted them, Kenzie rummaged through them.

  “Harry. Scroll down. Search Thorn Hill work-share logs. Scroll down. Select October twenty-third week.” He paused and, when the record came up, said, “Open spreadsheet, data entry view.”

  “What are the work-share logs?” Jonah whispered so Harry wouldn’t overhear.

  Kenzie hit mute on his second try. “Everyone at Thorn Hill was required to contribute work to the commune every week,” he said. “They didn’t tolerate slackers. They weren’t good about keeping track of comings and goings, but they were sticklers about work records. These are the last sets before the massacre. By comparing the work schedule with the casualty lists, we should be able to identify anyone who was at Thorn Hill immediately prior to the massacre, but who doesn’t show up on either the casualty or survivor lists. Now, what’s this sorcerer’s name?”

  “Lilith Greaves.”

  Kenzie turned back to his screen. “Harry. Search THLIS databases. Scroll down. Select casualty lists. Select survivor lists. Open work sheet. Data sort on last name.”

  Through this process, Kenzie verified that a sorcerer named Lilith Greaves was at Thorn Hill immediately prior to the massacre, and showed up on the dead list after.

  “Can you tell what kind of work she did for the commune?”

  “She worked in the compounding labs, apparently. Making either weapons or health and beauty aids, depending on who you ask.” He paused. “Here’s another Greaves. A sixyear-old girl who worked in the vegetable garden.”

  “Lilith said she lost a daughter in the massacre,” Jonah said. So far, this all seemed to verify what Lilith had said.

  Now Kenzie generated a list of four adults who were on the work-share lists immediately before the massacre who didn’t appear on either the survivor or casualty list.

  Jonah scanned the list. None of the names was familiar.

  Then they worked their way through the four names, three men and a woman. Three were repeatedly honored in subsequent memorial services at the Anchorage and elsewhere. The fourth, Tyler Greenwood, a sorcerer, was not. Three of the names continued to appear for a time in legal and probate records, child custody proceedings, obituary listings, and cemetery records. Then they dwindled away. The fourth, Tyler Greenwood, did not appear at all. He vanished, digitally speaking, after the massacre. His name didn’t appear in Social Security death records, online obituaries, any of that.

  “Well,” Jonah said. “It was a major disaster. Maybe he just got overlooked somehow.”

  Kenzie frowned. “People don’t just vanish. These days they live on, digitally, anyway. As you can see, there’s always a bit of a backwash, even if they’re dead.” He flipped back to the work-share records. “He was a musician,” Kenzie said. “Some of his work shares had to do with that. He also did general maintenance and worked in the labs and the gardens. From what I can tell, he wasn’t at Thorn Hill very long.” He narrowed his eyes, a predator on the hunt. “I’ll just go backward in time until I find him.”

  Jonah’s mind drifted, his brother’s voice a reassuring buzz in his ears.

  “Search Google for Tyler Greenwood. . . . Scroll down. . . . Search Google for music and Tyler Greenwood.”

  When had he last slept well? Jonah wondered. He couldn’t remember. . . .

  “Jonah.”

  Jonah startled awake. “What?”

  “I’m finding a Tyler Greenwood, a musician who was in and out of a number of rock-and-roll and blues bands,” Kenzie said. “He was based in Memphis. Here’s a photo from, um, fifteen years ago.”

  Jonah leaned toward the screen. It was a promotional photo for a rock-and-roll band. Tyler Greenwood had a bass guitar resting on his hip, the head pointed toward the floor. He looked to be twenty-something, handsome. Probably biracial.

  “He continued to show up in records here in the States until about ten years ago. He must have gone back and forth to the commune, if it’s the same man.”

  “Nothing since the massacre, then,” Jonah said, his heart sinking.

  “Don’t give up yet,” Kenzie said. “Harry. Search Tennessee vital records.”

  The next thing Jonah knew, Kenzie was crowing.

  “What?” Jonah rubbed his eyes.

  “Tyler Greenwood was married to someone named Gwyneth Hart,” Kenzie said. “What do you think of that?”

  “Really? How do you know?”

  “It was in the vital records. Here’s a newspaper article.” Kenzie turned the display so Jonah could see it.

  It was from the society pages of a community newspaper. Garrett and Samantha Hart of Shaker Heights and Miami Beach held a reception to celebrate the marriage of their daughter, Gwyneth Marie, to Tyler Greenwood, of Memphis. The couple married in a private ceremony. Ms. Hart coordinates humanitarian projects. Mr. Greenwood is a professional musician.

  And there they were—the handsome young musician from the band photo and the tawny-haired beauty from the party. The photo was taken at a club in Memphis.

  “Search the work records for Gwyneth Hart and Gwyneth Greenwood,” Jonah suggested.

  Kenzie did as asked. She wasn’t there.

  “So Tyler Greenwood went to Thorn Hill. But Gwyneth Hart didn’t,” Kenzie concluded. “Maybe Tyler Greenwood is our man. But he’s disappeared.”

  “If he was involved in the poisoning, then he had a reason to disappear,” Jonah said. He yawned and stretched. Kenzie didn’t reply. He was frowning at the display.

  “I have a Tyler Greenwood, listed as a son of a Sonny Lee Greenwood, recently deceased in Memphis.”

  That brought Jonah sharply awake. “What? Let me see that.”

  It was a newspaper story, dated mid-July, headlined Beale Street mourns Local Luthier. Displayed beneath the head line was an undated photograph of four musicians jamming at what was identified as a local blues club.

  According to the article, Sonny Lee Greenwood, musician and builder of custom guitars, had died from a fall in his shop. Some of his friends suspected foul play, but the police had found no proof of that. His only son, Tyler Greenwood, was listed in the death notice as having predeceased Sonny Lee. One unnamed granddaughter survived.

  “I guess that settles that,” Jonah said.

  Kenzie shook his head. “It doesn’t smell right. If Tyler Greenwood had a surviving father and a daughter, he wouldn’t have just disappeared from the records when he died. There’d be an obituary, and paperwork. If there’s a daughter, she’d be getting Social Security death benefits, and like that.”

  “How do you know this stuff ?” Jonah asked.

  Kenzie flashed him a smile. “Mind if I dig deeper on this?” he asked. “I’ve got time.”

  “Be my guest,” Jonah said, trying to keep a spark of hope alive.

  Kenzie found a handful of other news stories, mostly summaries of the elder Greenwood’s life and contribution to the music scene. Kenzie surfaced a bit of video from a Memphis television station, apparently taken at Greenwood’s funeral. The reporter spoke with several blues musicians who had attended the wake. No family was mentioned.

  Kenzie searched for the Harts, and found that they’d been killed in a private plane crash in Belize years ago.

  “People around Tyler Greenwood are dropping like flies,” Jonah murmured.

  “Here’s something,” Kenzie said. “Somebody put up a tribute site for So
nny Lee Greenwood and posted a message saying that his business, Studio Greenwood, had relocated out of state. There’s a link to a Web page . . . see?”

  It was a simple page with a few images of gorgeous custom guitars and testimonials from customers.

  There was an e-mail address but no street address.

  “How could his business have relocated if he’s dead?” Jonah said.

  “Maybe he had a partner.” Kenzie scooted back in his chair. “Here, send an e-mail.”

  Jonah bypassed Harry, clicked on the link, and typed, What would it cost to reset the frets on a vintage Yamaha acoustic? Where are you located? Can you send me your street address so I can map it? Do you have standard hours?

  Though it was four in the morning, the answer came back promptly, listing the price estimate (subject to change) I’m in Cleveland Heights. We can meet at the Innovation Center at the Library. Evenings and weekends are best. Give me at least a day’s notice and bring the guitar with you. And it listed the address of the library.

  “Cleveland Heights!” Jonah swiveled to look at Kenzie. “It’s moved to Cleveland Heights?” Cleveland Heights was just a few miles to the east.

  He turned back to the keyboard. I’ll need a business address, too. I can’t just hand off my guitar at a library.

  There was a longer wait this time, and then Studio Greenwood replied with an address, also in Cleveland Heights.

  “Let me search on that address and see what’s there,” Kenzie said. “Harry . . . search white pages for this address.” When the result came up, he looked over at Jonah. “This house is owned by someone named Tyler Boykin. Coincidence? I think not.”

  “You think Tyler Boykin and Tyler Greenwood are the same person?”

  “Let’s make sure. Harry . . . search images for Tyler Boykin,” Kenzie said.

  Several photos came up, most taken at one club venue or another. They were all of the man they already knew as Tyler Greenwood. Only older.

  Jonah and Kenzie stared at the screen for a long moment.

  “That’s him,” Jonah said. “That’s Tyler Greenwood. Only now his name is Boykin. Wonder why he’d change his name.”

  “There are lots of reasons somebody might do that,” Kenzie said. “Boykin could be a professional name.”

  “Why did the obit list him as dead?” Jonah said. “If he’d been a partner in his father’s shop, I’d think people would know better.”

  “Or . . . he could have something to hide,” Kenzie speculated. “Do you think this might be the person we want?” He lifted his eyebrows inquiringly.

  Jonah felt hope flare brighter. “Maybe,” he said.

  “Harry. Web search on Tyler Boykin,” Kenzie said. Compared with “Tyler Greenwood,”

  “Tyler Boykin” was easy to find. Kenzie found him on music sites, in concert listings, on a listing of session musicians. He even found a photograph of him, onstage in Memphis three years ago, sitting in with a blues band. When he and Jonah compared the photographs of the two men, there could be no doubt. They were the same person.

  Tyler Greenwood had transformed into Tyler Boykin, right after Thorn Hill.

  “What are you going to do?” Kenzie asked.

  “I haven’t quite decided,” Jonah said. “I’ll go have a talk with Boykin, I guess.” He paused. “If you see Gabriel, don’t mention anything about our little project.”

  “Going rogue, are you?” Kenzie cocked his head. “Just be careful. If Tyler Boykin is our man, he doesn’t want to be found.”

  “I’m always careful,” Jonah said. Light was leaking in through the windows, and the racket now emanating from the hallway told them that the day shift was coming on.

  “I have to go,” Jonah said, packing up. “I’ll see if I can work up some lyrics for the new tunes.”

  “So we’re not going out?” Kenzie said, unable to hide his disappointment.

  “Not today. Soon. Right now I’ve got classes.”

  “You know, big brother, you really need to start setting things on fire,” Kenzie said. “Nobody makes you go to class. People tend to leave you alone.” He smiled wistfully, and Jonah felt a twinge of guilt.

  Chapter Twenty

  Backdoor Man

  The Boykin house was the shabbiest one on a leafy street in an older neighborhood. The yard was overgrown in some places, down to bare dirt in others.

  Hmm, Jonah Kinlock thought. Usually, sorcerers couldn’t resist using a little magic to enhance the appearance of their gardens. Find the most beautiful garden in any city, it’s a good bet that a sorcerer lived there.

  So . . . did that mean that Tyler Boykin wasn’t a sorcerer after all?

  Still, instinct told Jonah that his quarry was finally within reach. Well, that and the name on the mailbox: Boykin. He hoped that Greenwood/Boykin would be willing to answer his questions. Hoped that, after all this time, he’d have useful information he’d spill without hard interrogation. Maybe he’d be eager to tell his story. Jonah could hope.

  Jonah was good at killing. Killing was clean. Killing was simple. Killing was sometimes necessary, but it didn’t have to be painful. Still, he was growing weary of it. He didn’t much like the thing he was best at.

  But if Tyler Greenwood Boykin was the sorcerer who’d helped Black Rose wizards plot the massacre at Thorn Hill . . . if he were the one who created the poison that had ended or ruined so many lives, then maybe he deserved to die. But first, he needed information. If Boykin had information that would help Kenzie and Alison and everyone else at the Anchorage, Jonah needed to obtain it.

  Then again, Tyler Boykin might be just another innocent victim of Thorn Hill. The only adult survivor. Or someone lucky enough to have left right before the disaster, who changed his name so death didn’t come calling.

  Jonah flexed his shoulders, feeling Fragarach’s reassuring weight. The sword might pry free some answers if all else failed. The Answerer, it was called. It was impossible to lie with Fragarach at your throat.

  Jonah was so focused on the mission that he didn’t realize he was in danger until it was almost too late. A whisper of sound behind him was what saved him. Instinctively, he dove sideways, feeling the cold wake of the creature’s charge brush past him, hearing the clatter of claws on the sandstone pavers of the garden path.

  Claws?

  Jonah rolled to his feet, Fragarach already in his hand. All around the yard, spotlights kindled, flooding the garden with light. Motion detectors, no doubt. Two shades faced him across some hydrangea bushes, a man and a woman. In the dark, they could have passed for ordinary, except for the five-inch, razor-sharp claws that sprouted from their hands.

  “So . . . let me guess,” Jonah said. “You work for Greenwood?”

  “We work for Lilith,” the man said. “We followed you here from downtown.”

  Jonah felt a prickle of unease. Even focused as he was now, there was very little scent. The host corpses of these shades were remarkably well preserved—no visible decay or stench of decomposing flesh.

  This is what we’re facing from now on. Besieged at home, under attack out in the field. With no refuge from the ongoing war. Jonah could see why Gabriel always insisted on keeping their headquarters and their mission a secret.

  Jonah feinted to the left, then charged right, putting the more substantial barrier of a stone bench between him and his pursuers.

  “And you’re here because . . . ?”

  “Lilith wants to see you.”

  “It’s really not a good time,” Jonah said. “Could we set up something for next week?”

  “She wants to see you now,” the man said.

  “All right,” Jonah said, thinking fast, buying time. “Just let me—”

  A long arm snaked forward, and a claw raked across his chest, ripping through his sweatshirt, drawing blood. Only his quick leap backward saved him from being disemboweled. Though Jonah answered quickly, the shade managed to evade his counterthrust.

  “What the hell was that” J
onah demanded. “I thought Lilith wanted to see me.”

  “Lilith wants you alive,” the woman said. “We aren’t that fussy. She warned you, didn’t she? She warned you to stop murdering us.”

  “We’re looking forward to seeing how you’ll fare as a shade,” the man said. “Don’t look for a warm welcome from some of us.”

  Thus began a nearly silent, macabre dance around the overgrown garden, Jonah’s breath pluming out in the chilly air, the only sound the crackle of leaves, the rattle of claws, and Fragarach whistling through the air.

  Focus, Jonah thought. These are shades. They are quick, and smart, and they don’t feel pain.

  That last part, at least, made his job easier.

  Finally, he circled behind a small shed, leaped over the top, and landed behind the two shades. He cut one of them in half before either of them could get his body turned around.

  Howling, the other shade charged forward, leaving herself open to Jonah’s two-handed swipe. When she went down, the now-disembodied shades fled. Jonah considered pursuing them, but as he’d said, it wasn’t a good time.

  “Tell Lilith to leave me alone!” he called softly after them as they dissolved into the night.

  Jonah wiped his blade on the grass, hurdled a boxwood hedge, and landed in the deeper dark next to the house. There he waited, watching to see if more shades appeared, listening to find out whether anyone inside had noticed the lights ablaze in the garden.

  Though the exterior was well lit, much of the interior was dark, with no sudden activity suggesting that an alarm had been sounded. The shades were drawn, but light leaked from the living room windows and Jonah could hear music, amped up loud, the heavy thud of bass.

  According to the online city directory, Boykin lived alone.

  Gabriel’s rule was: no witnesses. So Nightshade operations would never be tied to the Anchorage. Maybe that didn’t really matter anymore, but still . . . old habits die hard.

  Jonah pulled out the close-fitting black ski mask he’d brought along and yanked it down over his face. He didn’t want to have to kill Tyler Boykin if he were an innocent man.