“I’ll be fine. Thanks.” It meant a lot that Judy, never a particularly caring or compassionate person, was worried about me, but I wanted to be alone for a while.
“All right,” Judy said skeptically, but walked to her front door and let herself in.
I drove home slowly, observing every traffic law. What I didn’t need was having to explain my gory self to a cop who might insist I go to a hospital. What a waste of time that would be. But no one pulled me over, and I made it home with no trouble other than an increasing ache in my formerly wounded shoulder.
Safely inside, I locked my door and stripped off my clothes in the hallway because going into my bedroom was too much work, and besides, there was no one to see. My pants hit the floor with a thud, and I remembered my phone. I’d turned it off before searching Hallstrom’s place, visions of an untimely call dancing in my head, and now I turned it back on and set it on the shelf above the sink. I turned on the taps and watched the tub fill up with steaming water.
My phone buzzed as it came back to life, and I retrieved it. Two texts. The first was from Viv, asking where I was. The second was from my sister. ETHAN THRILLED AM NAMING BABY HELLIE HA HA HA.
I smiled. That was cheering news, almost enough to dislodge the stone in my heart. Cynthia was going to be…well, I couldn’t say she was going to be a great mother, because I had no idea whether my sister would be able to cope with a baby. For all I knew, she’d let the nanny raise her. But I was certain Cynthia would do her best, and her best was generally amazing.
I put the phone back on the shelf, well away from the water, and slid into the tub. Tendrils of pink curled through the water. I scrubbed my bloody shoulder and side and the water turned even pinker. I should have washed first so I didn’t have to soak in my own blood, but I was too tired to get out and drain the tub. I piled my hair on my head and found a few strands caked with dried blood, so I sank under the water until nothing but the tip of my nose showed. I let myself float, closed my eyes and enjoyed the feeling of weightlessness. When I couldn’t hold my breath any longer, I rose up out of the water, making it rush and spill over the edge, soaking the bath rug. I wiped water from my eyes and squeezed it out of my hair. Then I hugged my knees and rested my chin on them. And I cried.
I wasn’t sure why I was crying, or rather, which of all the cry-worthy incidents of the evening prompted me to sit in pink bathwater and bawl until my eyes hurt. I’d been nearly killed by a serial killer. I’d been shot by someone I loved who I thought loved me. I’d seen him arrested and condemned to stand trial. I’d had to endure healing, which in some ways was worse than the original wound. Any of those things could justify my crying jag. Maybe it was all of them.
I cried until the water was lukewarm, then I drained and refilled the tub. I soaped up and washed myself and my hair and rinsed until I felt clean. I was so tired I didn’t even know if I could sleep, which was a ridiculous thought, but one I latched onto as justification for watching a movie instead of going to bed.
I put in The Magnificent Seven—hadn’t I just talked about that with someone? Not Malcolm, though now I knew where I’d seen that hard, angry look before: Yul Brynner looked the same every time he talked to Horst Buchholz, the young would-be gunslinger. It was a look that said he’d hurt the boy if that would save him. I understood that look so much better now.
I fell asleep just as the Magnificent Seven were defending the village the first time and woke to the sound of the end title. I staggered to my bed without turning on the light and fell deeply asleep, where I dreamed of being engulfed by Hallstrom’s arborvitae, swallowed up and trapped in a tiny basement that was filling up with water. No matter what I did, it wouldn’t let me drown.
21
The next few days were the busiest Abernathy’s had ever been. Most people wanted to gossip about Hallstrom and grill me for details I wouldn’t give. A few Nicolliens and Ambrosites still wanted auguries about how to cause trouble for the other side and were undeterred by my glaring at them. A lot of people from both sides wanted to talk about Malcolm. The Nicolliens were furious that he was in protective custody. “As if we’d try to kill a prisoner,” one Nicollien woman told me. “I want to face him in the killing fields and prove his guilt on his dead body.”
“He’d tear you apart, Emily,” Judy said. “You’re just making a fool of yourself.”
Emily had hmphed and stormed out of the store without getting her augury, which was fine by me.
The Ambrosites, on the other hand, turned Malcolm into some kind of patron saint. “He stopped that serial killer single-handedly,” said an Ambrosite man, forgetting I’d been there and knew the story. “He gave himself up rather than be captured. The trial has to exonerate him.”
“I hope so,” I said.
The man patted my wrist. “You’re still new, so you don’t know Malcolm like I do. He always gets his man, no matter what it takes.”
I smiled and removed his hand from my wrist, wishing I dared slap him. “I’m sure everything will be fine.”
When that man had gone, Judy said, “I doubt he’s ever met Campbell in his life.”
“Probably not.”
“But he’s right. Campbell has enough evidence to prove he acted in self-defense in killing Amber.”
“I thought you hated him for doing that.”
“I do, but I have to face the fact that Amber wasn’t who we thought she was.” Judy let out a long breath. “I just want Hallstrom to tell everything. Why he was working with Amber. How and why she got involved at all. There must be something to explain it.”
“I hope there is.”
Judy swore, startling me. “Would you stop moping? You’d think your best friend was dead. You’re alive. Campbell’s going to go free. Hallstrom will testify and everything will work out.”
“Since when are you so optimistic?”
“Since you stopped being optimistic. Someone has to.”
The door swung open. “Ms. Davies?” said a woman whose face was vaguely familiar. She wore a business suit and pumps and had her hair pulled severely back from her face.
“Yes?”
The woman came toward me, holding out a packet of paper. “You’ve been summoned to appear before the tribunal.”
I took the paper unthinkingly. “What tribunal?” I said, though there really could be only one.
“The tribunal charging Mitch Hallstrom with several counts of murder.”
“Oh.”
“It’s on Sunday. The instructions are in the packet. Miss Rasmussen, I believe there’s a summons for you as well.”
“Thanks,” said Judy.
The woman nodded and let herself out. I opened the packet. The first time I’d been summoned, there had just been a single sheet of paper containing instructions about where to go and what the tribunal was about. This time, there were two other papers in addition to the one headed People v. Mitch Hallstrom. One was a lined sheet titled STATEMENT with a few lines instructing me to write up my encounter with Hallstrom and my reasons for suspecting him in my own handwriting. This would be picked up tomorrow and read into the record so I didn’t waste the tribunal’s time telling my story. Add pages if necessary, it said. I thought it probably would be necessary.
“Why can’t I type it?” I asked Judy.
“Your handwriting is like a key. It’s a way of validating the account as yours.”
“Sounds like a pain.”
“Depends on how thorough you are. What’s this last page?”
The last page was a photocopy of someone else’s STATEMENT, and it took just one glance for me to recognize the elegant handwriting as Malcolm’s. A Post-It note attached to the top told me to read the statement and initial it at the bottom if I agreed it was factual. I swallowed and began reading. It was excerpted from a longer statement—well, Malcolm’s account would naturally be longer than mine—and recounted what had happened in Hallstrom’s garage.
It was eerie to see myself referred to as Mis
s Davies when I was so accustomed to seeing my first name written in that beautiful script. The whole thing read like an abstract to some scholarly journal, dry and lacking the terror I’d felt held hostage by a killer, but it was as accurate as it could be.
I judged Miss Davies not to be in a position where shooting Hallstrom through her would prove fatal to her, I read, and swallowed again. Utterly logical. Would he still have taken the shot if it might have killed me? A head shot was riskier and would certainly have killed Hallstrom, and I needed him alive to testify. There was an answer to a question I hadn’t thought to ask—why not shoot him somewhere else?
“Are you all right?” Judy asked.
“Just experiencing some good old fashioned PTSD.”
“Don’t joke about that. PTSD is serious. And it wouldn’t be at all surprising if you suffered from it, given all the crises you’ve weathered here.”
“Um…thank you.”
“You’re my friend.”
Judy wouldn’t meet my eyes. I hugged her, crushing the papers a little. “You’re a great friend,” I whispered. “I’m glad I didn’t go out to Hallstrom’s alone.”
Tentatively, she hugged me back. “I don’t know how much use I was,” she said. “Lucia’s people arrived far too quickly to have come because I called.”
“I think they were chasing Malcolm. It sounded like he knew they were close.” I released her and smoothed out the papers. “I guess I know what I’m doing tonight.”
“I hope they don’t want one from me,” Judy said. “I saw practically nothing.”
“So how does it work? Is it the Board of Neutralities that tries him?”
“In this case, it will be the Archmagi, which is probably why it’s not until Sunday. It gives them time to get their affairs in order. They’re both extremely busy people. They’ll read all the statements, then call witnesses to testify.”
“What if Hallstrom won’t talk?”
“They have ways to make him talk.”
That sounded ominous. “You mean…torture?”
“No. Magic to compel honesty, or to make someone feel like talking.”
“I thought mind control was impossible.”
“It is. This isn’t mind control so much as encouragement. Most criminals like other people to know how clever they are in committing crimes. This just gives that natural impulse a little boost.”
“Will they let us listen when Hallstrom testifies?”
Judy turned and walked toward the office. “I don’t know. I hope so.”
“Me too.”
Sunday was a clear, warm day, too beautiful to spend underground like I was about to. At ten o’clock I drove to the location on the paperwork, which was an undistinguished red brick building near the Morrison Bridge. Its many windows caught the sunlight and turned the whole thing mirror-bright. I stopped at the reception desk in the atrium, where a woman handed me a visitor’s badge and told me to go to the farthest elevator and push B. This time, I was prepared for the elevator to stop after B3 and move sideways, but instead of S5, where it had gone the first time I’d been here, it stopped at S3 and the door slid open.
The foyer beyond was glittering crystal and mirrored glass like a ballroom, with a white marble floor and lighting that seemed to come from everywhere. It smelled sharp, like fresh lacquer, and I pinched my nose shut against a sneeze. Two halls extended out of sight on each side. I walked forward and heard the elevator door slide shut. I waited. They always sent a guide. I wished Judy had come with me, but she’d been called to testify an hour earlier and I was sure they didn’t want me tagging along. We’d promised to tell each other everything when we met afterward.
Eventually I heard shoes tapping across the marble, and a gentleman came into view on my left. Gentleman was the only word for him; even Malcolm never dressed this sprucely, in formal morning attire with a bow tie, black and white saddle shoes, and crisp white gloves. His thinning gray hair was swept back from his forehead, and between that and the clothes he looked just like William Powell in How to Marry a Millionaire. “Ms. Davies, welcome,” he said, his voice rich as chocolate.
“Thank you,” I said, and restrained myself from curtseying.
“If you’ll follow me.” He swept me a bow, extending his hand back the way he’d come, and I followed, wishing I’d worn a dress instead of slacks and a rose-pink silk shell.
The corridor was mirrored on both sides, making it appear to extend into infinity. My reflections paced me perfectly, though they gradually curved to the right and out of sight. I’d never seen anything like it. Between the mirrors and the length of the hall, I felt like I was in simultaneously the biggest and the smallest space I’d ever seen. I almost wanted to mark my progress with lipstick so I’d be able to find my way back, though it wasn’t a maze and the way was straight and clear.
We came to the end abruptly, to a mirrored wall I’d thought was someone else walking toward us. My guide pressed his thumb to a crystal square, and the door opened on darkness. “Walk forward, and don’t be afraid,” he said.
I did as he said, though the darkness did unnerve me a little. The door closed behind me. I waited in the darkness for a light to come on, letting my senses build up a picture of the room for me. It smelled of caramel and roses, a faint but pervasive smell I could almost taste. The warmth of the room felt like velvet on my face, and my feet trod on something soft and plush. I had no idea how large the room was, but instinct told me it wasn’t small enough that I should feel claustrophobic. And my eyes weren’t adjusting to the darkness to reveal even the tiniest hint of light.
I stretched out my hand and took a step forward. Immediately a purplish-white line of fire ignited, circling the walls just below the ceiling. The room was round, and probably white when a normal light shone on it. Directly across from me were double doors. I crossed the thick carpet and pushed on both doors at once, and they swung open.
I felt it was a dramatic entrance, but no one in the room beyond paid any attention. It looked just like a courtroom, but without a jury box and with no stand where the judge would sit. Instead, a carpeted dais stood at the far end of the room, and a couple of thrones stood on it. You couldn’t call them anything else: they were plated in gold, with padded red velvet armrests and ornate carvings covering the backs and sides. I recognized the woman seated on the right; she was the Ambrosite Archmagus, Yamane Mitsuko. I guessed the man on the left had to be the Nicollien Archmagus, Michael Foster. He was the kind of bald that wasn’t sexy, being rather pudgy and jowly and with tiny eyes like sparks of blue flame nearly buried in wrinkles.
But I spared only a glance for them, because in the center of the space between the dais and where the spectator benches began was something I remembered well: a circle of black, irregular stones within which burned a purplish-white fire like the one in the antechamber. The fire wasn’t consuming anything, not wood or coal, but it showed no sign of going out. The Blaze, a magical tool for compelling truth from a witness. I’d borne testimony within it before and I was the only one who could see it for what it really was. I wished I’d thought to wear sunglasses.
“Have a seat, Ms. Davies,” said a man dressed in the same impeccable formal wear as my guide. I walked forward to the third row from the front and slid down the bench until I could see the Archmagi around the Blaze. They were talking to each other and didn’t at all look like mortal enemies, which I’d been told they were.
The two straightened in their seats, facing the Blaze, and another uniformed attendant called out, “Malcolm Campbell.”
I startled. I hadn’t even noticed Malcolm was there. He was dressed in his usual suit and tie, but looked almost casual next to the attendants. He rose and stepped into the circle of stone. The Blaze rose up higher, but Malcolm didn’t react, probably because he couldn’t see it. To him, it looked like shifting mist.
“Do you swear the statement you presented this tribunal is true in every particular?” the attendant said.
“
I do.”
Foster leaned forward slightly. “You admit to killing Amber Guittard.” His accent reminded me of the Beatles, but thicker and hard to understand.
“I do.”
“You claim you killed her in self-defense,” said Yamane.
Malcolm stood straight and didn’t flinch. “Yes.”
“Why would Ms. Guittard have attacked you to require such a defense?” Yamane continued.
“I accused Ms. Guittard of being complicit in a series of murders and of having committed two of those murders herself.”
“What proof do you have of this?” Foster said. “Keep in mind Ms. Guittard’s reputation was spotless.”
“My proof is recounted in my statement,” Malcolm said, “but in short, I found it suspicious that she was present at all but two of the killings, even when being there took her out of her way. From there, I investigated the other two killings and found witnesses who put Ms. Guittard in the area only minutes before the killings took place. I brought this evidence to her, and rather than defend herself, she attempted to kill me.”
“Forcing you to defend yourself,” Yamane said.
“Yes.”
“It’s your word against a dead woman’s,” Foster said.
“Mr. Hallstrom will confirm Ms. Guittard’s involvement in the murders.”
“I suggest we postpone questioning Mr. Campbell until Mr. Hallstrom’s interrogation,” Yamane said quickly.
“Agreed,” said Foster, just as quickly. I guessed they’d already agreed to this, though I wasn’t sure why. I’d have thought Foster would want Guittard’s killer crucified.
“Take a seat, Mr. Campbell, and we’ll recall you shortly,” Yamane said.
Malcolm bowed and returned to his seat. His eyes flicked over me, then moved on, and I felt an ache growing in my heart.
“Helena Davies,” the attendant called out, and I shot to my feet like I’d been goosed. Flushing with embarrassment, I walked up the center aisle and stepped into the Blaze, closing my eyes against its brightness.
The Book of Mayhem Page 23
