The Shadow Guard

by Diane Whiteside

“After that episode”—Episode? Adventure, more like. Shit, Hollywood probably couldn’t match the story!—“the Pentagon believes I’m one of the few who can talk to this bunch. So here I am, at least for a little while.”

  “Pentagon desk job? You’re lucky.” Jake tried to sound convincing.

  Poor guy, he probably didn’t have any choice. Jake had one when he left the streets, not that he’d enjoyed taking the sergeant’s exam.

  “Yeah, maybe.” Logan hunched his shoulders and turned away. “I can at least run in the Tidewater 10K. Isn’t that next week or the week after?”

  “Something like that.” Jake fumbled for something positive to say. “The station has several teams running in it, to raise funds for Enfield House, the battered women’s shelter.”

  “Great cause.” Logan reached for the banister like an old friend. “For my money, the Tidewater’s one of the best races for meeting up with old special ops buddies.”

  “Great idea.” Logan’s friends would be good for him. “Well, I think I’d better get ready for work.”

  “Are you going to take the car?”

  “Yes.”

  Logan’s face shuttered faster than a holding cell door on Saturday night.

  “There’s a BMW motorcycle in the garage,” Jake said softly. Like hell, he’d keep the kid tied down. “Not a Harley, but—”

  “Can’t keep your hands off German vehicles?” Logan’s drooping eyelids couldn’t hide the sparkle in his eyes. “Guess I’ll have to forgive you, since it’s a motorcycle. Thanks, bro.”

  Jake tipped his head in acknowledgment and kept going.

  “Your pickup’s two blocks away at Old Man Lafferty’s place. Keys are in the usual place.”

  “You didn’t put it in storage?”

  “Why spend the money? Lafferty had room after he sold his wife’s minivan after their divorce.”

  “Isn’t he the one who bikes everywhere?”

  “Got him in one. He fit your kayak onto the rack below his and helped me wash and wax it, too.”

  “Awesome.” Logan swayed, a half smile dancing around his mouth. “Say thanks for me, won’t you?”

  Jake could have shouted hallelujah. Instead he simply nodded soberly, as if reliving the thick yellow gunk he’d plastered onto his brother’s boat—and much of his own skin.

  “You won’t stop by a grocery store on the way home and buy stuff so I can cook your dinner?” His brother eyed him suspiciously from halfway up the stairs.

  “No, not unless you beg.”

  “Beg? I’m pouring myself into the sack, big bro! Then I’m going to have some cold beer, a good meal, and a good lay—”

  “If you can find the latter,” Jake cut in.

  Logan flipped him off without missing a beat.

  “After that, I’ll call an old buddy and spend some quiet time enjoying the water. You heard me—water, the strange stuff that isn’t found anywhere in a desert.”

  And which answers a scientist’s questions, like a well-behaved inanimate object should do.

  Jake envied his brother’s straightforward quest, so very different from a homicide investigation. But maybe he’d get lucky, too. Perhaps the lab tests would have come back by now on Melinda Williams’s car and give him some leads.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Jake smacked the Send key, then shot a jaundiced eye at his in-box’s counter. Two solid hours of paperwork and e-mail had done little to reduce the overflowing number of demands for his attention. Only a masochistic idiot—or a power-hungry fool—hungered to perform police paperwork. He’d never quite forgiven himself for joining the competitors for this job, even if it had kept Cosby out of the seat.

  No flashes from his telephone to announce a breakthrough on the Williams case, or anything else on his plate. Nothing but biting his nails, kicking red tape, and booting another request for help into thin air whenever he thought it might work.

  He could send another e-mail to the lab—and get his ears chewed off.

  He drummed his fingers on the table. He should have picked up some peanut brittle if he truly wanted a bribe. Maybe at lunch.

  But Astrid should call soon. He grinned, warmed by anticipation for more than the case.

  “Jake.” A boxy female sat down beside his desk with more emphasis than grace. “I need to talk to you. Don’t bother standing up; neither of us has time.”

  “Good to see you, Lieutenant.” Jake rapidly locked down his computer.

  She shot him a filthy look from underneath Belhaven’s cheapest haircut.

  “Magdalena,” he corrected quickly. She tolerated formality from nobody.

  Her clothing was immaculately clean, thanks to the early hour and her lab coat, and virulently polyester. It had probably originated at a store more frequented by the town’s indigents than its cops. Unlike other women, she never talked about shopping, only family and work.

  “Care for some coffee? Or would you prefer tea? We just added some new decaffeinated green to our stash,” he added, remembering recent gossip.

  “No, not now, I’ve got to see the district attorney in a few minutes. But I wanted to get this to you right away.” She shoved a folder across his crowded desk.

  “The Williams case?” He grabbed the anonymous rectangle. “Anything interesting?”

  “I personally did all the work.”

  “What the hell?” Belhaven spent a fortune on its CSI, and nobody ran a tighter squad than Lieutenant Baldwin. She had plenty of grunts to do the dirty jobs.

  She kicked his door shut with her heel and leaned forward.

  “The car’s a complete loss so far; nothing there except the victim.”

  “Looked like the perp was wearing gloves, according to the traffic cam.” Jake lowered his voice to match hers.

  “Well, if you saw that much, it’s more than anybody else did, even with computer assistance. The FBI couldn’t blow that video up.”

  Jake frowned and tried to think back to the traffic control center. Williams had been standing . . .

  Magdalena cut into his thoughts.

  “No sign of the victim on the mask. Heck, there’s no sign of anything on its outside—it’s just a plain wool ski mask.”

  “Plain wool ski mask?” Jake felt as if he was feeling his way through a fog, where every word only made the mist deeper and deeper.

  “Yes, a solid black wool ski mask. Pure, virgin wool with absolutely no trace of any other products or markings.”

  “But I thought . . .” he stopped. Hadn’t there been Nazi insignia on it? Had he described that on the evidence report or simply let Reeves in the evidence locker write it up?

  “That’s the way it came in, Jake, just like the tag says. Now the good stuff”—she thumped the table—“is all inside the mask.”

  “Good stuff?” Hope, quick and bright like the scent of a day’s first true meal, stirred inside him.

  “Yup. Lots and lots of skin and blood cells, plus a few hairs.”

  “Enough to type?”

  She snickered. “More than enough to let every court between here and the U.S. Supreme Court retest!”

  Hope bloomed into full glorious life, richer than a Thanksgiving dinner.

  “Have you run the DNA yet?” he asked.

  “Who do you think I am, a magician?”

  Astrid could do it.

  Jake yanked himself back to reality. “You’ve pulled off wilder feats,” he wheedled.

  “Maybe.” Magdalena’s freckled, homely face crinkled into a smile. “And maybe not. But I did call in a few favors. Quick look hasn’t found a match so far.”

  “Damn.” Hope faded but refused to disappear. DNA tests took longer than birthing a brat, as the chief said. Maybe a hit would turn up.

  “At least you can be sure that it’s the killer’s, since it’s all on the inside.”

  “Cool. That is truly cool.” He leaned back in his chair and shared a grin with one of his best friends in the department.

  “Got
ta get going now; I have to talk to the DA about the Tunner case.” Magdalena shoved her chair back and stood up. Her success rate in courtrooms was equaled only by that in budget battles.

  “By the way, why did you do all the work?” Jake reached the door before she did but didn’t turn the knob.

  “My staff got headaches every time they worked with it.” For the first time, Magdalena frowned. “We tested it for every chemical we could think of.”

  “That’s why you know it’s pure wool.” What the hell happened?

  “Exactly. It’s as organic as it could be, but we still had to use the isolation chamber.”

  “Shit, that’s too bad.”

  “We needed the practice. Damn thing was so tightly knitted that it was tricky sampling the wool itself. But you learn to manage.”

  “Are you okay now?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. I came on late, so I only worked in the isolation chamber.” She shot him a no-nonsense look and he quickly opened the door. “The mask is locked up again in the vault, workload’s off the charts, and everything’s back to normal. What could be better?”

  “Nothing at all.”

  Except knowing for sure whether magick had been used on that mask.

  Viper stepped into his living room with sweat pouring from his brow. A few seconds allowed him to mop his face and reassure himself that nobody had disturbed any of his tells. Nobody ever had messed up his lair, but a wise man never took that for granted if he wanted to live long and prosper.

  And Viper intended to live very long indeed.

  Shower, news, stocks, food—in more or less that order. Then he’d see about new clients.

  A lesser man would kill that cop who’d wrecked the last hit. But not him. At least, not unless he could figure out a way to do so that wouldn’t trigger any suspicion.

  After all, murdering cops was the fastest way to shorten one’s life—and one’s enjoyment of retirement.

  He smiled, his good humor restored, and buried his face more deeply in the towel to scrub himself clean.

  His cell phone rang and he automatically flicked it open.

  Realization attacked him an instant later. His gut cringed, faster and colder than being brushed by a cobra’s poison in an equatorial jungle.

  The prepaid cell phone had rung, the one he’d purchased yesterday that only he knew about. He’d bought it to place calls for his business, not to receive calls.

  Whoever it was knew he’d answered.

  He gritted his teeth and glared at the display, ready to brazen out his presence.

  “Yes?” he snarled.

  “You are a fool,” the all-too-familiar voice barked in those hateful, almost guttural tones.

  Viper’s gut knotted, worse than any time he’d awaited the French Foreign Legion’s unpredictable and always unpleasant discipline.

  “Mr. Big,” he stammered.

  How did he find me?

  Control yourself, you fool, he reminded himself. You have completed his jobs so far.

  But the last three assassins who took Mr. Big’s money and didn’t complete their tasks all died within a month.

  “You lost the mask,” Mr. Big commented, remorseless as a grenade. “Or should I say, you threw it away?”

  “Sir, you didn’t say anything about what I was supposed to do with it,” Viper protested desperately. Merde, now his brow dripped as if he was still running.

  “Did I give you permission to dispose of my property?” The icy tones cut with a scalpel’s bitter precision, able to separate bone from flesh before a man stopped screaming.

  “No, sir—but I couldn’t breathe inside the wool,” Viper blurted.

  A brutal hand clamped around his throat. He choked for air and clawed at the invisible attacker, but found nothing to fight.

  A heavy silence fell, broken only by his lifeblood drumming in his ears.

  “An allergy attack?” Mr. Big seemed transfixed by a new vision of torment, like a cat contemplating a bird’s broken wing.

  “Yes, sir,” Viper wheezed. His vision blurred.

  “Very well. You are forgiven—this time.”

  The hand vanished and fresh air rushed back into Viper’s lungs. He gulped it down greedily until the stars slowly faded from the room’s edges.

  Rage swelled against the unknown bastard but he fought it back. He had the money, after all, plenty of it from Mr. Big’s first—and so far only—hit.

  Looked like this was when he’d break his rule about going against clients after the hit was over.

  “Remember that lesson before you dare to fail me twice.” Mr. Big’s harsh voice underlined how much stronger the next treatment would be. “I will call you when I need you again. And, worm—don’t bother to get a new phone: it irritates me.”

  An empty line’s vicious buzz told Viper exactly how alone he was.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Astrid leaned back against the car seat and considered her companion’s face, silhouetted against the bright spring sunshine. So far he hadn’t said a word about their destination, just stuffed her in his big Mercedes and headed across the river like a man on a mission.

  If Jake wanted to play all-knowing homicide dick—in multiple senses of that word—and not tell her where or what they were going to do, so be it.

  Maybe some innocuous conversation would loosen his tongue.

  “Wow, the cherry trees are just starting to bud up here,” she commented. “Good thing the last storm didn’t harm them.”

  Her antisocial partner grunted.

  She rolled her eyes. It was the oldest and safest conversational topic in D.C. at this time of year. Everybody who’d seen cherry blossoms come alive became protective of them.

  What was he worried about? Taking a week off had come together easily; her FBI boss had been delighted she was finally heeding his suggestions about getting some balance back in her life. (As if he knew what her world truly consisted of!) She hadn’t told the Shadow Guard’s captain; that unpleasant duty wasn’t absolutely required. Yet.

  “Do you need anything special to work your magick?” Jake asked abruptly. He cut the wheel over and shot down a narrow road into a subdivision.

  “What kind of magick?” Guarding the two of them? His Mercedes was very protective of him, so casting wards over it would take little effort.

  “Spotting things.” He shot out of the little side street onto a major road, inches ahead of an enormous tractor trailer.

  “Like seeing?” She blinked and tried to envision what he could possibly mean.

  “Can you tell whether somebody is inherently good or bad?” Under a policeman’s stern eye and strict hand signals, the old car decorously turned into a church driveway.

  The church was a big, classically simple structure built of golden brick. Its belfry caught the light and reflected it, as if strengthening the prayers of the single deep bell steadily tolling at the top.

  Cars covered the parking lot, most of them organized into the frozen cavalcade of a future procession. A black hearse, polished like a jewel box, and a half dozen equally impressive limousines framed the path inside.

  Astrid rolled down the window and sniffed, to cautiously taste the area. A chill, unwelcome finger touched her spine.

  She promptly flung her hand up and snapped wards into place around her and Jake.

  The subtle disturbance withdrew like a disappointed eel, leaving no trace behind. Had it been a magickal probe or her own unwelcome memories, come to unsettle her? How had it reached past Jake’s car’s own innate strength, dammit?

  In any case, she’d leave the wards up. They cost little energy to maintain, unless there was an attack.

  “Why are we here, Jake?” she asked, any relaxation gone from her voice.

  “This is Melinda Williams’s funeral.”

  A few women glanced at them, their anguish protected behind immense black hats.

  “What do you want from me, Jake?”

  “Murderers like to visit these
affairs. If he’s here, I want you to tell me.”

  She chewed on the inside of her cheek.

  “You do realize her murder involved magick,” she said bluntly.

  “Yeah,” he said finally. He’d probably prefer to visit the dentist for an entire day than have this conversation. “You do whatever you have to, in order to find him.”

  “Even if it means magick.”

  “Even if it means waving long sticks of wood, chanting strings of funny words, and hurling thunderbolts like the second coming of Merlin! I don’t care, I just want the damn killer.” He folded his arms and glared at her.

  That opened the door to a great many options, even though the church sanctuary itself would limit some of them. Still, she would be doing good with no intent to cause harm so she should be okay.

  “I don’t read any killers here,” she warned him. “Nobody linked to her by violence and blood, at least not from inside the car. And nobody that I saw in my vision.”

  The grooves deepened beside his mouth.

  “You can try again inside the church, where you’re closer to folks.” He jerked the door latch open.

  She blew out a breath. Then she took another and another to compose and cleanse herself. Finally she passed her hands over her body and voilà! She had a new outfit, suitable for a funeral instead of everyday office work.

  Jake raised an eyebrow at her quick change but said nothing when he opened her door.

  “I set wards on both of us,” she said under her breath, when she stood next to him, the car windows tightly closed behind her.

  “Wards? You mean, like protection?” He searched her expression, visible despite her fashionable black hat. One hundred and thirty years after leaving that Nebraska farm, she still enjoyed those frivolous trifles.

  “Exactly.”

  “There must be a bad guy here, if you’re nervous. Where? Can we reach him fast?” Light brightened his eyes faster than a smile could reach his lips and he reached for his radio.

  “Maybe and no.”

  “Shit.” He rubbed his hands on his legs. “Well, there should be better hunting inside. Let’s go.”

  “In a minute.”

  Every mourner filing into the church wore grief like a shroud, sometimes dark enough to obscure every feature, sometimes merely a veil wrapped around the shoulders. But it was always there, even for the children, black as the night-dark depths of Oslofjord where the German battle cruiser lay.