Child of Fire: A Twenty Palaces Novel

by Harry Connolly

  I slammed the butt of the revolver onto the backs of their hands, aiming for the knuckle of their index fingers.

  It wasn’t the smartest move, but the smartest move would have been to kill them all. I didn’t want them shooting at me from a moving vehicle tomorrow. I had to take them out of the game somehow, and I had to teach them, and whoever pulled their strings, not to mess with me. Breaking their hands was gentle compared with what I should have done.

  They cursed and whimpered like scolded boys. When it was done, I slid open the side door.

  “School’s out for the day,” I said, and kicked Georgie through the open door.

  He tumbled out onto the curb, and the other three scrambled after him on their knees and elbows. They crouched on the sidewalk, blinking in the drizzle, holding their arms across their chests just as I had outside Sara’s bar. I slammed the door shut.

  The keys were, in fact, in the ignition. I laid the guns in my lap, started the van, and pulled into traffic.

  At the first red light, I picked up the driver’s revolver. I took out my ghost knife and cut off the hammer, then sliced through the cylinder. I tossed it into the back of the van. Georgie’s gun was already ruined.

  I have my reasons for not liking guns.

  On impulse, I opened the glove compartment and peeked inside. My curiosity was rewarded with an envelope filled with five $50 bills.

  Things were looking up.

  My arm was bleeding pretty freely. It was annoying and I’d need to have it taken care of. I took the tourist map from my inside jacket pocket and consulted it. Looking around the neighborhood, I oriented myself to the two main roads in town. The hospital was behind me and to the east. I turned at a corner, then did it again.

  I was a couple of blocks from the hospital when I saw a McDonald’s. Half an omelet and toast hadn’t held me, so I pulled into the drive-through. If I was going to wait in an emergency room, I might as well have lunch with me.

  And wooden men don’t have to worry about cholesterol.

  I ordered the biggest, sloppiest burger they had, along with fries and a milk shake. In for a penny, in for a pound. As I pulled up to the pickup window, a pretty teenage girl with a splatter of pimples over her face leaned out the window.

  “Hi, Uncle Ethan!” she said.

  Then she saw my face. Her mouth dropped open, but she didn’t say a word. “Hello yourself,” I said. I paid her with Georgie’s money. She gave me the food.

  “That looks like my uncle’s van,” she said.

  “Really? Weird,” I said to her. I set the bag of food on the seat next to me and drove to the emergency room.

  To my surprise, there were no other patients. To my further surprise, I didn’t need stitches. The doctor cleaned the wound, glued it shut, and packed a bandage against it. It cost me three hundred dollars. Luckily, I hadn’t bought two milk shakes. Uncle Ethan paid my bill for me, leaving about six dollars in my pocket. Easy come…

  I thanked the emergency room staff and walked toward the exit to check on the van. Through the glass doors, I saw the Escalade slowly cruising through the parking lot. I stepped away from the glass. The SUV circled Uncle Ethan’s van, then drove around the building.

  I turned away from the doors and hustled through the hospital, moving as fast as I could without attracting attention. I had planned to visit Harlan Semple while I was here. That would have to wait.

  I passed bare corridors with no doors. For a moment I felt lost, then I burst through some double doors and found myself in a storage room filled with plastic tubes in plastic bags, and IV stands. Feeling relieved, I broke into a sprint, running to the loading dock I knew had to be at the end of the hall.

  There was a small panel van backed against the loading dock, and an eighteen-wheeler backing up beside it. A man in jeans and a polo shirt called out to me, telling me I wasn’t supposed to be there, but I jumped off the loading dock and ran to the street beyond.

  I reached the sidewalk. The street was nearly empty, and the Escalade was nowhere in sight. I was standing at the exit of the parking lot. Nothing there, either.

  Wait. There it was. The Escalade pulled into view, then stopped, as if the driver was looking around. I ducked behind a tall hedge, bumping against the stop sign that controlled traffic entering the road.

  The vehicle turned toward the exit and puttered toward the spot where I was hiding. I watched it through a break in the bushes, trying to get a glimpse of the driver. I couldn’t. The overcast clouds reflected off the windshield, blocking my view. Still, I was sure it was Charles Hammer in there.

  The Escalade pulled a little past the stop sign and paused on the sidewalk. I knew the driver would be watching the traffic to the left, so I stepped from my hiding spot, yanked open the passenger door, and hopped into the seat.

  “Hello,” I said.

  The driver cried out in a high-pitched voice, and for a second, I thought Charles Hammer looked much shorter behind the wheel than he had in his offices.

  Of course, it wasn’t Charles behind the wheel. It was a well-dressed, dark-haired woman. She had broad, even, lovely features, hair that reached just below her ears. Her legs were thick with well-toned muscle. She looked to be about thirty.

  And I had just jumped into her car like a carjacker.

  “Oh!” she cried. “Oh, I… um…”

  “Is there something you wanted to talk to me about?” I asked her.

  She glanced at the cell phone holstered beside her car radio. “Do you want to call the police?” I asked. “Go ahead. I think that’s a terrific idea.”

  “Look,” she said, shrinking fearfully against the door, her hand inching toward the door release. “I’m sorry about following you around. You met with my brother, and-”

  “Who’s your brother?”

  “Charles Hammer. At Hammer Bay Toys.” I nodded. I could see the resemblance. “I wanted to talk to you-”

  “Then why did you pull away when I approached you the first time?”

  “I wasn’t sure then. I just decided this morning.”

  She’d laid her hand on the door release, looking like she was ready to throw herself out of the car at any moment. I noticed a diamond tennis bracelet on her wrist. It was tasteful and worth more than Uncle Ethan’s van. When she grimaced, I saw that her teeth were as white as pearls.

  “What ever,” I said. I felt sour. I didn’t want to terrify some woman. I didn’t like the way she was looking at me. “Whoever you are, stop following me around. I don’t like it.”

  I opened the door and slid out of the vehicle.

  “Wait!” she called. I waited for her, both of my feet on the concrete and my hand on the door, ready to slam it shut.

  “I’m sorry. I really do want to talk to you. I think you can help me. Would you meet me at this address in an hour?”

  She held out a business card. I didn’t take it. There was no point in getting distracted in my search for Charles Hammer.

  Unless she was willing to help me.

  “Please?”

  I shrugged and took the card. She thanked me and apologized again. I shut the door. She pulled away.

  I looked at the card. It read Cynthia Hammer. Below that was an address on Hammer Street. That was the right last name. I turned and walked back to the parking lot.

  The fright I had given Cynthia Hammer had taken all the fun out of being a bastard. I returned to Uncle Ethan’s van and tossed the keys on the floor by the brake pedal. I was tempted to wipe it down for fingerprints, but I noticed drops of blood on the driver’s-side door and decided not to bother. Uncle Ethan, Georgie, and their two buddies should be turning up soon to have their hands worked on. They might as well find their ride waiting for them, even if they couldn’t drive it home.

  I walked around to the front of the hospital into the reception area. The very polite matron working there told me that visiting hours had just started. It was one in the afternoon. When I admitted that I was a friend of Harlan’s,
not a family member, she told me I would need permission from the family to visit.

  She called a volunteer over and spoke to her in low tones. The volunteer then said, “Follow me, sir,” in a shy voice. She led me to the elevator.

  The inside of the elevator was stainless steel polished as bright as a mirror. I saw my dirty, rumpled pants and bloody, torn shirt. I didn’t like the way I looked.

  The elevator doors opened, and the volunteer led me down a quiet hall to a little waiting area. Shireen sat alone, reading a tattered copy of Redbook. She was wearing a WSU Cougar sweatshirt.

  The volunteer spoke to her in a voice barely louder than a whisper. “This gentleman would like to visit Harlan. Would that be all right?”

  “Yes,” Shireen said. She turned to me. “Maybe he’ll talk to you. I’m his only family in the entire world, and he treats me like an enemy.”

  The volunteer had already started back toward the elevator. Shireen returned to her magazine. “Which room?” I asked.

  She tossed her magazine onto the vinyl couch with an irritated sigh. “This way,” she said.

  She opened the door and stepped into Harlan’s room. I heard a rasping voice before I saw him. He said, “Out,” in a raw, strained voice.

  “Someone is here to visit you,” Shireen said. “Try to show him more courtesy than you’ve shown me.”

  Harlan lay in the bed. He had tubes in his nose, his arms, and his chest. He looked smaller, than I remembered him, but everyone looked smaller lying in a hospital bed. Everyone looked smaller without a gun, too.

  Shireen pushed by me and shut the door behind her. I pulled up a chair and sat next to the bed.

  Harlan looked pale and exhausted. He might have been getting good care, but no one was going to make him live if he didn’t want to.

  “Having a bad week?” I asked. Harlan made a wheezing sound that might have been laughter. He winced in pain. “Sorry, man,” I said. “No more jokes. I promise.”

  He settled down. I went to the foot of his bed. There was a chart hanging there, just like they show on TV, but I couldn’t make heads or tails of it.

  “How you doing?” Harlan rasped.

  “How am I doing with my…” I almost said investigation, but that’s a cop’s word. I didn’t want to say it. “I’m further along,” I said, “but this town is a mess. And it’s scary. But I’ve got nothing to lose.”

  And that was true. Harlan and I were both pretty close to death. Despite his injuries, I figured it was even money to see which of us would live longer.

  “How long ago did this start?” I asked. “The kids, I mean.”

  Harlan held up his hand in a peace sign. Two.

  “Two months?” I asked. He frowned. “Two years?!” He relaxed. I’d gotten it right.

  Two years. Christ.

  “Did something else happen around then? Something that seemed strange or…” Harlan’s eyes grew dim. He was exhausted, and I had pushed him far enough. “Relax, dude,” I said. “And hold on. I’m going to need to ask you more questions when you’re better. I need your help, okay?”

  He nodded faintly. I didn’t really think he could help me much more, but I wanted to give him a reason to hold on. I stood and left him lying there, alone. I heard him struggling to breathe.

  Shireen had company with her in the waiting room. Standing beside her was a short, fat man in a stained polo shirt and brown shorts that reached just below his hairy knees. He held a tape recorder in his hand. I disliked him on sight.

  “Come on, Shireen,” he said, his voice an annoying whine. “I’m going to find out…” Shireen’s face was set in a scowl. She was not about to answer anyone’s questions.

  He glanced over at me, and his face lit up. He turned to me. “Hey! I’ve been trying to catch up with you for two days. I’m Peter Lemly with The Mallet. What’s your connection with Harlan Semple? Is it true that you’ve come to town to outsource some of the Hammer Bay manufacturing jobs?”

  I stared at him. He stared back, holding the tape recorder out. I leaned toward the microphone and said, very clearly, “You’re just about as wide as you are tall, aren’t you?”

  He yanked back the recorder, but he didn’t turn it off. He looked flustered and aggravated. “I know who you are,” he said, trying to make it sound like a threat.

  “So does she.” I jerked my thumb at Shireen. “Now why don’t you go away so I can express my sympathies in private.”

  “Are you a friend of the family, then?”

  “Nope. Never met any of them before two days ago.”

  “What about the jobs at the toy factory?” he asked.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The rumor would work for us while it was a rumor. As soon as it appeared somewhere official, Able Katz could refute it and it would lose some of its power.

  “Actually, I think you do. I’m the only media this town has, and I’m not going to be pushed around. I’m going to get some answers myself.” He turned to Shireen. “Do you hear what I’m saying? I’m going to find out.”

  “I’m not going to talk to you, Peter.” She wouldn’t look at him. “I’m never going to talk to you. Now, excuse me, I think my visit is over.”

  She turned to leave. Peter started to follow her, but I stepped in his path.

  “The lady wants to leave,” I said. “Leave her be.”

  “So macho,” he sneered. “So chivalrous. You have no idea who you’re protecting.”

  “What story are you following?” If he had said missing children, I would have swallowed my bile and bought him a drink. With my last six bucks.

  “Town corruption,” he said.

  “You’re after…” I let the sentence trail off. Lemly was eager to finish it for me.

  “The Dubois brothers. And the mayor, too, if he’s involved. And the town council. The whole town knows what’s going on, but no one will stand up to Emmett Dubois. Except me.”

  “Good luck with that.” Shireen had already entered the elevator at the end of the hall. The doors closed over her unhappy face. I turned away from my companion.

  “Wait!” He grabbed my elbow. “What are you doing in town? What have you come here to do?”

  “Good luck with your story,” I said. “I hope you don’t get anyone killed.”

  I turned my back on him and walked toward the elevator. He followed me, peppering me with questions. He wasn’t very good at it.

  The elevator opened again. I stepped inside and shoved Peter away from me. He didn’t fall, but he did keep his distance while the doors closed.

  I rode down the elevator, thinking about my own behavior in the last hour. I’d driven around in a stolen van, jumped into an SUV and menaced a woman, and shoved a guy in a hospital hallway.

  I’d never been this reckless and aggressive, even back when I was part of Arne’s crew. I knew the cause of it, of course. I was a dead man. I had agreed to be cannon fodder for Annalise’s war. Despite her recent gestures of friendship, she had promised to see me dead, and it felt very, very close.

  I laid my head against the cool stainless steel wall of the elevator. The best I could hope for was that I would be there when Annalise took down Charlie Three. I wanted to see her put an end to that bastard and avenge those children.

  I didn’t know when and how she would make her next move. Could she take out Charlie Three alone, injured as she was? What if she failed?

  That pleasant thought was interrupted by the elevator doors opening. I walked into the lobby and asked the woman at the reception desk for directions to Hammer Street.

  I got them. Of course Hammer Street wasn’t on my tourist map, but it was near the toy factory, on the inland side of the plant, about as far south as the light house.

  I left Ethan’s van where it was. Then I headed out onto the sidewalk, oriented myself, and started walking.

  What I should have done was call Annalise. My destination was an address on Hammer Street-it could very well have been Charles’s ho
me. If I found him there, it would be best if she was with me. But she hadn’t given me her cell phone number and I didn’t want the motel manager to share my message with Emmett Dubois.

  If Charles Hammer the Third really was at this address, was I going to kill him? Could I do it? It made me a little sick inside to think it, but I suspected the answer was yes.

  Considering.

  An even bigger question was whether Hammer would stay dead. That I didn’t want to think about too much. I would take my shot at him, if I got one. If it didn’t turn out well…

  I really didn’t want to think about that.

  Of course, I wasn’t exactly conducting myself like a sensible hitman. I’d just asked a hospital receptionist for directions to the victim’s street, for God’s sake.

  Maybe I wouldn’t have to kill Charles Hammer. Maybe I could find a better way.

  I heard the sound of children screaming.

  There was a long stretch of green grass on the corner ahead of me. Before I realized what I was doing, I was running toward it, ghost knife in hand.

  Kids scattered in every direction, running off a junior-sized basketball court. On the asphalt, I could see a four-foot-high plume of fire with a little figure inside.

  I ran into the street and sprinted toward the park. A hugely fat woman rushed toward the child, screaming. Then the flames sputtered out and the figure inside fell to pieces onto the asphalt.

  I felt the twinge against my iron gate.

  The fat woman stopped running. The few remaining children that hadn’t disappeared also stopped. Parents began to call their kids back to the playground.

  I reached the court. The fat woman turned and started walking back to the bench where the other parents were sitting. I was alone at the foul line.

  As I’d seen with Justin Benton, this child had broken down into a mass of fat, silvery worms. They crawled across the asphalt court, shiny and revolting. Where they touched the ground, they left a trail of black soot.

  I had no rational reason for what I did next. All I knew was that I had to destroy as many of those creatures as I could.

  I swung the ghost knife at the trailing worms. Ordinarily, the mark would not hurt living things, but I suspected these were predators-creatures from the Empty Spaces, partly physical and partly magical. And the ghost knife cuts magic.