Finder (The Watchers Book 6)

by Lilith Saintcrow

  “After breakfast,” Gary corrected, softly.

  “You’re driven around entirely by your stomach.” Tancred rolled his eyes. “If I let Gare have his way, we’d both be round as beach balls. I’ve got to keep my figure, dammit.”

  “Typical Watcher,” Jorie agreed, but her dark eyes were sparkling, Caleb’s entire chest suddenly eased, and for those few minutes at the end of breakfast, all was right with the world.

  He should have known it wouldn’t last. Just as Jorie was collecting the dishes from the table, gently scolding Gary into staying put and finishing his breakfast, there was yet another knock on the door. It was Sarah Belmario in her usual pink sweater set and skirt, dark circles under her eyes too and her chiseled mouth set in a thin, tight line.

  Jorie had a visitor.

  Without the Story

  “MARCHED RIGHT IN through the street entrance.” Sarah’s hands were clasped so tightly her knuckles whitened. Today her pashmina was wine-red, and it suited her. “I hate to sound like a broken record, Jorie, but this is dangerous. For everyone. What on earth is going on?”

  Jorie gazed through the one-way mirror. The safe house’s public reception area looked like a cross between a doctor’s waiting room and a rental office, with its two long counters, plush overstuffed chairs in taupe and pink, and the fountain installation against one wall, its rock and water full of a powerful, extremely subtle warding to make people without actual business very uncomfortable—and, not so incidentally, to strip anything other than Watcher glamours from all visitors.

  Which meant that the blonde woman sitting in one of the chairs, her hands clasped on her knees and her crossed ankles tucked to the side like a finishing-school graduate, was really as pretty and polished as she looked. Her hair glowed, a golden bob just brushing her shoulders, and she wore a very good navy pantsuit, gold hoops and a thread-thin gold necklace. Everything screamed money, right down to the calfskin attaché tucked between her hip and the chair arm in defiance of wrinkles. Her right hand, with its perfect French manicure, kept straying to the attaché’s handle, reassuring herself it was still there. “How long has she been waiting?”

  Of course, Jorie recognized her. Marilyn Geddoes was, after all, a local celebrity. There was also a glimmer to her aura, much stronger than Neil’s but not the incandescence of a Lightbringer.

  Channel Twelve’s most beloved—and tenacious—investigative reporter was psychic. It probably came in handy, and a great deal more of Neil’s comments made sense now. Maybe that was why Geddoes had been calling Jorie, too. Maybe Neil had given her his kooky psychic informant’s number, despite his promises to never breathe a word about Jorie Camden’s strange abilities.

  The feeling of a case coming together lingered just under her skin, turning her breath short and tingling up her back.

  “She’s been here about an hour and a half. I confess I was hoping she’d get bored and go home.” Sarah watched Jorie’s profile, probably anxious; Caleb was a bar of warmth near the viewing closet’s door. Jorie was glad of the dimness in here; even the reminder of why this kind of precaution was necessary didn’t bother her as much as it usually did.

  “She was a contact for the detective I was working with,” Jorie said, finally. “He’s missing; his old partner was the one leaving all those messages yesterday.”

  “Oh, gods.” Sarah’s sigh sounded like it came from her toes. She rubbed at her temple with two fingertips, probably anticipating a headache. “Are we going to have to have a Watcher push Channel Twelve?”

  I wouldn’t rule it out at the moment. “Let me see what she’s here for. She might just be worried, and psychic enough to get through the front door.” Jorie’s hands ached, and so did her neck. The tension was settling in, a sign that along with coalescing, the case was going to get far worse before it started making complete sense.

  “Why do I feel like I’m going to regret this?” Sarah half-turned, exchanging a significant look with Caleb at the door. Or trying to, at least; it was so dark in here she was probably just aiming a glare in his general direction. “Watcher?”

  “Understood, ma’am.” Caleb didn’t sound unhappy at the thought. Of course a Watcher would want to keep any reporters far away from the safehouse.

  Jorie didn’t bother protesting. The safety of every witch in the building—and the Watchers—overruled any possible ethical consideration she could have raised. Besides, she’d be a hypocrite—Watchers and Neil had both insulated her from any media attention. Neil because he was a cop, but the Watchers . . .

  Well, the world loved psychic powers and ghost stories, until they were real. Then normal people had one response to the unknown: Kill it, because we’re afraid.

  Maybe even the Crusade’s murderousness came down to that fear.

  Jorie set her chin, pushed her shoulders back, and wished the blue sweater wasn’t slightly too large for her. It felt just a trifle sloppy. She was sore all over, and would miss more than one dance class before this was done. There was work waiting in her business accounts, and she still hadn’t done an invoice for the Boyleston job.

  She might never see the ballet studio or Virgie again. The idea of having everything in storage brought here and cowering in the safehouse like a frightened animal was powerfully attractive.

  “I’ll talk to her,” she repeated. “And then, if it’s necessary, Caleb will push her, I promise.”

  “Well, let’s wait to see if it is truly necessary.” Now that it was decided, Sarah was all briskness. “I’ve an urgent call in to Mari Niege up north to possibly identify this kind of Dark. The Watchers are canvassing their informants. We’ll find it, Jorie, don’t you worry.”

  And how many Watchers will be hurt when we do? Because you couldn’t just let something like this crouch inside the city’s veins. Every terrible blank gaze on every doll she’d been seeing in her dreams for months now was an accusation.

  Lights in the hallway stung her eyes and Caleb held the door at the end, his weapon-hiding glamour almost impenetrable since they would be dealing with a psychic. Jorie stepped through, chin up, and bore down on her visitor. “Ms. Geddoes? Thank you for waiting. I’m Jorie Camden.”

  Geddoes gave her the swift, toe-to-scalp scan of a woman used to sizing up possible competition. Her smile was polished and professional, but it had an edge of wistfulness. This close, you could see the pink on her nostrils and eye-rims, and even high-grade concealer couldn’t completely cover the evidence of weeping.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” the reporter said, rising and carrying the attaché with her. She was tall, especially in those glossy navy heels. “But I’m just about at wits’ end. I won’t waste your time. Have you seen Neil Harvard lately?”

  “You’re not the only person to ask me that.” Jorie’s heart gave an excruciating leap. Geddoes had some halfhearted shields, probably reflexive, and her untrained talent would make her prey for some kinds of Dark. But without the glowing tang meaning Lightbringer, she had no protection at all. The Watchers were stretched too thin as it was, and every quarter the debate was had again in Council.

  We have to save ourselves before we can save anyone else, Jorie thought, and winced. Here she was feeling sorry for herself while Caleb hovered just behind her, ready to step in if the woman raised her phone for a snapshot or began aggressive questioning.

  “I’m supposed to call his partner if I do see him,” Jorie continued, hoping she didn’t sound strange with such a dry throat. “But I have to tell you, I’m worried.”

  “Me too.” Geddoes glanced over Jorie’s shoulder, nervously, and studied Caleb like a doe scenting fire. “Do you . . . he mentioned you, to me. Is there somewhere we can talk?” She clutched at the attaché, white-knuckled as Jorie felt. “Somewhere private?”

  “Of course.” Nothing ventured, nothing gained, Jorie decided. “Is this abou
t the case?”

  “The disappearances?” Marilyn shook her head, a quick toss to shed unpleasant thoughts somehow managing to also express grudging agreement. “Everyone thinks I’m crazy. Even Neil thought I was crazy, until I showed him.”

  The fishhook twitched in Jorie’s stomach. She all but gasped, tensing, and the other woman took it as confirmation.

  “He told you, didn’t he?” Relief almost staggered Marilyn Geddoes on her tasteful, polished heels, and for a moment, she looked much younger than her firm, calm professional screen. The terror was familiar; Jorie had felt it herself. “Did you believe him? Do you believe me?”

  You know, I’d believe just about anything right now. “Caleb?” Jorie turned slightly, and her Watcher tensed, ready for whatever she would ask. “Can you get us a room? I agree, this shouldn’t be discussed out here.”

  “You do believe me.” Geddoes shook her head, her hair swinging in a glossy wave, then pulled herself up straight and tall again, retreating into her brittle, probably habitual armor. “Thank God. You do.”

  That’s not the issue. “Just come with me, and tell me what you told Neil. I promise I’ll listen.” Jorie took a deep breath. “I just don’t know if you’ll believe me.”

  THE CONFERENCE room had a glass-topped table, a framed Berscardi print on one wall, and no windows. Geddoes waited until Jorie pointed at a chair, then perched gingerly on the edge of its leather pad. “My grandfather collected newspaper clippings. That’s important, I swear.” She settled the attaché in her lap, flipped it open, and fished out a handful of manila folders, casting a guilty look in Caleb’s direction. “It took me six months to get Neil to listen.”

  “I can believe it,” Jorie murmured. Caleb’s glamour was thick enough even Jorie could barely see the shapes of his weaponry under the rippling; he settled near the door with his arms crossed, bodyguard written on every line. “He’s the suspicious type. How did you find out I’m here?” The techwitches will want to know.

  “Oh, I just have a friend or two at a phone company.” Geddoes smiled, a painful, half-embarrassed curve of neutral lipstick. “No, I’m not the usual bloodhound, I swear. I’m not a ghoul, I just know how things are done.”

  I suppose. Jorie couldn’t help but feel a small wriggle of distaste; of course a reporter would have ways of finding someone who might not want to talk. It wasn’t like it mattered; the Circle would make sure Jorie was insulated.

  Still, the risk was huge, and she had no right to put the entire safehouse in jeopardy. On the other hand, if she hadn’t been working with Neil, how long would this have gone on undetected? There was no way of telling. “You said you have newspaper clippings?” It was probably best to keep everything businesslike—but a small chill walked up her spine.

  Affecting electronic records was easy, getting at microfiche film stored in a public building only slightly more difficult. But good old-fashioned mass-produced paper, kept out of sight in a dry attic? That would be very difficult to completely erase, even for the craftiest, most powerful Dark.

  The surge of hope was deep wine-red, and faintly tinged with guilt.

  “Yes, but let me tell it, all right? You won’t understand without the framework.” Geddoes tilted her head slightly, clasped her hands again, and leaned forward, her clipped, rapid tone probably the same used in newsroom meetings, fighting for a story. “My Grandpa Jack always swore his sister Susie was taken by a monster. She disappeared in 1942, and everyone thought it was a drifter or something. The police didn’t seem that interested, and it made Grandpa mad. Anyway, he kept clippings—pretty much a hoarder, if you want to know the truth. About six months ago, I was going through some of his old stuff and I came across folders of tiny local articles. Well, I thought there was a story there, but it was the damnedest thing. Not even Olson—my producer, you know—not even he was interested. The cops weren’t either, and I thought it was just because they hadn’t chased down all the leads they could for whatever reason. You’d be surprised how often that happens.” Her words sped up, tumbling over each other. How many times had she rehearsed them, sitting in the waiting room? “It took me forever to get Neil to stay still while I talked to him, and that was only because I’d buy drinks.” A slight flush crept into her cheeks, genuine concern and fear spreading from her in a haze, and Jorie felt an unwilling kinship.

  What would it be like, alone and untrained, stumbling onto something like this? Vainly trying to get someone, anyone to listen?

  “I started collecting the same kinds of stories from around the country. It’s like I’m obsessed. But I also went through public databases and health stuff. It’s all there.” She produced another folder, laying it next to the bulky, obviously older stack on the table. “Here’s charts and graphs, nationwide crime stuff. Altamira’s rate of child disappearance is twice the national average, and the scary things is, those kids never come back. It’s not just reported and they find the kid later one way or the other, like everywhere else. A huge percentage just vanish. No bodies, no nothing. And then I found this.”

  Out came a third, probably ancient folder, battered and creased. “There’s a whole juicy backstory in here about Horace Alton and his grandson, too. Grandpa went through old newspapers wherever he could find them, and some of the stuff he found . . .” She shook her head, a quick flick shaking away a thought too terrible to be allowed to surface, just like Neil when faced with Caleb’s reaction. “I’d think it’s a prank or forgery or something—”

  “Do you have pictures?” Jorie longed to grab the folders, just to see what they would tell her. The fishhook was twitching madly now, a tiny razor flutter. “Of Horace and Eugene?”

  “How did you know?” The reporter paled abruptly, took an audible gulp of air, and continued. “So it’s true, what Neil said.”

  “What did he say?” Jorie longed to shake the woman, but she wouldn’t get anything useful that way. Besides, Geddoes was trembling. Her pupils were huge, and the reporter all but reeked of fear now.

  She’d been chasing this story down for months, doggedly, all the while having no idea of the terrible danger she was in. The small Dark things with their vicious serrated teeth would find her a tempting target.

  Marilyn Geddoes was lucky to be alive.

  “A lot of times, my pet nutbar turns out to be right, Neil said.”

  The reporter had a gift for mimicry. Jorie flinched. She could almost hear Neil, with a sardonic smile, reaching for a cigarette. The sharpness in his tone was to cover vulnerability underneath, and she might not ever hear it from him again.

  “Sorry.” Geddoes did look contrite, probably realizing what she’d just said. “He has a pretty pungent turn of phrase.”

  “Yes.” Among other things. Jorie’s heart ached. “He does.”

  Geddoes’s hopeful look was almost too much to bear. Her hands twisted together, knuckles white and that immaculate French manicure just driving home how delicate her fingers were. “Do you think he’s all right?”

  “I . . . I hope so.” Jorie swallowed bitterness, her morning coffee climbing up to escape. At least she’d had a chance to brush her teeth, and when her breakfast didn’t feel like it wanted to escape, it was a warm, comforting weight. “When was the last time you heard from him?”

  “Last Friday evening.” The reporter’s hands tensed; she looked ready to take flight from the chair. “He left a message—something about how he had a crazy idea, and he was believing all the wild bullshit. That he knew where to go now, he had a sudden lead. He sounded really upset, but we were late at the studio doing stingers, so . . .” She shrugged, looked down at the tabletop, and Jorie thought she was probably blaming herself. “None of this really surprises you, does it.”

  “It fills in some gaps.” Jorie’s own hands were icy, and the rest of her wasn’t far behind. Had Neil seen what she was drawing that night, and recogni
zed the zoo? It wasn’t entirely out of the question. And if he’d gone there alone. . . “Of course. Paper’s a lot harder to affect.”

  Caleb made a restless movement. “Ma’am?” In other words, am I going to have to push her? Right now?

  “You do realize,” Jorie continued, as if he hadn’t spoken, “that if even half of what you’re thinking is true, this isn’t a story that can be put on the air.”

  “I told you, I’m not a ghoul. I’m not stupid, either.” Geddoes’s chin lifted defiantly. That made her look younger, too. She had a good front, this reporter, but underneath it she was just as soft as Neil, in her own way. “Besides, who would believe me? I don’t even know what I’m thinking, unless it’s Bela Lugosi or bad special effects. And Grandpa Jack drank himself to death still swearing it was a monster that took Great-Aunt Susie. You think I can put that on the six o’clock?” The bitterness in her laugh could have put Neil’s pained bark to shame. “Sure. Nobody takes you seriously when you’re female or photogenic. This would just be another nail in the coffin.”

  Maybe that’s why you and Neil got along. Now Jorie felt awful for initially judging her, or for thinking Neil had been simply playing with his self-destructive side by falling into bed with a reporter. Maybe they had found some comfort together, two weary souls with just enough shine to feel the worst of the world’s edges, but not enough to give them slippage or backlash or Darksickness.

  Which was worse, Jorie wondered, too much or too little? And neither of them had a Watcher to help.

  “All right,” she said, soothingly. “Yes, I believe you. I just don’t want to grab at your research; you have it organized so neatly. Maybe we can begin with those.” And, steeling herself, she pointed at the slim, ancient file holding whatever a dead man had managed to gather on Horace Alton and his grandson. She would bet there were John Sieberman pieces in there, too.