Finder (The Watchers Book 6)

by Lilith Saintcrow

  Probably quite a few of them.

  “Start with the weirdest first?” Geddoes pushed it across the table with her fingertips, as if handling something live and venomous.

  “Or start at the beginning, which is what Neil would say. Would you like some tea?”

  Marilyn Geddoes began to laugh. Then she buried her face in her hands and sobbed, still laughing, and it turned out Neil had more than once complained about Camden and her goddamn tea.

  Jorie found out she liked this woman, and hoped Caleb wouldn’t have to push her more than the minimum.

  Road Trip

  MONDAY END-of-lunchtime traffic was snarls and headaches in every direction. Caleb didn’t like taking her out of the safehouse, but short of tying her down in the suite, there was no way around it. I won’t even get out of the car, Jorie had repeated; she refused to say more, even to the Council liaison. I want to know if I’m right. We can’t waste resources running around and warning this thing if I’m wrong.

  Tancred had Marilyn Geddoes’s precious clutch of newspaper clippings. Use gloves, Tan, Jorie had said softly, grimly. I don’t want you feeling this. Tan, of course, was staring goggle-eyed at Marilyn Geddoes, who was not at all what Caleb had imagined in person. She was vulnerable and almost likable, and it helped that she was visibly grateful for Jorie’s kindness—and her evident belief in what was, to any normal, a wild story.

  Lorenz, listening to Jorie’s précis and the highlights of the clippings as well as Tancred’s swift crisp laying-out of the holes in the electronic records, kept glancing at the blonde as if he expected her to grow another head or a rattle-bearing tail.

  It would be the head Watcher pushing her to forget, if the Council liaison judged it necessary. Still, Jorie seemed to think Geddoes would keep her mouth shut. She might need therapy either way; there was a whole network of Lightbringer practitioners who could assist.

  Rain spattered the Volvo’s windshield, each drop with a pellet of ice at its heart. The pellets stacked along the wipers’ arc, clotting uneasily. Caleb dug in his pocket for the dedicated cell, glancing at Jorie.

  His witch was looking out her window, her hands folded in her lap and the sweet curve of her shoulder, even under the peacoat, enough to make a man glad to be alive.

  “She’s so frightened,” Jorie said, softly.

  So are you. “Anyone would be, dealing with this.” Traffic was smears of bright white fog lamps on the newer cars, headlights on the older ones since the clouds were so low and forbidding. Looked like a regular winter storm heading in, the sea reaching up the river to drain Altamira of all color. Even the occasional seagull who rode up the shining length of water looking for scraps was probably tucked somewhere warm and safe. It wasn’t just winter that made this latitude the worst for seasonal depression; the constant water falling from endless grey skies stole all warmth and life away.

  Except for the woman in the Volvo’s passenger seat, tense and fidgeting gracefully every so often. The gossamer cable was back, flickering in and out of sensing, and Caleb had to work to keep his attention on the road and the mirrors at the same time.

  He also had to lift the phone and thumb in the sequence that would get him Dispatch. “It’s Caleb,” he said. “Tell Lorenz he was right, and to clean up. He’ll know.”

  “You were right, clean up, from Caleb.” Repeating it to make sure, a necessity with any communication.

  “Ten-four.” That done, Caleb stuffed the phone back into its padded, insulated pocket. He might need it later if Jorie got strange ideas about leaving the car, even with her promise. God damn it. And I was just feeling charitable towards that woman.

  Jorie’s chin jerked up. “What’s that?”

  You don’t want to know. But maybe she should, and in any case, a Watcher answered his witch, no matter what. “Lorenz thought we’d have a tail when we left the safehouse. And we do.”

  “How is that even possible?” She made a restless movement, probably wanting to twist in her seat and look back. Restraining herself just in time, though—oh, she was a good witch, trying her best to save the world and make it easier on her Watcher.

  “Your car’s registered in your name. All they have to do is watch for a Volvo and run the plates. That’s why I didn’t suggest we take another.” He checked the mirror again, and took a right on Fifth.

  “Great.” Did she finally sound annoyed? He could drive even a saint to irritation, he supposed, but it was better than the devouring sadness or those slight, pained winces. “When were you going to tell me?”

  “Just did, ma’am.” He could have kicked himself, but it was already out of his mouth.

  “Is that another joke?” A wan attempt at humor, heartbreaking from a woman so tense and flinching. Something about the clippings bothered Caleb, but he couldn’t put a finger on it.

  And he didn’t like that feeling at all.

  “Could be. Jorie . . .” He couldn’t look at her; everyone around them was eager to get back to the office or escape to the freeway. All the office workers, oblivious, were cursing at their boring, safe little lives, or maybe even secretly glad for a few more minutes in their vehicles instead of at work. If he was back on patrol, he wouldn’t know or care what day of the week it was; he’d be sleeping off the night’s games in the dormitory. “Is it bad? The Finding?”

  “That obvious, huh?” She twitched and inhaled sharply. “Do we have to lose him? The . . . the tail?”

  “You let me worry about that.” At least it’s something I know how to do. Besides, it might even be fun. Combat sorcery gave Watchers a type of mild precognition after a while, very useful for eluding pursuit.

  “It’s Sol.” She sounded very sure. Of course, she was a witch, she’d know, or maybe she was just applying logic to the situation. “If he really wants to find someone, he’d watch for whoever they’re involved with, and I’m temporarily out of reach. Marilyn might not know he’s following her. And he knows my car.”

  “Either way.” The sooner this was tied off, the safer Jorie was—and the less anyone involved with the media knew, the better. Geddoes was a liability; Lorenz would treat her as one, especially since he didn’t have a witch looking at him with big dark eyes, saying Please, not until she needs to forget and just generally turning him into a Watcher with no good sense left. “Listen to me, Jorie. We’re going to Brickpool Park to check out this mysterious theory of yours, fine. But you can’t get out of the car, even if the Finding’s bad. I’ll take care of everything else, you just have to stay with me.” And he’d break that cable if he had to, even if he had a seizure in the driver’s seat.

  “I know.” She flinched again, a tiny betraying movement. “We’ll park and fog the windows.”

  It wasn’t a bad idea, but he was probably misunderstanding. It took all his discipline not to say Ma’am? “Jorie?”

  “Huh? Oh, not that way.” She tucked a stray curl behind her ear, shifting uneasily.

  So she’d been joking, trying to put him at ease. Caleb could have kicked himself, again.

  “Although that would be nice.” Now she sounded sad. “I know I’m not exactly what you might have wanted in a witch, Caleb.”

  Weren’t you listening? “I told you before.” The only problem here is me letting you put yourself in danger. He freed his right hand, let it hang in empty air between them. “You’re absolutely perfect. I keep fucking up.” Shit. She didn’t need that kind of language, either. “Sorry. Look, let’s see if I can make it a little easier on you, all right?”

  “You haven’t done anything wrong so far.” Her fingers touched his and his aura stretched, spreading to stain the very edges of hers. The gossamer cable winked out, and she inhaled again, a grateful instead of pained sigh. “Oh. Wow.”

  “Does it help?” Traffic was clearing, the small tingle of precog against his ne
rves routing him around the worst spots. He swung left on Dagdala Place and the Volvo began to rise up Central Hill, taking advantage of cover provided by a lumbering bus.

  “It does.” Her skin was warm and soft; the pleasure blurred up his arm and made it difficult to concentrate. “It’s amazing, I’ve never been able to . . . How do you do it?”

  It’s simple, baby. Nothing’s gonna get to you while I’m here. At least he was Watcher enough for that. He slid the Volvo through another clear space, ignoring someone to the left laying on the horn. “I think it’s the tanak. Or the bonding.”

  “Bonding.” Her fingers loosened, but when she would have pulled away—probably trying not to distract him—he pretended not to notice. “So, about yesterday. About last night, that is.”

  “Hm?” I was a good boy. Tell me I shouldn’t have been, and I’ll make a note. It was extremely pleasant to pretend they were holding hands for another reason. It did no harm to dream, right? Caleb checked the rearview again. “You were in shock. I had to.”

  “I’m not disputing that. Why are you turning here?”

  Seventh Street would get them where they needed to go, and the tail—in a beat-up maroon Dodge, of all things—was stuck behind the bus. The car irritated him for another reason he couldn’t quite place. “Just an experiment. Coming in the south side of the park. And seeing if whoever’s following us is on his toes.”

  Jorie studied him. “You look like you’re enjoying this.” It was pleasant to sense her attention, the only sunshine he was going to get today. Which was fine, it was all he needed.

  “Nice weather, road trip, my witch in the passenger seat?” Keep her distracted. He changed lanes, and traffic was loosening quickly. He should have insisted Jorie have lunch before this, but she was determined. “All we’ve gotta do is hit a burger place and then a drive-in movie.”

  “I think there’s one out on Highway 19.” Of course she’d know. Did she even sound intrigued by the notion?

  He hoped so. “We could be there in time for the evening show.”

  “And leave all this behind?” Quick as a whipcrack, and she was smiling, too.

  The sensation flooding his arm hit his shoulder, spread down his chest like warm oil. It was pleasant, but the Dodge was still on them, drifting around a clot of commuters as the lights worked against Caleb, for once. Dammit. That should have worked. “Might not be a bad idea. I take you out of town, the Watchers clean up this thing—”

  “And just leave Neil to whatever happened?” She shook her head. “I can’t.”

  “I know.” I could drag you up north. Saint City’s probably safer, though just as damp. What with the Guardians banishing the Crusade and all four of them bonding right after each other, it was the epicenter for hope. At least among Caleb’s fellow Watchers. “You’re a good person, Jorie.”

  “So are you,” she said, and he didn’t correct her. He kept his eyes on the road, steadily, and thought about taking a circuitous route. But Jorie tensed, and he felt it too—a plucking in his midsection, an echo of the Finding’s pull. “It’s getting louder. We’re going in the right direction.”

  Good time to turn around and go back to the safehouse. He opened his mouth to say so, closed it and made a soft, noncommittal sound. He glanced at the mirror, and decided not to tell her the bad news.

  The Dodge was still there. And a white Honda was hanging back in traffic too; Caleb couldn’t tell if it was the same one that had dropped behind the red car a block after the Volvo left the safehouse.

  Interesting.

  BRICKPOOL PARK was on prime downtown acreage crowning Center Hill, but every time someone made a noise about developing it, the starch-ruffled hens of the Historical Commission came out of their dusty china cabinets and descended en masse on city council meetings. Caleb knew as much from patrol orientation, and he’d been turning over everything in that short course inside his head all morning. “Mind telling me what we’re looking for?” He cut the wheel hard; the gate for this entrance was pushed into a mass of overgrowth, though the padlock dangling from its loop was shiny-new. On the north side, the jogging loop and main parking lot crouched; on this side, the hill fell away in a tangle of blackberry, ivy, and massive trees holding the top of the slope against mudslides.

  That padlock—

  But Jorie was speaking, so the thought died. “I have an idea.” She leaned forward in the passenger seat, and her fingers had turned cold. “Have you ever patrolled up here?”

  “No.” The access road was similarly overgrown, and that was a little strange, but funding to take hedge trimmers to this little-used entrance was probably low on the list. Besides, if it grew over with blackberry suckers, the kids might not come up here and make out, and that would no doubt grant a few parents some peace of mind.

  Something wrong. Caleb thought about it again. “That’s strange, though.”

  She glanced at him, her hair ruffling, and she’d paled. The pulling was getting more intense. “What is?”

  And if he was feeling the difference in the Finding, how much worse was it for her? Caleb slowed the Volvo; the road was narrow and cracked, paving unravelling into strips of gravel shoulder hardly big enough to deserve the name. “Just going over the geography. Downtown’s north, the Peach District west, go east and you’ve got Alton Heights and then the freeway . . .” He frowned at the windshield, and no lights bobbed in his rearview mirror. Had the Dodge gotten tired; were they going to come in from the north? There wasn’t another way out of the south part of the park, and no Watcher liked to be anywhere with only a single exit.

  “But south is hard to think about, right?” Jorie shivered. Caleb felt the Finding again, twitching sharp and dangerous in his own guts. “I didn’t realize it until I saw Marilyn’s clippings.”

  “Realize what?” He was uneasy for more than one reason. Something about the entrance bothered him, too.

  Now there were headlights in the rearview, diamond pinpricks cresting a slight rise. Caleb’s nape prickled as the Volvo took a hairpin turn up the slope. Trees carrying a crop of moss fed by autumn’s damp—mostly firs, a few broadleaf maples with stark branches, cedars with their sweet-smelling boughs weighted with rain—pressed close on either side, and none of the iron, curlicue-armed streetlamps here were lit yet against a winter afternoon’s gloom. The lamps were real antique numbers, probably built to run on gas instead of electricity, and that was wrong, too—antique or scrap hunters should have already carted them away if the city wasn’t going to retrofit.

  “There was a picture of Eugene Alton in front of his house.” Jorie moved again, restlessly. “Remember? I’ll bet it’s hard to think about, isn’t it?” Her fingers were icy now, and Caleb had a very bad feeling about this.

  He pressed the accelerator a little. As soon as they could turn around, he was getting out of here, even if he had to hit the shoulder and make the Volvo do a little off-roading.

  There had been pictures of Horace and Eugene, and Marilyn Geddoes had stared at the two side by side while Jorie, pale and handling the paper only with her fingertips, looked up from the conference table. It’s uncanny, the reporter had said.

  They look just alike. Two oddly familiar men with light, center-parted, slicked-down wavy hair caught in grainy newsprint, long noses, cruel mouths relaxed into self-satisfied smirks, and light eyes under straight bars of sandy eyebrows.

  The headlights in the rearview mirror swelled, a thin overworked sound as an engine guzzle-gulped at gas, and Caleb realized the south access road was supposed to be blocked off. The padlock was shiny because it had been recently replaced, but it was also a jagged busted-open mess, and he’d merely glanced at it without taking in the significance of the fact.

  Which was very unlike a Watcher. The weight against his skull was the significance of that fact, struggling through layers of something alien. “
His house?” Keep her talking. Might be able to get us out of here before she notices.

  “Yes. The Alton Mansion, Horace built it for his wife. She died, and he went a little strange. At least, that’s what they thought it was.” Jorie tensed still further. Each word was pulled out of her, breathless and strained. “Caleb, something’s wrong.”

  I know, baby. I was hoping you wouldn’t feel it. “Alton Mansion,” he said, to show he’d been listening. The words slip-slithered inside his head, refusing to settle in their proper dimensions. “Why can’t I . . .?”

  “I don’t think any Watchers patrol there,” she said, quietly but all in a rush, a dam breaking and words spilling free. “I think Horace woke something up, or he was operating here before there were Watchers in the city. Circle Lightfall didn’t come this far west until—”

  The headlights leapt into view. The maroon Dodge was right on their ass, and Caleb remembered something else, that strange slip-sliding pressure swelling as he dropped Jorie’s hand and braced for impact. There was no time to warn her.

  And he’d seen the Dodge before. Parked in Jorie’s driveway, as a matter of fact.

  It was Neil Harvard’s car.

  Clever Little Girl

  THE FIRST JOLT wasn’t that bad. The sudden screech of metal and the terrifying impact was better than the Finding roaring in her ears once Caleb dropped her hand, the fishhook turned into an anchor, dragging her beneath the waves.

  It was the second thud, as the car behind them gunned its engine, driving the Volvo forward and to the left, that was the dangerous noise. A sheer drop-off, studded with ancient trees and overgrown with blackberries still wickedly green despite winter temperatures, swallowed her car, and the world turned over several times. She screamed, a pointless, useless sound, not because gravity had suddenly gone mad or switched off, but because the Finding yanked hard on all her limbs, and with it came the rushing, crackling cackle of something old and foul, exhaling reeking corpsebreath. The Volvo fetched up against a massive fir with a crashing like the world tearing itself in half, and the little things swarmed it, scrabbling into deep shade as thin winter sunlight whipped smoking weals onto their hides.