by Kevin Hearne
“Well, I tried to contact him like you said. And when I did so, I suddenly found detectives crawling up my ass.”
“Why?”
“Because Mr. Black is dead, and he found a unique way to die that has the police all kinds of curious.” He chucked his chin at the folder. “Go on and look. Picture’s on top.”
I flipped open the folder and let my eyes fall on the glossy photo of my old friend in a close-up. Kodiak Black’s corpse looked creepy but no more so than most bodies; I couldn’t discern from the picture what made his manner of passing unique. His eyes were open and he was fully clothed in flannel shirt and jeans; his face was slick and puffy and unnaturally pasty, with tiny blue capillaries tracing spidery paths underneath the eyes. His dark hair looked freeze-dried and brittle, as if it could crumble and blow away with a puff of wind.
“Some kind of new disease?” I ventured.
“No, it was murder. We just don’t know what killed him.”
“How do you know it was murder?”
“Because the witnesses all say so. This was a few days ago up in Anchorage. He was leaving an alehouse, all smiles, when he was ambushed outside. Place called Humpy’s.”
That was enough to draw Oberon’s attention.
The name probably has something to do with salmon, Oberon. Some types of salmon grow humps on their backs right before they spawn.
“I don’t understand, Hal. You’re saying he was killed in public but you don’t know how?”
He shrugged. “I wasn’t there. Report says about ten people saw him die, not least of whom was his girlfriend, who stated he was perfectly fine one minute—he looked healthy and hadn’t complained of any problems—and then he began to convulse. After three seconds of that, he fell over onto the sidewalk, his face swelled, and he stopped breathing. Total time from onset of symptoms to death was less than ten seconds. We don’t know of any diseases that can do that.”
“Toxicology?” Granuaile asked.
Hal gave a tight shake of his head. “It’s too early to have the results back yet. They do those tests in five to ten minutes of screen time on TV, but in real life those tests take weeks to months to complete. I know the police are counting on something showing up so they can say he was poisoned, but I’ve never heard of a poison that turns on violent convulsions like a switch. Only thing like that I’ve ever heard of is epilepsy. Mr. Black wasn’t epileptic, was he?”
“No,” I said. “Witnesses said his face swelled up. Is this what he looked like right afterward? Because his skin looks as if he’s been at the bottom of a river for a few days.”
“That photo was taken at the scene, within an hour of his death. No wounds, which is why they’re hanging their hat on the poison theory.”
“I don’t get it. Why were the police so interested in you?”
“Because I’m the counselor of record for one Atticus O’Sullivan, deceased. And when I emailed Mr. Black in the interest of starting a dialogue, I referred to a Mr. O’Sullivan, and the Anchorage police saw that when they went through his in-box in an attempt to get a clue. They asked the Tempe police to speak to me about it, and you can imagine how surprised they were to hear your name associated with a mysterious murder out of state.”
“Detective Kyle Geffert is still on the force, eh?”
“Indeed.”
“How did they connect Kodiak to me? He never kept any of my accounts under the O’Sullivan name, and when I emailed him myself I used an alias account.”
“They made the connection because, right after Mr. Black died, a man with strange tattoos on his head and wearing a ‘hideous cravat’—that’s a direct quote—approached the girlfriend, one Ayesha Salcedo, and he said to her, ‘Mr. Black is dead because of Atticus O’Sullivan. Please make sure he gets this.’ Then he gave her a note. She looked down to read it, and when she looked back up, he was gone.”
I could almost feel the color draining from my face; the room grew unaccountably cold and I felt sick. I knew who the murderer was by the description. “What did the note say?”
Hal flicked a finger at the folder. “It’s the next picture.”
I looked at the next photo and saw a square of paper printed in block letters with purple ink. It said, Atticus. We must talk. Find me. Werner.
“Auugh! I knew it! I had this guy under my sword, Hal, and I let him go!” The mysterious cause of death for Kodiak Black wasn’t a mystery at all. The very essence of his life had been drained from a distance. He had been murdered by Werner Drasche, the arcane lifeleech I had set free in France. Oh, I’d find him, all right, but we weren’t going to have a friendly chat. When you kill a friend of mine just to get my attention, there’s nothing left to say.
To Nicole Peeler and Jaye Wells, the original Laser Vaginas, and to all honorary members of the band. Pew! Pew! Pew!
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Whoa. Book seven. I didn’t think I’d get here when I first started, so I’m very grateful to you for reading and for telling your friends about the series. This book is proof that word-of-mouth is still king. Thank you!
Many beers to my agent, Evan Goldfried, for steering the ship and untold other nautical metaphors that may or may not involve a sextant. Being an agent is nothing like being a sailor, by the way. I just wanted to thank Evan and use the word sextant.
The editorial team at Del Rey goes to heroic lengths to make sure my books are spiffy, and that’s because they really are heroes. They’re part of the Fictional Four, a supergroup defending the world from plot holes and rogue apostrophes and so on. Here they are:
Tricia Narwani is my Metal Editor. Mike Braff, as you might guess, is Viking Mike. Sarah Peed is Dutch Fury, and April Flores is the Human Expletive. They save my life on a regular basis, and I’m extremely privileged to work with them.
Many thanks to Vidhyu Rao, whose kind and patient conversation illuminated much for me one day on a flight out of Minneapolis. Thanks also to Siva and Jesse Nattamai and to Jasmine Pues for their enlightening correspondence, and to Helgi Briem for some pronunciation help on the yeti names.
My family and friends keep me sane and loved, and I’m so very lucky to have them in my life. And doggies too. Don’t forget the doggies! Peace and harmony, friends.
BY KEVIN HEARNE
Hounded
Hexed
Hammered
Tricked
Trapped
Hunted
Shattered
IRON DRUID CHRONICLES NOVELLAS
Two Ravens and One Crow
Grimoire of the Lamb
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
KEVIN HEARNE has been known to frolic unreservedly with dogs. He is probably frolicking right now and posing to his dog such timeless rhetorical classics as “Who’s a good boy?” and “Who wants a snack?” He hugs trees, rocks out to old-school heavy metal, and still reads comic books. He lives with his wife and daughter in a wee, snug cottage.
