Shade Chaser (City of Crows 2)

by Clara Coulson

  Chapter Nineteen

  By the time I finish my account of the kidnapping and my time in the torture shack, four people have left the room, sick to their stomachs, eight are openly crying, and the rest are staring silently at random places on the floor, as if someone ripped their souls out through their mouths. The worst part of it all is that I didn’t even discuss the nitty-gritty details, like how many times McKinney jabbed me with the cattle prod, or the fact that Liam was crying when he died. The mere fact that I have to count with my nail-less fingers as I list off the torture methods McKinney used against me (including the threat to chop off those fingers) is enough to drop the yokes of guilt atop everyone’s shoulders.

  As I’m wrapping up my last few sentences—about Lassiter dropping me off at the lobby—I try to think of a way to make everyone feel better. But I feel like I failed, too, letting Liam get killed on my watch. So how can I convince others to discard their guilt when I can’t even convince myself that my damnable pride didn’t result in the murder of an innocent man? If you’d only excused yourself from the case after you nearly crashed your truck…

  Ramirez nudges my arm with his elbow and offers me something under the table: a box of tissues. Because yes, I’m one of the eight people crying. I grab two tissues from the box and quickly dab at my wet face. Then I drop my hand to the table and crumple the soiled tissues in my fist. Clearing my throat, I close my retelling of the worst four days of my life thus far by saying, “I assume you all know the rest of my story, since most of you smothered me with candy and flowers in the infirmary yesterday.”

  Those words lighten the mood by an infinitesimal amount, but it’s enough to win a few smiles.

  Riker allows a moment of silence, for Liam’s sake, and then he picks up where I left off. “Okay, so I see three important mysteries remaining. First, why did McKinney join forces with Slate and Halliburton, even though he didn’t trust the ICM to make good on the arrangement? What was so important about this summoning that McKinney was willing to risk the life of his own lieutenant to ensure it happened? Second, who is the ‘owl man,’ per Cal’s words, and why did he involve himself in McKinney’s affairs to save Cal’s life? What stake does he have in the Jameson murders or the associated summoning attempt? Third, who and where is McKinney’s injured collaborator, the one who escaped from the construction site?” Riker taps his pen on the sheet of notes he made while I was talking, and then looks up at the roomful of agents expectantly. “Anyone?”

  Vincent Wallace, who slumped to the floor in horror sometime during my statement, speaks up. “The ME called me on my way over here and said her preliminary findings indicated the man who burned to death at the construction site was likely Asian.”

  “Zhang,” I say. “Which means Donahue is the one who got away.”

  Wallace shakily rises and tugs out his phone. “If you like, I can spread the word to the Wolf community to be on the lookout for Donahue. He might try to find refuge at someone’s home.”

  Ella, at Riker’s right hand, replies, “Can we be sure that the other members of the community will turn him in?”

  Wallace’s expression sours. “Not all the Wolves in Aurora are members of McKinney’s crew, Detective Dean. While McKinney has never expressed any terroristic tendencies until now—openly, at least—he’s been running with the same people for several years. A group of about twenty, the bulk of which are currently in the holding cells in your basement.” He clicks his tongue in a reproving manner. “I imagine the few that got away have skipped town already.”

  Amy scratches at the small blue cast on her arm (she must’ve ditched the sling) and speaks up. “You didn’t find it odd that McKinney had a gang?”

  “I didn’t find it odd that McKinney had a pack,” Wallace retorts. “Even though we have the Republic now, many Wolves do like to emulate the old traditions, including the formation of pack-sized community groups. The majority of these groups act as volunteer organizations, focused on helping Wolf families in need. A smaller number parade around like biker gangs—they look tough on the outside, but all they do is ride motorcycles and get drunk on the weekends. Very few of these groups have shown any violent tendencies. And even fewer have had significant criminal activity since the second election cycle put the Labor Party in power.”

  Wallace begins scrolling through the contacts in his phone. “My point is, Detective, that I had no reason to suspect McKinney was anything but another alpha male type with some groupies. He never demonstrated any anti-ICM sentiments publicly. I’ve seen him probably ten times in the past six months, at rallies, at the community center, at birthday parties. If you hadn’t found his corpse at the construction site, I’m not sure I would have believed your claim that he was an insane, anti-human psychopath, willing to torture innocents.”

  “Is that so?” Riker rests his chin on his hands. “To me, that says McKinney and his cohorts were making a concentrated effort to hide their illicit activities, whatever they were. If Martinez hadn’t bitten the dust at the bar and grill, McKinney wouldn’t have shown his hand until this mysterious summoning went down. And perhaps not even then, since he was distancing his own name from the scheme by using Martinez as his proxy.” The captain mulls over the possibilities. “Amy, can you and Agent Sheehan discuss the emails you found at Slate’s townhouse? I heard you finished reviewing them.”

  “Sure, boss.” Amy sits up straight, that army posture again, and nods at analyst Clarissa Sheehan, a couple seats farther down the table. Sheehan leafs through several papers in a manila folder and pulls out what looks like a printed list. She passes the paper to the person next to her, Desmond, who then dangles it over Amy’s head, far too high for her to reach.

  “Funny.” Amy holds out her hand, gesturing for Desmond to lower the paper.

  Desmond chuckles. “Indeed it is. Every time.” He drops the paper, and it floats down at an angle, nearly flying off the table altogether.

  Amy snatches it in midair. “All right. Here’s what Sheehan and I came up with after reviewing all the emails, ordered by date sent.” She places her finger at the top of the list and begins to make her way through. “About two months ago, Slate was contacted by Halliburton in regards to protecting the city of Aurora from an unnamed enemy. Note that this ‘enemy’ is never once specified, presumably to reduce the likelihood that the enemy in question would catch on if the emails were ever hacked.”

  Ramirez mumbles, “Paranoid bunch.”

  “Definitely,” Amy responds. “Now, Slate’s role in this scheme, as specified by Halliburton, was to create appropriate vessels for storing the ‘ingredients’ needed in the summoning.”

  “The clocks.” Ella nods along, jotting down notes of her own. “In which they stored human souls.”

  “Right.” Amy flicks Ella’s shoulder. “And before anyone asks why the vessels had to be handcrafted clocks, Slate actually asked Halliburton that in the fourth email. Apparently, this summoning requires that the vessels be representative of the passing of time. Which is what led Halliburton to Slate in the first place. The wizard wanted somebody who was already informed about the supernatural and who was capable of crafting the necessary vessels. The ex-mayor who just happened to own a clock and watchmaking business fit the bill.”

  Desmond says, “What luck for Halliburton.”

  “Yeah,” replies Harmony Burgess, somewhere behind me, “think that luck might have run out at Jameson’s.”

  Desmond concedes her point with a shrug.

  Amy smacks his arm with her list. “Back on task. We’re getting into the real meat of the plot here.”

  “Oh?” Desmond peeks at the list.

  Amy holds it beyond his view and sticks her tongue out at him. “Yes, the stuff concerning McKinney. Or, at least, Martinez acting in McKinney’s place.”

  “Did Slate have email contact with Martinez?” Ella asks.

  “Nope,” Amy says. “Halliburton was the middleman. He relayed information between Martinez and Sla
te. And he had a lot of interesting things to say about the Wolves. First and foremost, Halliburton claimed that Martinez said his ‘party,’ aka McKinney and pals, brought up the issue of the ‘enemy’ seven weeks ago in a private meeting in Chicago…with Richard Wheaton.”

  Wallace chokes. “The North American President of the United Lycanthrope Republic? That Richard Wheaton?”

  “Yes.” Amy drags her finger down another line on the list page. “According to Martinez, Wheaton shot down McKinney’s concerns about the ‘enemy,’ and sent them packing back to Aurora with orders to not make unsupported claims against their ‘allies.’ Halliburton’s wording in the email implies that McKinney was not amused about Wheaton referring to the ‘enemy’ as an ‘ally.’ And shortly after the rejection by Wheaton, McKinney sent Martinez to meet with Halliburton in person for the first time, where they formally agreed to join forces to perform the summoning.”

  “How did McKinney get an audience with Wheaton in the first place?” Wallace leans back against the door for support. There’s a sheen of nervous sweat on his hairline now, unkempt hair plastered to his skin.

  Amy looks at the Wolf. “Sorry, I have no idea. That wasn’t revealed in the emails.”

  “I need to go make some calls.” Wallace worries his bottom lip. “I’ll return momentarily.” He opens the door with his free hand and scurries out into the hall, thumb rapidly tapping away at his phone screen. The door swings shut behind him with another high-pitched creak, blocking our view of the werewolf’s hasty retreat.

  The instant the door closes, Riker gestures to Amy. “Moving on. Let’s talk about the summoning. Do we know any more specifics, beyond the need for souls?”

  Amy and Sheehan exchange glances, and the army vet says, “Well, interesting thing about the souls is that they were always described the same way in the emails: sinful.”

  “Sinful souls?” Ella questions. “So, like, criminals? They were collecting the souls of criminals?”

  “Not necessarily,” Ramirez says. “Sinful could mean a lot of things. Maybe they had a specific method of judgment. Sinful according to…a religion? They would collect the souls of, for example, anyone who violated the Ten Commandments?”

  “And when they couldn’t find enough shades to meet their quota, they went out and made a few of their own.” Desmond shifts in his seat, like his own thoughts are making him uncomfortable. “That woman who died in Wilcox’s office complex. Halliburton must have lured her there, somehow, maybe a fake job interview or something. He meant to kill her outside and throw her body in the pond—a perfect dumpsite, with the oncoming winter weather—but she ran. He caught up to her on the second floor, killed her with magic, and sealed her shade in a clock before the Call could whisk her off to the Eververse. And then…Wilcox showed up unexpectedly.”

  Amy smacks the table with her palm. “That’s why the ward didn’t activate when Wilcox inspected her body.”

  “Because it wasn’t there,” I say, clenching the fabric of my pants. “Halliburton was still in the building at the time, hiding from Wilcox. When Wilcox left, Halliburton knew it’d only be a matter of time before we showed up to check out the body. But if the body wasn’t there when we arrived, we’d naturally conclude someone took it. We’d have done a full sweep of the building, and we would have found something, some clue, no matter how hard Halliburton tried to cover his tracks. So…”

  Desmond shakes his head. “So he rigged a ward to blow up the building and destroy all the evidence, plus the foolish Crows who’d come snooping.”

  “The nuclear option,” Amy quips.

  “Well, that’s one part of this vast mystery solved.” Riker knocks his knuckles against the conference phone. “The plan was to imprison the souls of ‘sinful’ people in clocks, so they could be used as sacrifices in order to summon…what?”

  “Beats me, boss.” Amy throws the list on the table. “They never said, not once, what creature they were planning to summon. Only that McKinney’s people managed to procure the summoning procedure for it.” She brushes her finger over the last item on her list. “Although, here’s an interesting tidbit: According to the emails, the night that Halliburton, Martinez, and Slate died at Jameson’s, they were meeting to do a dry run of the summoning, in order to practice all the intricacies of the spell before they attempted it for real. Apparently, it was pretty complicated. A complex summoning circle. Lots of ‘moving parts,’ what with the souls.”

  “Maybe that’s why they met in the storeroom,” Ella offers. “So they could substitute Jameson’s stock for their real spell ingredients. A simple, effective way to practice.”

  Desmond tilts his head to the side. “Only someone they weren’t expecting showed up to the party.”

  “The enemy.” Pain flares up in my chest at the second word, and I fidget, trying to make it subside. But it won’t. My body is revolting. The mere act of sitting upright in a chair for an extended period of time is too much for it to handle, and all the cracks in my bones, all the bruises on my skin, all the cuts in my flesh, are threatening to lay me out right here and now.

  I take shallower breaths, trying to manage the discomfort. Navarro gave me some meds, but I stuck them in the duffle bag with all my get well gifts. And somebody already took the bag out to my truck.

  “Perhaps it’s time for you to head home, Cal.” Riker eyes me, judgment etched into the wrinkles on his face. I work up my best smile, but he immediately shoots me down. “You’re not fooling anyone with that sloppy grin. You’re hurting and you need to rest.”

  “I know. I just…give me a few more minutes? The only mystery left on your list is the owl man.”

  Riker scowls, but Ella, surprisingly, throws in for me. (In weeks past, Riker has pushed himself too far with his own injured leg. I think this is Ella’s way of getting back at him.) She asks, “Do you think the owl man could be the Jameson killer? Maybe he’s a member of this ‘enemy’ group.”

  Thanking her silently, I reply, “Whether he’s a member of the ‘enemy’ or not, I can’t say. But I don’t believe he’s the guy who murdered the trio.”

  “Why not?” Amy asks, nose scrunched in confusion.

  “Because I don’t think a person who would brutally eviscerate three people with absolutely no remorse would turn around and save somebody whose name they didn’t even know. What difference would the death of an anonymous Crow have made to a killer willing to literally gut people?” I take another short, aching breath. “No, I don’t think it was him. But I do think he’s in the city for a reason, and I do think that reason is related to the Jameson case. I just don’t know how…yet.”

  “Okay,” Desmond says, elbows on the table, “but if the owl man didn’t kill them, then who did?”

  A sudden, nagging thought works its way to the front of my mind. “Hey, did you guys ever figure out how Slate got to Jameson’s in the first place? I know he didn’t drive, since his Lexus was parked outside his house, so—”

  “Cal, you’re supposed to leave now,” Riker warns. “The owl man discussion is over.”

  I slowly, slowly roll my chair back. “And I’m going. But I can’t move that fast, Captain. I’m injured, you know?”

  Hushed laughter fills the room.

  Riker’s eyes nearly roll back into his head. “Fine. What’d we find out about the cars, Ramirez?”

  “Oh, yeah.” Ramirez winks at me. “We tracked down Halliburton’s truck; it was six blocks from Jameson’s, on the second floor of a parking garage. There was a compact car parked next to it, and when we ran the plates, it came up as stolen. Guess Martinez jacked someone’s ride to obscure his identity.”

  “Okay, but how did Slate get to the bar and grill that night?” I say. “Was he picked up? Or…?”

  “You think that’s important?” Riker asks. “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” I reply. “Something bothers me about it. I feel like—”

  A cell phone rings, startling the room into silence.

&n
bsp; Riker reaches into his coat and pulls out his phone, the screen aglow. When he catches the name on the caller ID, he recoils into his seat as if someone pushed him. “The hell?”

  “Who is it?” Ella asks, leaning closer.

  “Marcus.” Riker spits the man’s name out like poison. “He hasn’t spoken to me since I told him off at Jameson’s, days ago.”

  Amy sneers. “What do you think he wants now?”

  “Nothing good.” Riker hits the answer button, adjusting his tone to sound slightly less hostile. “Marcus, what can I do for you?” He listens for a few seconds, his face gradually contorting, first in bewilderment, and then in distress. “What?” Another pause. “Where?” As Marcus continues to speak on the other end, the captain grabs a fistful of his sandy blond hair, mouthing silent swears. “How long ago did this start?” Marcus, presumably, answers. “Hold off the PD however you can—they’ll get killed if they wander into the middle of this. We’ll be there in ten.”

  Riker ends the call, calmly sets his phone on the table, and then roars out, “Goddammit!”

  Ella shoots up, grasping his shoulder. “Nick, what happened?”

  Riker covers his face with his hands and grinds his teeth. “Someone started a rumor that McKinney, Martinez, and Zhang were murdered by the ICM.”

  Shock stifles the room. No one says another word.

  Until I finally murmur, “Donahue.”

  “That would be my guess,” Riker hisses.

  “And something came of this rumor?” Desmond says, pushing away from the table. “There’s been an altercation?”