All Your Wishes (27 page)

He caught the injection meant for me.

Bobby fell into the space between the seats, taking me down with him. I was pinned, immobilized by his dead weight and from being jammed into such a small area. The bat in me made me plenty strong, but I had no leverage. I shouted for help, trying to push Bobby off me.

He was gasping for air like a landed fish, and I could hear his heart stutter, then stop. The blond started screaming hysterically and an attendant rushed back, shoving his way through the crowded aisle, pushing the still-screaming woman out of the way—and closer to the door. I saw a man help her off the plane as she pretended to sob in his arms, but I was in no position to stop them and nobody seemed inclined to listen to me, though I was shouting for someone to stop her.

They pulled Bobby off me and into the aisle. The team trainer and a doctor who'd been a passenger began doing CPR. Emergency personnel arrived quickly, walking into a crowded plane that had fallen eerily silent except for the harsh breathing of the men struggling to revive Bobby. As the EMTs moved to set up a stretcher, I stared at the dead man who had just unwittingly saved my life.

 

22

Emergency personnel
wheeled Bobby out on a stretcher, an oxygen mask on his face. His heart had been restarted, but its rhythm was unsteady, and I worried that he wouldn't make it. Derek, stunned and scared, sank back into the nearest seat; other players gathered in the rows around him, silent and solemn. Someone, maybe the coach, led them in a prayer, and I prayed right along with them. So did most of the other passengers who were still on board.

I was scared for Bobby. I was also just flat scared. I kept looking at my watch and shifting nervously in my seat as the minutes ticked relentlessly by.

The people who'd been seated in the front half of the plane were long gone—along with the blond who'd actually done the deed. But those of us who'd been in the back were considered witnesses and were being held for questioning by a group of four TSA agents.

If I kept my mouth shut, what had happened would be considered a medical emergency, not attempted murder. The TSA cops would let us go more quickly—and time was of the essence. But they also wouldn't know to test Bobby for the poison curse, wouldn't have the chance to find the right antidote or counterspell in time to save his life.

He seemed like a good guy. I didn't want him to die.

I also didn't want my gran or anybody else to.

I wasn't the only one checking my watch. Nobody was actually complaining, and for the most part the passengers were as cooperative and helpful as could be. Oh, there were a few people making calls on their cell phones, letting others know they were delayed, and one or two were frantically trying to rearrange flights. Most people had been shaken by what they'd witnessed, and sat quietly and respectfully, waiting in relative patience to be questioned.

As I checked the countdown on my watch for probably the twenty or thirtieth time, a female officer came to question me.

She wasn't wearing an anti-siren charm. I forced myself not to sigh. Without the charm, she'd have an instant, irrational antipathy toward me. Women are jealous of sirens and react badly to them. Unless they're gay. That hope dimmed when I saw the very elaborate wedding band on the officer's left hand, and the “World's Best Mom” necklace around her neck. Oh, she could have been part of a same-sex couple, but the odds weren't in my favor. And when she looked down at me through narrowed eyes, I knew I was in trouble.

“So,
princess
,” she practically spat out the word, “tell me what you
think
you saw.”

Before I could answer, a stout brunette in the TSA's standard blue blazer and gray dress slacks rushed breathlessly through the gangway door and down the aisle, and everyone turned to watch her approach. I was glad of the interruption—I wasn't at my best and whatever I was about to say would have been completely misunderstood by the TSA agent. The newcomer was carrying five or so anti-siren charms. Their chains glittered in the artificial light, the bits of hair in the various colors of the sirens who'd donated them shining brightly. Even from this distance I could feel the magic coming off them.

Thank you, Jesus.
I'm not normally religious, but I meant it. Tension was singing through me as I felt time passing and knew that I was going to have to drive like a lunatic to have any hope of making my meeting. I was terrified of what was going to happen once I got there, too, but that was a terror I was familiar with. I'd fought the big bad before, and knowing my luck, I'd probably do it again, if I survived Hasan. It was the thought that I might cause the deaths of innumerable people, including people I loved, through no fault of my own, because of obstacles placed in my way by others, or because I just wasn't fast enough—that was hideous and wrong and terrifying. I looked at my watch again.
Come on. Come on!

“They were locked in the magical supplies closet. Good thing the folks from Chicago called to give us a heads-up.” The TSA agent handed charms to her fellow officers as she moved through the plane. “Here you go, Lang.” She offered a necklace to the woman interviewing me, who was visibly reluctant to take it. “You know the rules.”

Lang almost growled, grabbing irritably at the inoffensive bit of jewelry. The instant her skin touched the metal, the expression on her face changed dramatically: barely controlled anger simply melted away, revealing shock and surprise. She turned to me, eyes a little bit too wide. Swallowing hard, her face lightly flushed with embarrassment, she coughed and said, “Now, where were we?”

“You wanted to know what I know.” I put on my best fake smile and put a lilt into my voice. Anything, anything to make this interview go faster.

“Right.”

*   *   *

I didn't tell. I felt like absolute dog crap about it, but time was flying by and I was on the clock. I was hustling through the gate area with Bubba just ahead of me when an idea hit me. Concentrating, I contacted Dawna telepathically, asking her to get a prepaid phone and call in an anonymous tip. It wasn't much, and for all I knew, no one would follow up. But it was better than doing nothing.

Actually, it was worse. Because I didn't know the TSA somehow monitored telepathic communications in the airport.

I'd barely gone another twenty feet when I was surrounded by TSA types. Smart man that he was, Bubba ducked into the nearest waiting area, taking a seat as if he were waiting for flight.

“Ms. Graves, if you'll come with us, please.” Lang said it nicely, she really did: probably because she was still a little embarrassed about her earlier antipathy. Even so, it wasn't a request and we both knew it. Not with the entire group of officers surrounding me, staying close, but not too close.

I've always envied people who get to ride on those little golf-carty things through busy airports. No, I don't want a disability, but man, those things can move when the driver's in a hurry. Today I got my chance. They drove me through the concourse, then, to my surprise, out onto the tarmac via a set of doors that had been hidden by illusion. Then we sped across the asphalt, dodging a couple of planes on the way, to a similar door in the main part of the terminal.

Between the wards and the illusion spells on both sets of doors I was in quite a bit of discomfort—and that was before I was escorted to an interrogation room. The TSA, NSA, and whoever else had had a hand in planning the building had spared no expense in making sure any prisoner would remain secure. Crossing the threshold into the interview room made my knees wobble and brought tears to my eyes. I had to steady myself on the table and almost fell into the chair.

The door shut firmly behind me, the lock sliding into place with an audible scrape of metal and a loud click.

God, I hated this case. This was the
third
time in as many days that I was being held for questioning—a new record, even for me. Not to mention that I didn't have the time for this, or the inclination.

My new accommodation was an interior room with no windows, plain white walls, an acoustical tile ceiling, and industrial-grade, gray carpeting. A simple metal table was bolted to the floor, and the chair I was sitting on was one of those black molded plastic things with metal legs that aren't really comfortable, but aren't uncomfortable enough for anyone to bitch about. The chair was bolted down, too, just far enough from the table to make it uncomfortable for a seated person—assuming they weren't in the NBA (or maybe on the Pioneer hockey team) to rest their arms or head on the table's surface. The only decoration on the wall, if you could call it that, was a clock. Black hands relentlessly circled the white face as precious time ticked away.

Even the air was empty, with that stale, canned quality that comes from having been recycled and purified until there's no trace of any scent or life in it.

In the course of the past few years, I've spent more time than I'd like to think about sitting in rooms not too different from this one, either waiting for, or enduring, an interrogation. It's enough to make you think. And weirdly, a room like this can actually make you start to feel guilty, even when you haven't done a damned thing wrong. Yes, that's a psychological trick used in questioning suspects. But the authorities use it because it works.

Right now I had no doubt in my mind that I looked guilty as hell. I was squirming in my seat, checking my watch and the damned clock repeatedly and wishing I hadn't had that second screwdriver.

Dammit, dammit, dammit. I do
not
have time for this right now. If they heard the warning to Dawna they have to have heard her comment about the ifrit and the deadline. If they run a check on me—

If they ran a check on me they'd get so damned much information at this point it might take them a week to wade through it.
Dammit, dammit, dammit.

The one small plus I had going for me was that I wasn't feeling vampity. But I really needed to get to a bathroom sooner rather than later—another thing an interrogator would use to their advantage.

I checked my watch again. If I left this room right now, and got to a place where I could safely use my siren call, I could try to reach the ifrit that way. Maybe, if I talked fast enough, I could put a pin in what he had planned for humanity. Probably not. But, I had to try. I remembered watching the oil rig go up in flame, the people scurrying like ants, trying to escape a hideous death.

Sure, it could have been an illusion, something the ifrit conjured up to scare me. But it had felt real. And I'd felt Hasan's dark glee at causing pain and damage. That hadn't been my imagination. I'm not that creative.

Screw it. Trouble with the law was bad—but it was nothing compared to the kind of pure evil the ifrit was capable of. Rising to my feet, I was just about to stride over to the door when it opened. The man who entered was short, five five or five six at the most, with sandy blond hair cut very short, and watery blue eyes. He wasn't handsome, wasn't ugly, wasn't really much of anything at all—you'd never notice him in a crowd.

Instead of a TSA uniform, he wore a low-end, off-the-rack navy blue suit that was too big at the waist. The sleeves of the pants and the arms of the jacket needed to be hemmed. His shirt was white, with narrow red and navy stripes, and his tie was the same color as his suit. I didn't see any weapons on him, and didn't feel the kind of spells that would conceal them either. He was wearing an anti-siren charm and there was a radio attached to his belt.

The plain black-and-white plastic name tag read Ned Turner. It had no other identifying information or organization logo. Turner tossed the manila folder he was holding onto the table and pulled out a chair that had been hidden behind illusion until he touched it. Made me wonder who and what else might be hiding in plain sight.

“Were you planning on going somewhere?” He waved me back to the chair intended for me but I didn't move. He didn't sit either, just with his hand on the chair back, willing me to cooperate.

So not going to happen. “I need to find a bathroom. And I need to get out of here. I'm going to be late for a meeting.” I tried to keep the panic from my voice and failed.

One look at the expression on his face told me that Turner had no intention of letting me go any time soon. “A meeting.” He gave a snort of laughter. “Yeah, you'll be late all right.”

“You can't hold me forever without charging me, and I've done nothing wrong.” I crossed to the door and put my hand on the knob. “If you want to escort me to the john, feel free. But I am leaving this room.”

“You don't think attempted murder is wrong?”

He'd said attempted. Bobby was alive. Thank God! I liked him. I would've felt horrible if he'd died in my place. I still felt guilty. Not that I'd show that to Turner—not a chance. I kept my voice neutral as I answered. “Not me. Didn't do it. I was the intended victim. The perp was a blond woman, maybe five two. She was wearing a cheap blue suit, glasses, and had her hair in a bun when she left the plane. But she probably lost the jacket and glasses and let down her hair by the time she was more than a few steps into the concourse. You probably can track her using your surveillance software.”

I tried to turn the knob. It was locked, and probably spelled. But the lock itself was just an ordinary bolt and I couldn't feel the spells, so they probably weren't too intense. I took a deep breath and concentrated, the way you do before you try to break boards for the first time in martial arts class.

Behind me, Turner said, “You're not going anywhere. And I'm not interested in some other woman. I'm talking about how you saved yourself by pushing an innocent man in front of you.”

Gathering every bit of strength I had, I slammed into the door with everything I had. The lock didn't give. The door did. I popped out into a narrow, anonymous hall with Turner at my heels.