Dead Beat (10 page)

I swallowed.

"I'm scared."

Georgia touched my arm briefly, then said, "You shouldn't be so hard on yourself, Harry. I know you well enough to know that you would never want that kind of power, much less abuse it."

"If some part of me didn't want it," I asked, "why didn't I pick up the kid instead of Lasciel's coin?"

A heavy silence settled over the kitchen.

"You've been friends to me. Stuck it out by me when times were rough," I said a moment later. "You've made me welcome in your home. In your life. You're good people. I'm sorry I haven't been more open with you."

"Is that what tonight was about?" Billy asked. "The demon?"

"No," I said. "Tonight was different. And I can't tell you about it."

"If you're trying to protect us…" Billy began.

"I'm not protecting you," I said. "I'm protecting someone else. If I'm seen with you, it could get them badly hurt. Maybe even killed."

"I don't understand. I want to help…" Billy said.

Georgia put her hand over Billy's. He glanced at her, flushed, and then closed his mouth.

I nodded and finished the beer. "I need you to trust me for a little while. I'm sorry. But the faster I'm out of here, the better."

"How can we help?" Georgia asked.

"Just knowing that you want to is a help," I told her. "But that's almost the only thing you can do. For now, at least."

"Almost the only thing?"

I nodded. "If I could get something to eat, and maybe a ride back to my car, I'd be obliged."

"We can do that," Billy said.

"Thank you,"I said.

Chapter Ten

I raided the refrigerator and divested it of a small plate of cold cuts while Billy made a call to his apartment. Moments later one of the other Alphas called back, confirming that the furor around Bock Ordered Books had begun to die down.

"Only one patrol car still there," Billy reported. "Plus the guys with the wrecker."

"We shouldn't wait any longer," I said. "With cops around, any neighborhood monsters will lie low for a while to be careful. I want to be back there and gone before they get moving again."

"Eat in the car," Georgia suggested, and we all piled back into her SUV.

Georgia parked on the curb behind the Beetle and let me out. I had my keys in my hand, ready to get in and get gone. But when I saw the car, I stopped.

Someone had smashed out the remaining windows in the car. Glass littered the street and the car's interior. Parts of the windshield were missing, and the rest clung together in a mass of fracture lines that made the whole mess opaque. The back window had already been broken when I used my force ring on that zombie earlier in the evening. The doors and the hood were dented in dozens of places, and the door handles had been entirely smashed off. The tires sagged limply, and I could see long, neat slashes in them without difficulty.

I approached the car slowly.

The wooden handle of a Louisville Slugger baseball bat protruded from the gaping driver's-side window, the cardboard tag from the store still dangling from its string.

Billy leaned out the SUV window and let out a low whistle. "Wow."

"But on the upside," I said, "now all the windows match."

"What a mess," Georgia said.

I went around to the front of the car and opened the trunk. It hadn't been tampered with. My sawed-off shotgun was still in the backseat. Billy and Georgia got out and walked over to me.

"Gang?" Georgia asked.

"Gang wouldn't have left the gun," I said.

"The guys in the hoods?" Billy guessed.

"Didn't strike me as the baseball-bat type." I reached in and picked up the bat with just my forefinger and thumb, near the middle, where it wouldn't mar any fingerprints left on it. I showed it to them. "Cowl would have used his magic to smash the car up, not a club." I walked around to the back of the car and frowned down at the engine. It looked intact. I leaned in the window and tried my key. The engine turned over without any trouble.

"Huh," Billy said. "Who completely ruins a car but doesn't touch the engine?"

"Someone sending me a message," I said.

Billy pursed his lips. "What does it say?"

"That I need to rent a car, apparently," I said. I shook my head. "I don't have time for this."

Billy and Georgia traded a look, and Georgia nodded. She came over to me, took my car keys where I held them in my cupped left hand, and replaced them with her own.

"Oh, hell, no," I said. "Don't do that."

"It's not a big deal," she told me. "Look, you still take your car to Mike's Garage, right?"

"Well, yeah, but—"

"But nothing," Billy said. "We're only a couple of blocks from the apartment. We'll get your car towed to Mike's."

Georgia nodded firmly. "Just bring back the SUV whenever the Beetle is ready."

I thought it over. Seeing my car torn up was actually a hell of a lot more distressing than I thought it would be. It was only a machine. But it was
my
machine. Some part of me felt furious that someone had done this to my ride.

My first instinct was to refuse their offer, get the Beetle to the shop, and use cabs until then—but that was the anger talking. I forced myself to apply my brain to it, and figured that, given how much running around I might need to do in the near future, I couldn't afford it. I couldn't afford the time that public transportation would cost me, either, assuming I could use it at all. Damn, but I hate to swallow my pride.

"It's a new car. Something will blow out."

"It's still under warranty," Georgia said.

Billy gave me a thumbs-up. "Good hunting, Harry. Whatever you're after."

I nodded back to him and said, "Thanks."

I got into the SUV and headed out to speak to the only person in Chicago who knew as much about magic and death as I did.

Mortimer Lindquist had done pretty well for himself over the past couple of years, and he'd moved out of the little California-import stucco ranch house he'd been in the last time I'd gone to visit him. Now he was working out of a converted duplex in Bucktown. Mort leased both halves of the duplex, and ran his business on one side, with his home on the other. There were no cars in the business driveway, though he mostly operated at night. He must have already wrapped up for the evening. He had abandoned the faux-Gothic decor that had previously graced his place of business, which was a hopeful sign. I needed the help of someone with real skill, not a charlatan with a batch of gimmicks.

I parked the SUV in the business driveway, mowing down a patch of yellow pansies as I did. I wasn't used to driving something that big. The Beetle might be small and slow, but at least I knew exactly where its tires were going to go.

The lights were all out. I availed myself of the brass knocker hung on the residential door.

Fifteen minutes later, a bleary-looking little man answered. He was short, twenty or thirty pounds overweight, and had given up trying to conceal his receding hairline in favor of shaving his scalp completely bald. He was wrapped in a thick maroon bathrobe and wore grey slippers on his feet.

"It's three o'clock in the morning," Mort complained. "What the hell do you—" He saw my face and his eyes widened in panic. He hurried to shut the door.

I stabbed my oak staff into the doorway and stopped him from closing it. "Hi, Mort. Got a minute?"

"Go away, Dresden," the little man said. "Whatever it is you want, I don't have it."

I leaned on my staff and put on an affable smile. "Mort, after all we've been through together, I can't believe you'd speak to me like that."

Mort gestured furiously at a pale scar on his scalp. "The last time I had a conversation with you, I wound up with a concussion and fifteen stitches in my head."

"I need your help," I said.

"Ha," Mort said. "Thank you, but no. You might as well ask me to paint a target on my chest." He kicked at my staff, but not very hard. Those slippers wouldn't have protected his foot very well. "Get out, before something sees you here."

"Can't do that, Mort," I said. "There's black magic afoot. You know that, don't you?"

The little man stared at me in silence for a moment. Then he said, "Why do you think I want you gone? I don't want to be seen with you. I'm not involved."

"You are now," I said. I kept smiling, but all I really wanted to do was throw a jab at his nose. I guess my feelings must have leaked through into my expression, because Mort took one look at my face and blanched. "People are in trouble. I'm helping them. Now open this damned door and help me, or I swear to God I am going to come camp out on your lawn in my sleeping bag."

Mort's eyes widened, and he looked around outside the house, nervous energy making his eyes flick back and forth rapidly. "You son of a bitch," he said.

"Believe it."

He opened the door. I stepped inside and he shut it behind me, snapping several locks closed.

The interior of the house was clean, businesslike. The entry hall had been converted into a small waiting room, and beyond it lay the remainder of the first floor, a richly colored room lined with candles in sconces, now unlit, featuring a large table of dark polished wood surrounded by matching hand-carved chairs. Mort stalked into his seance room, picked up a box of kitchen matches, and started lighting a few candles.

"Well?" he asked. "Going to show me how all-powerful you are? Call up a gale in my study? Maybe slam a few doors for dramatic effect?"

"Would you like me to?"

He threw the matches down on the table and took a seat at its head. "Maybe I haven't been clear with you, Dresden," Mort said. "I'm not a wizard. I'm not with the Council. I have no interest in attracting their attention or that of their enemies. I am not a participant in your war with the vampires. I like my blood where it is."

"This isn't about the vampires," I said.

Mort frowned. "No? Are things dying down, then?"

I grimaced and took a seat a few chairs down. "There was a nasty fight in Mexico City three weeks ago, and the Wardens bloodied the Red Court's nose pretty well. Seems to have thrown a wrench in their plans for some reason."

"Getting ready to hit back," Mort said.

"Everyone figures that," I said. "We just don't know where or when."

Mort exhaled and leaned his forehead on the heel of one hand. "Did you know I found someone they'd killed a couple of years ago? Young boy, maybe ten years old."

"A ghost?" I asked.

Mort nodded. "Little guy had no idea what was going on. He didn't even know he was dead. They cut his throat with a razor blade. You could barely see the mark unless he turned to look over his right shoulder."

"That's what they do," I said. "How can you see things like that and not want to fight them?"

"Bad things
happen
to people, Dresden," Mort said. "I'm sorry as hell about it, but I'm not you. I don't have the power to change it."

"Like hell you don't," I said. "You're an ectomancer. One of the strongest I've met. You've got access to all kinds of information. You could do a lot of good."

"Information doesn't stop fangs, Dresden. If I start using what I know against them, I'd be a threat. Five minutes after I get involved I'll be the one with his throat cut."

"Better them than you, huh?"

He looked up and spread his hands. "I am what I am, Dresden. A coward. I don't apologize for it." He folded his fingers and regarded me soberly. "What's the fastest way for me to get you away from my home and out of my life?"

I leaned my staff against the table and slouched into my chair. "What do you know about what's been happening in town lately?"

"Black magic?" Mort asked. "Not much. I've had nightmares, which is unusual. The dead have been nervous for several days. It's been difficult to get them to answer a summons, even with Halloween coming up."

"Has that happened before?" I asked.

"Not on this scale," Mort said. "I've asked, but they won't explain to me why they're afraid. In my experience, it's one way that spiritual entities react to the presence of dark powers."

I nodded, frowning. "It's necromancy," I said. "You ever heard about a guy named Kemmler?"

Mort's eyes widened. "Oh, God. His disciples?"

"I think so," I said. "A lot of them."

Mort's face turned a little green. "That explains why they're so afraid."

"Why?"

He waved a hand. "The dead are terrified of whatever is moving around out there. Necromancers can enslave them. Control them. Even destroy them."

"So they can feel their power?" I asked.

"Absolutely."

"Good," I said. "I was counting on that."

Mort frowned and arched an eyebrow.

"I'm not sure how many of them are in town," I said. "I need to know where they are—or at least how many of them are here. I want you to ask the dead to help me locate them."

He lifted both hands. "They won't. I'll tell you that for certain. You couldn't get a ghost to willingly appear within screaming distance of a necromancer."

"Come on, Mort. Don't start holding out on me."

"I'm not," he said, and held up two fingers in a scout's hand signal. "My pledge of honor upon it."

I exhaled, frustrated. "What about residual magic?"

"What do you mean?"

"Whenever these necromancers work with dark magic it leaves a kind of stain or footprint. I can sense it if I get close enough."

"So why don't you do it?"

"It's a big town," I said. "And whatever these lunatics are up to, it's got to happen by midnight Halloween. I don't have time to walk a grid hoping to get close."

"And you think the dead will?"

"I think the dead can move through walls and the floor, and that there are a whole lot more of them than there are of me," I said. "If you ask them, they might do it."

"They might attract attention to themselves, you mean," Mort said. "No. They may be dead, but that doesn't mean that they can't get hurt. I won't risk that for Council infighting."

I blinked for a second. A few years ago Mort had barely been able to crawl out of his bottle long enough to cold-read credulous idiots into believing he could speak to their dead loved ones. Even after he had gotten his life together and begun to reclaim his atrophied talents, he had never displayed any particular indication that he wanted anything more than to turn a profit on his genuine skills rather than with fraud. Mort always looked out for number one.

But not tonight. I recognized the quiet, steady light in his eyes. He was not going to be pushed on this issue. Maybe Mort wasn't willing to go to the wall for his fellow human beings, but apparently with the dead it was different. I hadn't expected the little ectomancer to grow a backbone, even if it was only a partial one.

I weighed my options. I could always try to lean harder on Mort, but I was pretty sure that it wouldn't do me much good. I could try contacting the ghosts of Chicagoland myself—but while I knew the basic theory of ectomancy, I had no practical experience with it. I had no time to waste floundering around like a clueless newbie in an area of magic totally outside my practical experience.

"Mort," I said, "look. If you mean it, I'll respect that. I'll go right now."

He frowned, his eyes wary.

"But this isn't about wizard politics," I said. "Kemmler's disciples have already killed at least one person here in town, and they're going to kill more."

He slumped a little in his chair and closed his eyes. "Bad things happen to people, Dresden. That's not my fault."

"Please," I said. "Mort, I have a friend involved in this. If I don't deal with these assholes, she's going to get hurt."