Dragons & Dwarves (20 page)

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Authors: S. Andrew Swann

BOOK: Dragons & Dwarves
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“What’s his name?”
“Caledvwlch.”
“Thanks,” I moved to turn off the phone.
“You better be on to something, or I’m personally going to—”
“Stand in line, Bea.” I flipped the phone shut.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
 
I
DIDN’T stay on the line with Columbia because, at this point, if they didn’t have a trace on her phone, they probably had one on mine. Zeroing in on a wireless phone was difficult, but well within the SPU’s capabilities in a normal police investigation.
 
I had called in some vain hope that the outlaw cops wouldn’t allow there to be a normal police investigation. I was hoping that they’d want to keep it intimate. I was holding some pretty damaging info, they wouldn’t want me hauled in by cops that weren’t in on their particular scam.
I had either overestimated their caution, or things had gotten too big for them to bottle up. The Cleveland Police had a warrant out on me, and at this point I could either cut and run, or try to get myself into the custody of some non-SPU cops.
I came to a decision. The Justice Center was within spitting distance of where I was standing. I knew Caledvwlch and the rogue elves were crawling all over the
Press
building. All I had to do was slip into the DA’s office, or maybe internal affairs. These bastards were deadly, but if I got firmly embedded in the system and, most importantly, got what I already knew into the record, it would be very difficult to get rid of me without implicating themselves.
When I left the library I took the rear entrance, to cut across the mall toward the city buildings clustered around Lakeside. I passed by a hot dog vendor, scattering the pixie things that hovered in the garlic-scented steam from the hot dog water. The little alien humanoids, all of an inch in height with a shimmering wingspan no bigger than my outstretched hand, gave me a wide berth. They probably saw it coming before I did.
I didn’t know I was in trouble until I saw a van pull to a stop at the intersection ahead of me. I was a little too slow in reacting. I kept walking, turning to watch the van, both the exactly wrong things to do. By the time my legs got the message and started turning, tensing to sprint, it was too late. The door was sliding open on the side of the van, and I was suddenly flanked from behind by two muscular gentlemen with navy suits and earth-tone ties.
“You have to come with us, Mr. Maxwell,” said the suit with the brown tie, as the pair of them grabbed my arms and ushered me quickly to the idling van. I might have fought them, but I felt a hard pressure over my right kidney wielded by the suit with the mustard-yellow tie.
I knew right off they weren’t local cops. They were too polite, too obviously concerned about making a scene. Local boys would have done one of two things; a cowboy would have tackled me, sworn a lot, and read me Miranda while he ground my face into the pavement, while a good ol’ boy would call it in, and watch as five or six cars drove in to pick me up.
I was shoved inside the van, which was moving before the door had slid completely shut.
And who the hell are you guys?
 
“Where are you taking me?” I asked as we crossed the river on the Main Avenue Bridge, going west. I noticed a few of them, notably the guy with the mustard tie and the guy riding shotgun, watching to our right as we passed the stadium. It was the kind of look that let you separate the tourists from the natives—though the look Colonel Mustard was giving seemed more like a general sizing up an enemy army. The gun he still held on me must have contributed to the impression.
Mr. Brown watched out the opposite window. “We’ll be there soon enough, Mr. Maxwell.”
“What do you guys want?”
“We want you to be quiet until we get to the safe house,” said the man I thought of as Professor Plum—glasses and gray hair made him look slightly bookish.
Safe house?
Over the river, the driver—whom I labeled Mr. White because he was a black guy who bore a passing resemblance to a former mayor of the same name—called back, “We got a critter on our six o’clock, pacing us.”
“Fuck it,” Colonel Mustard said as he squinted out the back windows of the van. “I don’t see a tail.”
“Up,” said Mr. White.
I followed Colonel Mustard’s gaze upward and saw what Mr. White had been talking about.
It was some sort of flying creature, about half man-sized, with leathery wings and a skull-like face. A demonic gargoyle creature that, I now realized, had been following my movements since I’d arrived on the Hope Memorial Bridge. I’d seen it perched on a bridge, on a church while the elves kidnaped me, and I’d caught a glimpse of it on the Cleveland Trust Building. I wondered what my score on the oblivious meter was.
“Can we lose the familiar?” asked Professor Plum.
“Sir,” said Mr. White, “it flies. I can’t lose it in traffic.”
There was a pause, then Professor Plum flipped open a cell phone. “This is mobile one. I need a car at,” he flipped open a notebook and, after a moment, said, “Rendezvous green-seven, third level. Ten minutes.”
He flipped the phone shut without listening for any response. He looked over to Mr. Brown and Colonel Mustard. “I want to know what that thing’s following.” He looked at me and said, “Have you seen that creature before?”
This is where I get overcome with the self-destructive urge for resistance. “You bastards just kidnapped me off the street, why should I help you?”
Professor Plum smiled. “Mr. Maxwell, you’re intelligent—but shall I spell it out for you? You’re a fugitive, wanted by the police for questioning for a murder that was most likely committed by people who will have no hesitation in killing you as well. How many friends do you have? How sure are you that the thing following us is one of them?”
“Answer the man,” Colonel Mustard said, pressing the gun into my side to make sure I got the point.
Bone Daddy’s words echoed in my head,
many hands, but no head.
“Yes,” I said, finally. “I’ve seen it before.”
“Christ, it’s tracking him.” Colonel Mustard didn’t sound pleased.
“More than likely,” agreed Professor Plum, “some charm planted on him.” He pulled a small silver chain from his pocket. A stone dangled from it, rough and unfinished, resembling a piece of coal. He handed it to Brown. “Check him out.”
Brown held the chain wrapped around his hand and mumbled a few words. Then he passed his hand over me. When his hand passed over my left jacket pocket, it glowed slightly—an evil greenish glow that made the eye hurt.
“Got one,” he said and pulled my cell phone out of my pocket.
“Hey,” I said.
Professor Plum took my phone from Brown. “Your phone has been subject to some sort of enchantment. I don’t have the ability to determine what, right now. But it has probably been acting as a beacon for our hitchhiker.”
I wanted to argue, but I couldn’t. I had been receiving odd calls on my phone—could you phone in an enchantment?
Mr. Brown also liberated Bone Daddy’s CD, and my house keys. Both apparently held magical signatures that our follower could track.
We were deep into Lakewood now, and Mr. White took us into a parking garage, drove up three levels and pulled in alongside a Lincoln Town Car that was idling and facing in the other direction. Doors opened before the van had stopped completely.
“Move,” Plum said, “before that thing can see what’s happening.”
Mustard and Brown hustled me into the back of the Lincoln, Plum took shotgun again. White stayed with the van and started it again, driving up the ramp to the next level. The enchanted items Brown had identified were still sitting inside it.
The Lincoln started down, back out of the parking garage.
Mustard watched out the rear window for our follower. “Yes,” he said. “It’s with the van.”
I could glimpse it, very high up, circling the parking garage as we pulled away.
 
Our destination wasn’t in Lakewood, which made some sense. You wouldn’t want to lose a tail very close to where you wanted to go. It was about twenty minutes before we pulled into the driveway of an anonymous white ranch deep in the wilds of Berea.
Brown opened the door just in time to let in the sound of a 747 on approach to Hopkins. I looked up to see the belly of the jumbo jet blacking out a quarter of the sky. It made me want to duck.
“
The house!
” Brown yelled at me over the sound of the engines.
I nodded, looking around at the place. The lawn was weed-shot and half-brown. The back of the property was marked by a twelve-foot tall chain-link fence topped with razor wire. There were trees behind the fence, attempting to screen the view of the airport and failing because they’d been cut uniformly down to twelve feet in height.
To the left, right, and across the street were vacant lots. I suspected that the only reason this building still stood was due to oversight, some accident of zoning. This place really shouldn’t have survived the last airport expansion.
They escorted me up the concrete walkway, past empty flower beds where the mulch was in bloom. We reached the door in time for a departure to pass over our heads. A smaller three-engine jet this time, but close enough to rattle the aluminum storm door in its frame. I also noticed small metal amulets riveted to the inside of the door, where they wouldn’t be visible from the outside.
One would be an adequate ward for most people. I knew my apartment had three. I didn’t know much about magical security systems, but I did know there was a separate charm for each kind of protection—intrusion alarm, antiscrying, repelling certain types of creatures.
I counted seven amulets on the inside of the storm door before Colonel Mustard got impatient and pushed me through with the point of the gun.
I stumbled through into a dingy living room, followed by all my escort except the driver. When the door shut, it was surprisingly quiet—enough that my ears popped with sudden relief from the aircraft’s rumbling.
One wall, to our left, held a dead gas fireplace inset into a faux stone wall smeared with enough black soot that it seemed that someone had tried half-successfully to burn wood in the thing. The other walls were papered with mylar with a green velvet nap patterned on it. The mylar was gray-white with water stains and age, and the floral pattern had, between waist and shoulder level, had been worn away by three or four decades of human touch.
“Nice place,” I commented. “I like the blue shag carpet, it adds just the right—”
“Shut up,” said Colonel Mustard, “You’re wanted in the rec room.”
I shrugged and followed his lead. I expected to be taken to a wood-paneled room with a bar and a pool table, with an acoustic tile ceiling.
I was wrong about everything but the acoustic tile.
Brown and Mustard flanked me as I stepped into a room about ten feet square, off of the kitchen. The walls and ceiling were paneled with acoustical tile, except for a mirror about five feet long on the wall opposite the entrance. There was a single metal desk and three office chairs. On the side of the desk that abutted the wall sat a small bronze Buddha. A small curl of aromatic smoke rose from a cone of incense in its lap.
Sitting on one side of the desk was a middle-aged Asian gentleman. His hair and mustache were still jet black, but the skin on his face was deeply lined and the joints on his hands were swollen with the obvious signs of arthritis. He was rubbing his hands as we entered, and he gestured to one of the chairs. Brown and Mustard placed me into the seat, a little forcefully.
“Gentlemen, please. That isn’t necessary.”
Mustard snorted, “This guy’s a Clevelander, sir.”
“Which isn’t a crime.”
“Perhaps you two should wait outside,” said Professor Plum as he walked in behind us. He took up the remaining seat.
Mustard grunted, but both he and Brown backed out of the room, closing the door behind them. This side of the door was covered with soundproofing tiles as well. I glanced at the walls and noticed talismans mounted near the ceiling at the four points of the compass.
I looked down at the new guy. “So what Agency are you with?”
The Asian smiled. Professor Plum looked slightly nonplussed, “What makes you—”
“Mr. Maxwell has simply taken note of the resources expended on his behalf, and the nature of this safe house, and has come to certain conclusions.”
“My only real question is what government you work for.” I cast a glance at the Buddha.
“Simply a serene influence.” He pulled out a billfold and opened it on the table in front of me. “Special Agent Ts’ao Kuo, Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
I looked over at Professor Plum. He said, “I’m Doctor Roy Blackstone.” He didn’t provide an ID.
“Uh-huh?” I shook my head. “When does the FBI start kid naping people off the street?”
“You’re wanted for questioning,” Agent Ts’ao said.

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