King of the Dead (Jeremiah Hunt Chronicle) (15 page)

In that second I went blind as I forced my sight to override his and the pain exploded inside my skull, worse than anything I’d ever experienced before. Gallagher’s innate defenses had sprung into action, snapping into place like mental shields, trying to push me back out of his head. It felt like being struck with sledgehammers from several directions all at once, and I let loose an involuntary cry of pain but refused to relinquish my hold. He needed to see what he was facing and this was the only way I could think of to pull it off.

Thankfully, my gamble worked.

I heard Gallagher gasp at my intrusion and then immediately curse as he got his first good look at what we were up against.

“The girl!” he yelled, his voice ringing in the small room. “Protect the girl!”

By this point I was starting to pay the price for my impulsive act. Pain filled my head, a roaring sensation that threatened to overwhelm my ability to think and to send me spiraling down into my own personal darkness. I found myself on my knees in the middle of that hardwood floor but I had no idea how I had gotten there. What I did know was that I couldn’t hold on for much longer.

“Hurry…” I muttered, but I don’t think anyone else heard me, for the room was full of shouting voices and the shrieking cries of something that should never have been heard by human ears in this world or the next. Or any other, for that matter.

I knew Gallagher would be fighting blind the moment the connection between us was severed, so I fought back against the encroaching darkness and the static building in my head.

The roar of an enraged bear filled the room, letting me know that Dmitri had entered the fight. Whatever was sucking the girl’s soul, I hoped the combined might of two mages and a berserker would be enough to deal with it, because I was rapidly reaching my limit.

I clenched my fists in counterpoint to the pressure in my head and tried to hold on, tried so hard for so long that time just seemed to slip away and there was just me and the darkness, fighting for dominion.

The darkness at the edges of my mind crept closer and I felt something burst inside my sinuses, like I’d just taken a baseball to the face. It took me a moment to realize that I’d struck the floor when I fell the rest of the way. Seconds later a warm trickle began leaking from my nose as a harsh buzzing filled my ears, drowning out the sounds of those fighting in the room around me. Eventually, the darkness became too overwhelming and at last I gave up, letting myself be swept away on the tide of oblivion.

20

ROBERTSON

Finally, after months of successfully eluding them, Hunt had made a mistake.

Robertson had known it was going to happen: sooner or later, even the best of them fucked up. Not that Hunt fit into that category, but still, you had to respect the man for managing to stay on the run for so long. Which was why Robertson was so surprised at how this one had gone down. After all, Hunt hadn’t seemed like the partying type. Yet that’s exactly what proved to be his downfall. He was seen by a retired cop hanging out at a local music hall in the Quarter. That was just the kind of witness Robertson could get behind, a guy who could think on his feet and who was smart enough to let the professionals handle the takedown.

It had been the weirdness surrounding the guy that had caught the retired officer’s attention.

“It was like he had this magnetic field around him,” he said on the phone with Robertson, “pushing everybody else away from him. It didn’t matter where he went, nobody came within five feet of the guy.”

At first the witness wasn’t positive he’d ID’d him correctly. Hunt had dyed his hair and grown a beard to disguise himself and had even worn a long-sleeved shirt to hide his tattoos, but the witness had seen them when Hunt had pushed his sleeves up for a moment. The ex-cop had the presence of mind to snap a picture with his cell phone and then later match that with the Most Wanted poster on the FBI Web site. Convinced he’d spotted a top ten fugitive, the cop called the local FBI office and reported the sighting. When a copy of that cell phone image arrived in his e-mail in-box, Robertson wasted no time in getting his pilot to turn around and head for New Orleans.

Once there, a team was hastily assembled. It consisted of a mix of local agents and men that Robertson brought with him from Washington. One group was sent to wander the Quarter on the off chance they ran into Hunt again. The other group was deployed in two-man teams and spent forty-eight hours checking the hotels that were a short cab ride from the Quarter, the general consensus being that Hunt, as a fugitive, would have wanted to lose himself among the tourists. When the obvious choices hadn’t produced any results, Robertson ordered every hotel in the city to be checked, regardless of how much time or man power it took. He’d settle up with the financial folks later; right now there was no way he was going to let Hunt slip through his fingers again.

To prove just how serious he was about the situation, Robertson partnered with Agent Doherty and took to the streets himself. The two of them were currently working through the list they’d been given for the day, a series of second-rate hotels and flophouses just north of the Mississippi River.

The hotel he currently stood in front of was called the Majestic, but that appellation must have been a holdover from the good old days, for there was nothing majestic about the place now. It was just the kind of rat hole that he could imagine a cop killer like Hunt hiding in, and Robertson felt a short surge of anticipation as he crossed the lobby toward the clerk behind the registration desk.

“Have you seen this man?” Robertson asked him, holding out the photograph so the clerk could see it.

The other man never even looked up from the old black-and-white television he was watching. Didn’t even do so much as glance at the photo before shaking his head and saying, “Nope. Never seen him before.”

That wouldn’t do
, Robertson thought, pursing his lips in disapproval.
Wouldn’t do at all.

The clerk was as run-down as the hotel itself, all thin limbs and pasty white skin. Probably hadn’t worked out a day in his life, something that Robertson himself pursued with a dedication that bordered on religion.

Without any warning, Robertson reached out, grabbed the other man by his greasy hair, and slammed his head down on the top of the registration desk.

“Oww!” the clerk cried out.

He tried to get up, but Robertson wouldn’t let him, holding his head down against the countertop with the strength of one hand. The FBI agent leaned over and got nose to nose with the clerk, staring him directly in the eye.

“Do I have your attention now, you little piece of shit?” he asked in a tone of voice that was scarier for how calm it was.

The clerk nodded vigorously, too worried about what was going to come next to speak.

Robertson produced the photo once more, holding it where the clerk could see it.

“Have you seen this man?”

The clerk took one look and nodded vigorously. “Yeah, I think so. His hair is blond now, though.”

Robertson smiled.

Gotcha!

He pulled his hand back, letting the other man straighten up and try to regain some of his dignity. After a moment he said, “You were saying?”

The clerk visibly swallowed, clearly afraid. Robertson’s smile grew wider at the sight.

“Um … yeah, yeah I’ve seen him. He stayed for a night and then checked out telephonically the next morning with that other guy and the woman he came in with. Someone picked up their luggage a short time later.”

The other guy was probably Dmitri Alexandrov, the man who’d helped Hunt escape from police custody in Boston.

“Did you catch the woman’s name?”

The clerk shook his head.

Robertson sighed. “Would have been too easy that way, I guess,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

But the clerk heard him and this time it was his turn to smile.

“I didn’t remember her name, because I didn’t need to. She signed for the room.”

He stepped into the back room for a moment. When he returned, he had a registration form in his hand. He handed it to Robertson.

“Denise Clearwater,” the clerk said, with one of those eager-beaver expressions that always made Robertson want to puke. “That’s her. I’m sure of it.”

Robertson hesitated. “How can you be sure this is hers?”

The clerk’s eyes practically bugged out. “Hot chicks like that don’t come in here very often, man. Trust me, you remember them when they do.”

Robertson laughed aloud before turning to Agent Doherty, who had been standing behind him, observing the whole process without saying a word.

“Get me everything you can on a Denise Clearwater,” he told the younger agent.

Here I come, Hunt. Here I come.

21

HUNT

I awoke to find myself in bed in a darkened room. My head hurt, and I seemed to have some kind of thick bandage on my nose. At least I was breathing, which was something.

I shifted in the bed and the moment I did so a voice spoke out of the darkness on the other side of the room.

“She didn’t make it.”

I turned my head and found Dmitri sitting in a chair near the door, watching me. It said something about my mental state that it took me a few minutes to remember that his berserker abilities would probably make it as easy for him to see in the dark as I could. Then what he said finally sank in and I was all but overwhelmed with rage and frustration.

I hadn’t even known the girl, but her passing brought back memories of another time, another place, and that wasn’t something I wanted to experience.

After a moment, I asked, “What happened to that
thing
?”

I didn’t know what to call it, but I figured he’d know what I was talking about.

He did.

“Dead.” The flat way he said it spoke volumes and I breathed a quick sigh of relief. At least it wouldn’t be preying on any other children …

“Clearwater?” I asked once I had control of myself, and then, after a second’s hesitation, “Gallagher?”

Dmitri nodded, as if I’d just confirmed something for him, but he didn’t say anything other than to answer my question. “They’re fine. Both of them.”

Relief swept through me.

He was quiet for a moment, perhaps weighing what it was he intended to say, and then, “Pretty gutsy move, Hunt. Have to say it surprised me, after that shit the other day.”

I wasn’t too proud of my actions the other morning, but I’d be damned if I let him know that.

“Yeah, well, I’m full of surprises,” I said without opening my eyes. The pain in my head was starting to grow worse and I just wanted him to go away. I had a hunch that wasn’t going to happen though, so instead I asked, “How long have I been out?”

“A little over sixteen hours.”

I stared at him, stunned by his reply. “Tell me you’re kidding.”

He shook his head.

I’d been unconscious all night and most of the next day? That wasn’t good.

“Gallagher is waiting to talk to you, if you’re feeling up to it.”

Feeling up to it? Hell no. But rather than tell him the truth I simply said, “All right, give me a minute or two.”

We sat in silence, until he asked, “You don’t like him much, do you?”

Surprised, I actually gave it some thought before answering. Did I like Simon Gallagher? I wasn’t sure. I didn’t think I knew him well enough to like him or dislike him. But there was something there, something that just seemed off. Like an actor playing a role he wasn’t all that familiar with …

Rather than answer his question directly, I asked one of my own. “You guys have known each other for a while, huh?”

He was quiet, perhaps thinking about how much to tell me, maybe just drifting through memories of another time and place. I wasn’t certain; Dmitri had always been hard for me to read.

“The Simon I knew was younger,” he said, “less experienced certainly, but with an attitude to match. He seems to have mellowed a bit since I saw him last.”

Dmitri hadn’t talked about his past all that often in the time I’d known him, so I was naturally curious. “When was that?”

“Almost a decade ago.” His voice turned a bit wistful. “It seems like another lifetime, but I spent a lot of years in this city. I was a Warden for most of them.”

Now
that
was surprising. I couldn’t picture Dmitri as a bastion of law and order in any city, never mind one like New Orleans.

“Why’d you leave?” I asked.

He snorted. “Why does anyone leave? I’d outstayed my welcome and circumstances demanded it.”

And that was all I was going to get on that topic. But he wasn’t done talking about Gallagher yet.

“When I knew him, Simon was training as a combat mage. He had a natural aptitude for it; everyone said he’d be a talent to reckon with if he managed to get his anger under control. It looks like he’s managed to do that.”

“But?” I could sense the word just hanging there, even if he hadn’t said it.

“But Simon was always focused on the end result, rather than the methods and means it took to get there. It’s the kind of thing that can be dangerous for a mage. Perhaps even more dangerous for those around him.”

Dmitri wasn’t worried about what would happen to either of us, that much I could figure out. No, he was warning me for an altogether different reason.

“Is that why she left the city? Because of Gallagher’s tendency to let the end justify the means?”

I knew from our earlier conversation that he didn’t want to go there, but he surprised me again by answering. “That was part of it. The rest is her story to tell, like I said before. But I know that coming here couldn’t have been easy; she hasn’t been back since I helped her get settled in Boston.”

Keep your eyes on Denise
, he was saying. And watch your back.

That I could do.

Apparently that was the end of the conversation, for he suddenly stood up and stretched, making me wonder just how long he’d been sitting there waiting for me to wake up.