License Invoked (18 page)

“Fear dust,” Boo-Boo said. “Local product. Effective, isn't it?”

“Very.” Liz watched the men screaming and struggling, fighting against invisible opponents and hitting the others in their frenzy. “Will they recover?”

“Sooner or later,” Boo-Boo said. “They're fightin' with their inner demons just now. I'll give 'em a moment before I stop the effect and ask 'em questions. It's amazin' how cooperative they get when the terror stops. They see nightmares, monsters, all kinds of terrible things. I hate to use it, but it works.”

“You're right,” Liz said, shuddering. “It does.”

“What did you see?”

“Mr. Ringwall.”

Boo-Boo grinned. “Hey, now, hold on. I know those two.” He pointed at the two men who had been waiting concealed at the head of the street, a white man with a handlebar mustache and a shaved head, and a black man with a grizzled beard clipped to a point. “One of them works as a bouncer for one of the jazz clubs on Bourbon. The other is security in the state museum buildings. They're not the kind who normally go in for muggin'.”

Over Liz's protests, Boo-Boo pulled them out of the miasma and counterspelled them. The first pair, startled at the sudden movement, cowered, throwing up their hands. The eyes of the other two stopped whirling. The men shook themselves like large dogs coming out of a lake. The bearded man's mouth dropped open.

“Beauray! Hey, man, what happened?”

“Oh, just a little thing, Samson. Whatcha doin' hangin' out in this neighborhood?” Boo asked. “Gets kinda dangerous in the evenin' around here.”

Samson and his companion looked sheepishly at their feet. “Sorry, man. Din't know it was you. Sorry, ma'am. If you're a friend of Boo's, we're pleased to meet you. I'm Samson. This is Tiger.”

“Eliz—er, Liz,” she said, holding out her hand to them. Her fingers were swallowed up in their vast handshakes.

“You gonna tell me why you're standin' on street corners scarin' strangers?” Boo-Boo asked, in his easy way, but there was steel in his bright blue eyes.

“They hired us,” Tiger said, in a basso growl. “Said there was some bad-ass who needed a little kickin' around. Thought it was a good cause. We had no idea they were puttin' a mark on you. I woulda known better than to try. You want us to mess 'em up a little?”

“No, thanks. I'd rather talk to 'em,” Boo-Boo said. “I need to know why they hired you.” But when he turned to the others to undo his whammy they shied away from his moving hands. Before he or Liz could do anything, they ran away down the street, shrieking as if the fiends of hell were after them, which, for all he knew, they might be. “Left it a little too long,” he said apologetically to Liz. The spell would work itself out in a few hours. “You fellas have any idea what was goin' on?”

“Not a clue,” Samson said apologetically. “They're from out of town, that's all we knew. We thought there was some big problem they needed help with. They sounded like nice fellas. They had some money. We had some spare time. We sure are sorry, ma'am. Can we do anything to help?”

The sudden surge of courtesy did little to calm Liz's temper. So much time had been wasted! She produced the picture of Robbie she had taken from Nigel Peters.

“We're looking for this young woman. We were in pursuit of her from the Superdome when you interfered with us. Any assistance you can offer would be greatly appreciated.” She knew her voice sounded cold, but the men didn't seem to mind. They looked at one another, and nodded.

“This girl's not much to look at,” Tiger said. “But we'll keep an eye out. If she comes into the bar tonight, I'll let you know.”

“I'm on night shift,” Samson said. “If she comes through Jackson Square, I'll see her.”

“Don't make a fuss,” Boo said, genially. “We just want to know who she's drinkin' with. We feel kinda protective of her, you understand?”

And the men seemed to.

“We'll spread the word,” Samson promised. “You can count on that.”

“Thanks,” Boo said. He felt around in his coat pockets for a grubby notebook and pencil, tore out a page and handed half to each man. “Here's my cell phone number. And if you see those guys again . . .”

“You want us to mess 'em up a little?” Tiger asked, hopefully.

“Not right away,” Boo said. “We need to know who hired 'em.”

Tiger crossed his huge arms. “We'll find out for you. Least we can do.”

“In the meanwhile,” Liz said, “we'd better resume our search for Robbie. Time is running out.”

Ken Lewis followed the pointing fork attached to the top of his direction finder as he trudged slowly along Bourbon Street. This stupid city smelled. He was tired of the pervading odors of mold and spice and old paint. The river behind him was a power presence in its own right he couldn't ignore, and far too big for him to deal with. His feet were so hot and sore he wanted to go soak them in the Mississippi and tell Mr. Kingston to hell with him and his project. Trouble was, he knew it would be to Hell with him if he failed. Kingston wasn't the only person who had a vested interest in its success. Ken was part of only a distant outer circle of the Council, but he, too, had hopes of ascendance one day. If he didn't make this work, he was cooked.

He'd run up and down half the crumbling streets in that section of the French Quarter, only to find every track he followed belonged to a total stranger, and some pretty weird strangers at that. Who the hell knew there were so many people in this city giving off magical vibes? Voodoo priests, shamans, witches, clairvoyants—the place was full of practitioners and talents. Why did he have to lose a sensitive in the middle of all this? Why couldn't Green Fire have had its all-important concert in, say, Cleveland, Ohio?

He'd had a heck of a time extracting himself from the last place, the sitting room in a private home on a little side street. The green-robed woman with the long henna-dyed hair had closed her door behind him and didn't want him to go. Only by promising to come back after dark did he persuade her to open the door. He had no intention of keeping that promise. If he managed to pull this job out of the toilet, he intended to spend the hours after midnight getting very drunk in a hotel room. He was still sneezing sandalwood incense out of his nostrils.

This Halloween town had some advantages. The sight of a man walking down the street with a dowsing rod should have had people following him, or calling the cops. Here, nobody stopped him or asked what he was doing. That one big, old, black man in the pressed shirt and trousers back there around the corner had shown some knowledge, and wanted to talk about the device. Ken put him off, too. He ought to send his father down here for a vacation. These were his kind of people: total weirdos.

He turned off the main street just west of the river and headed inland again towards Bourbon Street. It was a long shot, trying an area so far from the Superdome, but he'd covered nearly every street from Poydras to the Quarter without finding a trace of Robbie. He had no choice but to keep trying. She was the linchpin in the whole system. He couldn't run it without her. How he'd get her into the Superdome again later was a problem he'd figure out when he had her back.

The little hazel fork rotated on its spindle and pointed toward the storefronts on his right. By the strength of the reaction, Ken was pretty sure he had found the right trace at last. It took a little backtracking to figure out which doorway was the right one. He was in luck. It was a bar. He'd found her.

He peered into the dim room, lit only by a television set and some track lights over the mirror behind the varnished serving counter. Sure enough, the slender figure of the special effects engineer was hunched up on a stool with her elbows on the bar all the way in the back.

Ken switched off the electronic dowser and put it into his pocket. It had worked like a charm. Well, the rest of his act had better work, or he might be finished. He sidled up and sat down next to his quarry.

She'd been drowning her troubles. Pretty understandable, considering she'd been humiliated in front of everyone in the building. A tall, stemmed glass stood in front of her, half-emptied, but it couldn't have been the first one. Drying rings of neon-colored liquid glistened on the honey-colored wood in the muted light.

“Hi, Robbie,” he said, gently. The television audio warred with some good jazz music coming from an overhead speaker. “Where'd you go so suddenly?”

Robbie Unterburger started, but she didn't look at him right away. The bartender, a white woman in her early fifties, appeared only a few feet away. She gave him a wary glance. Ken guessed she wondered if he was the cause of her customer's misery, and if she'd have to throw him out. He smiled at her, and she returned it, friendly but businesslike. Carefully, but not ostentatiously, she drew a Louisville slugger baseball bat out from underneath the bar so he could see it, nodded meaningfully at him, then put it back again. Ken gulped. Message received.

“I'll have whatever she's having.”

“All right, sir,” the bartender said, in a musical voice. “One Hurricane, coming up.”

Unhesitatingly, she moved to an array of bottles on the back counter, and started to mix the drink. Ken noticed she kept a close eye on him, either directly or in the mirror on the wall. Long experience enabled her to prepare his order and serve it without looking at it, but not missing an ingredient or spilling a drop. The tall glass she set down in front of him was filled to the brim with Day-Glo red liquid and had a toothpick with a cherry and a slice of orange in it. Ken blanched, but he put ten dollars down on the bar and pushed it toward the server. He hated sweet drinks. The bartender left him his change, still wearing a warning expression. Robbie was watching him now, so he took a good sip, and smiled at her.

“Are you okay?” he asked. “You took off out of there so quickly.”

“I got fired, remember?” Robbie said, bitterly. She drained her glass and held up her finger for another one. With a glance at Ken to make sure he was watching, the bartender poured another Hurricane and set it down in front of the young woman. “What did I have to stay around for?”

Ken almost said, “to see the fireworks.” He patted her on the shoulder.

“You didn't have to take off like that. Nigel's not such a bad guy. He knows you're a stranger in this city. He was going to arrange for you to get home again. He was going to exchange your ticket.”

“He was?” Robbie asked, amazed.

“Yeah! Swear to God,” Ken said, hoping she wouldn't notice that he stuck his hand into his pocket so he could cross his fingers. No sense in giving the Other Side anything it could use against him. He might practice black magic, but he was honest about it.

“Oh, Ken,” Robbie said. Her hazel eyes, slightly rimmed with red, fixed on him. They filled with tears. “You're so nice.”

“I'm your friend,” he said. Robbie drained her glass in a few gulps. This time Ken signaled for the next one. “Come on, everybody gets fired a few times in their life. There's more bothering you than that. You want to tell me about it?”

“It's nothing,” Robbie said, hunching over her drink.

“It's Preston, isn't it?” Ken said gently, patting her wrist in a fatherly way. Robbie nodded. “Oh, come on, you could do better than him.”

“No, I couldn't,” Robbie muttered. “He's the one I want. No offense, Ken, because you're really a great guy.” She regarded him blearily. “And you're good-looking, too. But Lloyd's the sexiest man I've ever seen. I feel so . . . It's like lightning running through . . .” She began again, blushing more than ever. “When I'm near him, I just want to throw myself at him. But I can't.”

“And he'd like you, too, if it wasn't for . . . Fionna.” Ken put all the scorn he could into the name, and was pleased to see the young woman straighten her spine and glare at nothing.

“Oh, yes,” she said, decidedly. “I wish the bitch would fall on her face.”

“Maybe she will. Have another drink?” Ken said. They had the back corner of the bar to themselves. The bartender had other customers to look after, and no one could hear them over the combined noise from the speakers. “C'mon, you can tell me all about it.”

* * *

The French Quarter seemed more crowded that late Saturday afternoon than London during the legendary January sales. Boo and Liz struggled through knots of happy people with stacks of beer cups, and skirted by acrobats performing in the middle of pavements, psychic palm or tarot readers speaking intently to their clients at little tables under beach umbrellas, and artists painting or sketching in chairs set against walls or fences where their wares were displayed. Countless tourists clogged the streets, drinking, taking pictures of one another, diving into bars and shops, and emerging with plastic cups full of beer and armloads of sparkling plastic beads. As the sun tipped westward, the neon on the buildings looked more garish and threatening.

Everywhere, Boo reached out to tap a local man or woman on the arm and chatted for a moment before bringing out the photo of Robbie. No one could remember having seen her. All of them promised they'd keep watch, but they didn't hold out a lot of hope. Liz's heart sank at the enormity of their task. It wasn't going to be as easy to find an ordinary-looking woman in blue jeans and a T-shirt on her own as it had been to locate Fee with her short green hair and personal entourage. Even that search hadn't been simple. If it hadn't been for Boo-Boo and his connections . . . which weren't doing them a lot of good just then. His friends were observant, but they'd have to be superheroes to pick out one nondescript stranger in this scrimmage.

They came away from speaking with a very limber Jamaican man in Jackson Square who was trying to fit himself inside a small glass box.

“We coulda just missed her, or she's on the move,” Boo-Boo said, putting the photo into his pocket as they left the square. “Robbie's a stranger in town. I'd say she could be anywhere, but there aren't too many places that she'd feel comfortable about goin' to if she was in trouble.”

“The hotel,” Liz said, as a thought struck her. “Perhaps she just went back there. She might want to go directly to the airport or the bus station. We should find out if she's taken her luggage.”

Boo raised his fair eyebrows. “Maybe that ought to've been our first stop. I wasn't even thinkin' when we came running' out of the Superdome.” He looked so chagrined that Liz felt sorry for him.

“To tell you the truth,” Liz said, “neither was I. That can't be helped now.” Boo-Boo recovered quickly, and gave her his brilliant smile. They were equals again. Partners. A small benefit to come out of this awful mission. Only, he had to remember that she was in charge.

* * *

The tall, blond manager of the Royal Sonesta Hotel came bustling out to greet the two agents waiting at the lobby desk at the summons of one of the uniformed clerks.

“Does one of our guests need help?” he asked in a discreet undertone as soon as he reached them. “Does . . . she need help?”

“Not she,” Liz said, “but one of her employees. Ms. Unterburger. Roberta Unterburger.”

The manager and the attractive clerk behind the desk frowned.

“I'm not certain I recall her,” the clerk said.

“She's kind of an everyday-looking person,” Boo explained, producing the photograph. “It's important that we find her pretty quickly.”

“She might be ill,” Liz explained, hoping they wouldn't ask for details.

“Well, we'll be happy to call a doctor if she needs one,” the manager said, friendly and ready to help.

“It's a serious condition,” Liz said hastily, thinking of the poor doctor who might encounter a wild magical talent without warning.

“We have some fine medical facilities in this town,” the manager said. “Why, Tulane Univ—”

“Can we check her room?” Boo-Boo asked. “As I recall, she's sharin' room 2153 with another woman who works for Ms. Kenmare. She might have come in without anyone noticin' her. She's kind of a shy young lady.”

“Certainly,” the manager said. He disappeared into his office and emerged with a set of passkeys. “Just in case she's collapsed.”

Liz shot a look at her associate. They couldn't be that lucky to find Robbie present and unconscious.

They stopped a maid in the hallway to ask if anyone was in room 2153. The woman shook her head. The manager knocked on the door. When no one answered, he used his passkey to open the room. Liz was relieved to see the ordinary clutter of two women sharing temporary living quarters. Heaps of garments stood on the bed and the dresser. The luggage piled in the closet seemed of sufficient quantity for two. Liz checked the name tags. Some of them belonged to Robbie. Liz opened them, and found them empty. Thank heavens, the girl hadn't packed up her bags and disappeared out of town. Not yet.

The manager was watching with keen interest as the two agents inspected the room. Liz finally had to admit there wasn't a single clue that would tell them where Robbie would go if she felt troubled.

“I think we've learned what we can,” she said. “Thank you for your assistance.”

“Always happy to be of service to our guests,” the manager said, with a bow, but Liz knew he was thinking of Fionna.

“We need to get Ms. Robbie to a specialist. Just let us know if she comes back here.” Boo grabbed a pad of paper and a pen from the nightstand, and scribbled his cell telephone number on it. He handed the slip to the manager. “We shouldn't let her leave on her own. It could be very serious. If you'll just have her call us the moment she shows up.”

“I'd be happy to,” the manager said, tucking the piece of paper into his breast pocket. “You can count on us.”

“I never doubted it,” Boo said.

Boo left the same message and his telephone number with the doorman.

“That's about all we can do here,” he told Liz. “Should we keep on searchin'?”

“The concert isn't long from now,” Liz pointed out, checking her watch. “We'd better go back to the Superdome. We know the target is Fee. We ought to be there to protect her.”

“And hope there aren't any fresh booby traps waitin' for us when we get there,” Boo said, raising a hand for a taxi.

* * *

Feeling considerably more comfortable under the influence of alcohol and Ken's friendly overtures, Robbie reeled off into a catalogue of adolescent complaints about Fionna. Her looks, her habits, her money and fame were all reprehensible and unfair. How dare she be tall and beautiful and rich and talented? What right did she have to get all those clothes handed to her as though she was some kind of princess or something? What could fate have been thinking, sending all those millions of people to swoon at her feet? Especially a man like Lloyd, who ought to see past the makeup and the phony exterior? Didn't he know that that green hair was dyed?