Nightwise (25 page)

“I am, darlin',” I said around a mouthful of taco. “The caper was cherry. I have some very solid leads as to what Berman and Slorzack were up to, and I got to face down some evil, skanky Eastern European demigoddess and live. Yeah, I'm that good.”

“Ballard?” Magdalena said from the backseat. The music on the radio changed to “Kerosene Hat” by Cracker. “That … goddess thing you were talking to back at the Treasury, it said you were a Nightwise. What is that?”

I sighed, and Didgeri and Ichi both chuckled.

“Nothing,” I said. “It's nothing.”

“Ballard doesn't care to recall it, but there was a time when he was a cop,” Didgeri said.

“The Nightwise are an honorable association of knight-magicians, who dedicate themselves to police those in the Life from excesses and protect this world from unnatural threats,” Ichi said. “They are legends across the known worlds for their integrity, doggedness, and power. Naturally, Ballard did not remain with them long.”

“I quit,” I said. “Wankers, the lot of 'em.”

“I heard you were kicked out,” Didgeri said, the smile growing.

I turned up the radio and kept driving.

Many miles down the road, Ichi muttered something to Magdalena in the backseat.

“Bah. This noise I am forced to be subjected to. Perhaps we could listen to some good American popular music—Count Basie, Glen Miller,” he said.

Magdalena laughed. “I love those! I think that is a lovely idea.”

Ichi kind of sort of smiled; it looked like his face was breaking. “It is good to meet a young person who appreciates real music.”

“I enjoy all music,” Magdalena said. “May I ask you a question, Ichi-san?”

“Yes, of course,” Ichi said.

“Is it true what Didgeri told me? Are you really one hundred and fifty-nine years old and a descendant of the author of the
Book of the Five Rings
?”

Ichi nodded curtly. “Yes. I am of the blood of the Sword Saint Musashi, and I was born in 1854.”

Magdalena leaned toward the old sourpuss. “Please, tell me about your life. I'd really like to know.”

“Well … it is not that interesting a story,” Ichi said. “But, since you are so respectful and such lovely company, very well.”

Ichi began to talk. I tuned out. I'd heard the legend of the Gun Saint many, many times, and the story got better if you could slip a little hot sake into the old stone ass. I had to hand it to Magdalena, she had held up her end of the job, backed up Geri, and she even got along with Ichi.

“That old camera got very wet,” Didgeri said. “You sure you got what you came for?”

“Yeah,” I said, popping the last bite of taco in my mouth. “It doesn't even have film in it, works completely by magic. I want you to look at the pictures too. These symbols … It's a whole magical system I have never seen before. I'd love your take on it.”

“And I'd love to see them too. A new system centered around American currency, evolving and developing over the span of hundreds of years. Fascinating.”

I popped a mint in my mouth and offered the small red-and-white tin to Didgeri. “Telepathtoid?” I said.

“Give me that,” she said. “I shudder at the thought of the most powerful juvenile delinquent in creation with a box of telepathic mints. Visiting your mind gave me a real appreciation for New Jersey. I see now there are worse things.” She made a face and took the tin away, stuffing it in her purse.

“It's nice,” Didgeri said.

“What?” I asked.

“Seeing you happy. It's been a long time,” she said.

“Yeah,” I said, “it has.”

The music played, and we drove down the highway chatting occasionally about nothing. It was what normal people feel like, and for me it was a vacation.

*   *   *

Foxglove Farm was out where the buses don't run, off of State Route 796. We turned right opposite Newdale School Road. Rolling green hills and distant blue stone mountains stretched as far as the eye could see. It was farm country, acres, miles of minimal human presence, of green and dust and gravel swirling in clouds about the Jeep. Mailboxes, dozens of them, clustered near a main road, combed like a wasps' nest. It made me feel good to know that not every square inch of every corner of the world was paved and known and just three minutes from a Starbucks.

“Do you hear banjos playing?” Didgeri asked.

“This is home, darlin',” I said. “Be it ever so humble.”

It was early afternoon, still a few hours of sunlight. We bounced down the private access road past entrances to farms and private estates with colorful names like Hermitage Hill, Buttermilk Road, Morning Sun, and Thorny Branch. After close to an hour, a small sign guarding a large mailbox told us to turn, and we began to ascend a wooded hill. In moments, we were surrounded by oaks and pines, the surrendering sun's brilliance flashing though barren and emerald branches.

“This place is beautiful,” Magdalena said.

“And easy to defend,” Ichi said matter-of-factly. “A single path in, dense foliage, the high ground to see invaders coming. Very wise.”

After a few more turns, we passed a rusted, open metal farm gate with a chain and padlock hanging off it. The skeleton of an old Ford pickup lay next to the decaying husk of a vine-choked barn. A worn sheet metal sign on the gate announced we were indeed at Foxglove Farm. The dirt and gravel road got bumpier, more ruts, deeper from snow and flood. We saw fences and pastures on our left.

“Oh! Look!” Magdalena shouted, pointing, excited like a little girl at the zoo. “Sheep, cows! Oh, I hope they have horses!”

I felt us hit the wards like slamming into a brick wall. They were tight and strong, the work of a master spell crafter. Didgeri winced and looked at me, then back to Magdalena.

“Oh,” Magdalena said. “That didn't feel good at all. Kind of like a change in pressure. Was that some kind of magic barrier?”

“Yep,” I said. “We just rang the doorbell.”

“We are being watched, and weapons are being aimed in our direction,” Ichi said absently. “I hope they have food; I am rather hungry. Tea would be pleasant as well.”

The old man had dried, cleaned, and oiled his weapons on the trip up, but he didn't seem in any hurry to pull them, so I took that as a promising sign.

The blue sky was fading, graying, as the early winter night approached. The wind had picked up, and the forest's shadows were growing longer and darker. A final, wide turn, and we were at the top of the hill. The main house and barns jumped into view.

There was a beat-up old Ford F-150 with faded red and white paint parked in the wide circle of dirt and gravel where the road abruptly ended. It had a tag in the back window of the cab that said simply
FARM USE
. There was also a dark green Range Rover with Virginia plates and an old Black Mazda RX-7 with New York tags parked in the circle. Off to the left was an island of asphalt that had been poured as a basketball court. From the condition of the backboard and rim, it hadn't been used in a while. A huge barn and stable ran off to the right, beside and behind the main house. A massive two-story work building stood off behind the basketball court.

The main house was painted white with dark green shutters, a wraparound porch, and a shingled roof. A small group of people stood on the porch, near the parking area. A woman cradling a shotgun walked down off the porch and headed toward the Jeep. She was skinny with pale skin and a wide constellation of freckles across her prominent nose. It was difficult to place her age, somewhere between thirty and forty. Her hair was a coppery red and fell in ringlets down past her narrow shoulders.

There are usually two types of redheads: striking individuals with an almost unreal beauty and then those possessing a fascinating ugliness. She was both. She wasn't beautiful by the conventional wisdom, but there was sexuality and confidence about how she carried herself that gave her a magnetic quality. She was dressed in a thermal T-shirt, jeans, and hiking boots. Did I mention the shotgun?

I rolled the window down. “I'm Laytham Ballard,” I said. “I'm here to see Bruce Haberscomb.”

The woman lowered the gun to her side and jerked a thumb toward the others, who were coming off the porch to join her. “They beat you here,” she said. “I'm Pam, I'm Bruce's wife.”

Grinner and Christine walked up behind Pam. Christine smiled and waved. She had a baby bump poking out of her HIM T-shirt. Magdalena squealed and jumped out of the car to run around and embrace her.

“Right on time, I see,” Grinner said, giving me a fist bump as I climbed out of the car. I turned and shook Pam's hand.

“Pleased to meet you, and thank you for the hospitality,” I said.

“We're used to it,” she said. “Bruce tends to accumulate a lot of occult fanboys, no insult intended.”

“None taken,” I said. “Grinner told me about him. He sounds like a remarkable man.”

Pam shook her head and rolled her eyes. “Yeah, okay. Come on in, dinner is almost ready. The Great and Powerful Oz will join us later.”

Ichi and Didgeri were getting out of the Jeep. Ichi started grabbing bags out of the back. Grinner and I helped.

“The tablet virus worked okay back in D.C.?” Grinner asked.

“Yeah, perfect. Killed the whole building's power right when we needed it, and the IDs were solid too,” I said. “I didn't expect to see you two here with all these wanted fugitives. I thought you'd be south of the border by now.”

“Yeah, well, I wanted to see if you pulled it off, and I wanted to give you a face-to-face intro to Pam and Bruce. And…”

We carried the bags onto the porch and through the bay doors into the living room. It was an enormous room full of packed blond oak bookcases, a huge stone hearth with a comfy-looking couch and overstuffed chairs huddled around it, and a wide wooden spiral staircase headed upstairs. To the left was an arch leading to a large dining room. Grinner, Ichi, and I followed the girls, who in turn were following Pam upstairs.

“And?” I said to Grinner.

“I found something,” he whispered. “Our missing link to Slorzack, Berman, and Trace. It's kind of hard-core, so let me tell you after dinner, okay?”

I nodded. “You really think Haberscomb can find him?”

“Yeah,” Grinner said. “And you will too.”

*   *   *

Dinner was … well, it was something I have had maybe two or three times in my whole life. There was amazing food—all kinds, fresh—a lot of it grown or raised at Foxglove, and Pam was an exceptional cook. There was good drink—wine, beer, coffee, tea, hot sake for Ichi and Grinner. She even had Cheerwine for me! There was conversation, stories, jokes, laughter, remembrances, toasts. It was a family dinner for a bunch of people who had no families. It was beautiful.

This day had started with the potential for death, failure, or imprisonment. It was ending like something out of a storybook. I tried so hard to not listen to the bastard part of me, the survivor part, the realist part who told me this wouldn't last, couldn't. I tried to just enjoy it while I could.

Pam seemed to relax once food was on the table. She enjoyed having company, and she, Geri, Christine, and Magdalena all became very thick. Ichi and Pam actually struck up quite a conversation about gardening and farming, most of it in Japanese, and Grinner and I played the old remember-that-time game.

After dinner, we all helped clear the table, do the dishes, and put away leftovers. Pam fixed a plate for her husband and put it in the fridge. The kitchen at Foxglove Farm was like an industrial kitchen, designed to feed a lot of folks in a hurry and clean up quick as well.

“Sorry your husband couldn't join us,” I said. “Everything all right?”

“Yes,” Pam said, wiping down a marble countertop. “Bruce was away for a few days, and he just got back. He needed to crash pretty hard. He should be up and about by tomorrow, Mr. Ballard.”

“Please, after a meal like that, and all this hospitality, I'd sure appreciate it if you'd just call me Laytham,” I said. “Where did he go, if I can be so nosey?”

Pam seemed to have trouble articulating. She tried a few times, then stopped. Finally, she put her dish towel away and said, “He travels all over the world, over several worlds, but he never leaves his workshop out back,” she said. “I hope that makes sense to you.”

“It actually does,” I said.

“I'm glad it does to you, because it damn sure doesn't make sense to me. You can't call what he does hacking. It's … that's like calling life a ‘chemical process.' Bruce … travels, and some of the places he travels to take a toll on him. So he's resting. I hope he can see you in the morning.”

“No hurry,” I said.

Pam leaned against the counter and shook her head.

“You'll forgive me, Laytham, but men like you are always in a hurry. You're used to having people come out to meet you with shotguns, used to being a few steps ahead of some new disaster. You see, Bruce isn't the only one with a reputation, and yours precedes you. So I appreciate you being patient—you really don't have a choice in it, but I know you are racing some clock, and Bruce knows too.”

I sat down at the small round table in the breakfast nook. Pam joined me.

“I have an old friend, older than Grinner. I don't have too many friends, old or otherwise, left. My friend, he's dying. He lost everything in this world that mattered to him and he took a slow and painful way of killing himself.

“He doesn't have much time left and he asked me for one last favor, one last debt called in. He wants me to find the man who raped, tortured, and killed his wife, who took all the reason and hope in this world away from him. Bruce may be my last hope to find him.”

Pam looked at me, through me. “Why didn't you help your friend before he was dying?” she asked. “Why didn't you help him find something else to live for? Help him survive the pain, endure it, instead of run from it in self-destruction?”