Paradigms Lost (69 page)

“Were you the researcher assigned to examine the knife brought to VeriAnalysis by Mr. Clarke at my request?”

“I was.”

“Can you describe any significant findings?”

“Certainly. The weapon in question was last held by Mr. Frederic Delacroix. He was holding it in a manner indicating that he had the blade out for use. Blurring of some of the prints and a sharp indentation on the blade indicate that the knife was knocked violently from his grasp. A comparison of the indentation with a number of possibilities shows that the most likely cause of this damage to the blade was an impact by a werewolf claw.” He managed to say the last part of his sentence without hesitating, something I still found difficult. “There was a significant amount of blood on the knife, which analysis showed was that of the decedent, Frederic Delacroix. The blade, however, also featured epithelial cells of another individual, which, when analyzed, proved to be those of Miss Angela McIntyre.”

“So this is consistent, then, with her statement that she struck Mr. Delacroix when he had her held down with a knife to her throat?”

“Very much so, if we take into account the sequence of events. The photographs of the scene show the orientation of the body. As the shape-changing would have taken place beneath Mr. Delacroix, he would have been elevated and struck by the claws on the arm moving laterally from right to left, from the point of view of the attacker. Given the orientation of the body, the attack lifted Mr. Delacroix up and the claws passed through his body along that line, striking the knife toward the end of their passage as the knife would have been held on the opposite side of the body from the striking claws, and then flinging the knife outward by that impact.”

“Thank you, Doctor.” I looked to the jury. “There is one extremely significant additional fact of which you should be aware. DiamondEdge’s
Excalibur
line of combat blades are a relatively new addition to the market. Their distinguishing feature is that they all include a significant proportion of silver in the blade.

“Such a blade, held to the throat, goes far beyond the threat of beating offered by the silver rings Frederic wore. The deceased was threatening Angela’s life. He was attempting to rape her. The silver blade at her throat was a clear, immediate, and credible threat of death, even to a werewolf. And so—just as any of us would have—she struck out in self defense.”

“The defense rests.”

CHAPTER 100

Free to be Tried

The testimony and cross-examinations were over. We’d each given our closing arguments. Based on the evidence, I felt that we’d done pretty well; the prosecution hadn’t been able to seriously damage the evidence of the knife. Whether the jury would consider the evidence more than the monster in the courtroom, however, was still in question. Now all that was left to do was wait for the verdict.

“How long?” Angela whispered tensely for the tenth time.

“You think the jury is going to come back fast on
this
verdict?” I snapped. The tension was worse for me than she realized. “Even if they’re all agreed, they’ll probably want to make it look good. But, just judging by the looks on some of their faces, I don’t think they were all agreed. That is good from my point of view. If they’d all been firmly decided on the way out, I’d be pretty damn sure that they were all firmly decided on you taking a last long walk.”

“Which you wouldn’t mind.”

“Personally, not at all, as you well know, but professionally and tactically, it would suck.”

I glanced over at Ferrin, who nodded very slightly. Angela caught it. “What was that?”

“Just exchanging greetings.”

She looked at me narrowly. “I think you’re up to something.”

“I keep my word. You know that. You wouldn’t have brought me into this without being damn sure of that. Even your King trusts me on that level, if not on any other.”

She nodded slowly.

Time dragged by on leaden feet. I finally got up and went out for a quick snack from the vending machine. I was just watching my selection rattle its sluggish way to the tray when a bailiff came charging into sight. “Mr. Wood, the jury—”

“Of
course
it would be now.” I sprinted back to the courtroom.

I sat down next to Angela just as the last of the jurors was seated. “Well, this is it.”

For once, she was speechless, staring at the jury, none of whom was looking at her.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” Judge Freeman said, “have you come to a unanimous verdict?”

Alle Schumacher, the sharp-eyed old woman, was the jury foreman. She rose and stated in a clear, carrying voice, “We have, your honor.”

“The defendant will please rise.”

Angela did so, with a shakiness that I didn’t think was feigned.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, what is your verdict?”

Alle looked at the judge, then at Angela and me, and back to the judge. “Sir, we find the defendant, Angela McIntyre, not guilty.”

Not guilty.

The words brought me to my feet with a combination of triumph and concern. Angela’s face lit up with relief, so innocently beautiful that it was almost impossible to remember what lay underneath. This was going to be the most dangerous time; if anyone in the public felt she shouldn’t go free, now was the time they’d try something. But Mrs. Schumacher was speaking again.

“We also have a statement to read, Your Honor, if it please the Court.”

Judge Freeman considered a moment. “Very well. Proceed.”

Alle nodded to Jim Sherry, who stood and began reading. “We, the jury in the case of State Versus McIntyre (werewolf), recognize the unusual nature of the case we have been presented. Many of us have grave reservations about any finding which could result in the defendant being released, as it is obviously true that she could be a clear and present danger to any other people she encounters.

“Still, we also recognize the points of procedure and law as emphasized by the defense and the much greater responsibility which may result from any ruling we make here. We agreed at the beginning, therefore, that we must come to a final and clear unanimous verdict, so that whatever message this trial might send would not be confused.

“In the end, the judgment came to the evidence and to the question of whether Angela McIntyre, a werewolf, should be judged on that evidence. The evidence is clear and unambiguous to us; were Angela human, there would be no doubt of her acquittal. And therefore, by the letter and spirit of the law, despite our grave reservations as to her personal future conduct, we the jury have rendered the same verdict to her as we would to any human being. Perhaps she does not deserve that justice. But there are those out there who do, and for them and our own self-respect, we give it to her.”

The judge’s gavel came down. “The verdict has been reached. The accused is found innocent and is therefore free from this moment on.”

I turned to the jury. “Thank you. For your statement, not merely the verdict.”

Angela had taken my arm. “Thank you,
thank you
, Jason! As soon as I get my wallet, I’ll pay the law firm.
You
may be working
pro bono
but I’m sure they aren’t.”

We continued out through the crowd towards the street, policemen clearing a perimeter around us. I saw Achernar scanning the crowd like radar, alert for anything. We stepped out the front doors into the California sunshine, and the murmur of the crowd turned into a roar, overlaid with a thousand questions being shouted at us by eager news crews.

At that moment, Lieutenant Ferrin came up behind us and in a single swift move, locked a pair of handcuffs on Angela. As she swung around in shock, he stepped back a pace, calmly saying, “Angela McIntyre, I arrest you on multiple charges of murder in the first degree, including the murders of Jessie and James Roquette, Joseph Buckley, and others named in the arresting warrant. You have the right—”

The little blonde gave a snarl three octaves too deep for her shape and ballooned into a towering mass of teeth and fur, crouched low to the ground as if ready to spring. Screams resounded around the plaza and I could see people trying to get a bead on her . . . but there were a lot of people in the way. She whirled on me.

“Treacherous little—”

“Go ahead,” I said, looking her in the eye. “Give my regards to Virigar.”

She was so furious that her claws started forward of their own accord. “How?
How
did you . . .”

“It wasn’t easy,” I said. “You were careful. You never actually said you hadn’t killed anyone recently, but you did leave me with that impression at first. None of the murders had any overt ties. None of them had the same MO or same apparent motive. Hardly any real evidence turned up, and no one would have had any reason to tie it to you.

“But there was the fact that all the victims had gone to some large party in the recent past . . . but that didn’t mean much. Not in this neighborhood.” I grinned as I saw her collapse back into human form, the broken handcuffs dropping to the ground. “But when I noticed a relative of one of the victims with a certain person, I made the connection.

“Of course, just the fact that all the victims had been at a party where one of your clients had been didn’t mean that much. As an escort, you might not be on the guest list—except as “Mr. Client and Guest”—and, in fact, you might have been able to go as a different face. Not hard for you to arrange. But we needed to prove you were the connecting factor. And just as importantly, I needed motive.

“You actually gave me that info.”

She snarled something unintelligible, which I generously interpreted as a request to go on. “Two things. First, the fact that you had a shape that was your own, and that no one else would ever use, and second . . . your little energy stunt. I had to do some digging, but I was able to find out that you couldn’t be doing that very often without some heavy-duty recharging—a lot more than you could get from passively feeding off people. A kill gives you a
lot
more power. And you were using a lot, given that you probably used that stunt at least once on most of your clients. You
had
to be killing people. And once I knew that for sure, and suspected your connection, there
was
a little appropriate evidence. Courtesy of Joe Buckley. I suppose he died pretty happy, but you left a little of Angela McIntyre behind. Once they had someone to try a match with, it was open-and-shut.”

I saw her glancing around, measuring the crowd and the police ringing her. “Oh, and in case you forgot, I didn’t put any time limit on how long you had to obey human law. And you swore according to
my
wording, remember?”

Her jaw dropped. “You . . .”

“Good luck on this next trial, Angela,” I said. “I think you’ll be needing it.”

She stared at me for a long moment, icy blue eyes boring into mine. Then, startlingly, she grinned. “So you win the entire game, Mr. Wood. Congratulations.” With surprising quickness, she stepped forward and kissed me.

The detonation of ecstasy was like a sledgehammer, such pure pleasure that I couldn’t even for a moment remember who I was or where I was, only that this vision of perfection in front of me was the source of paradise. I staggered back, caught by Ferrin while other police pulled her back. As my brain came back online, a sense of foreboding loss began to settle on me. The predator’s triumphant grin had returned to her face. “You have won that game, Mr. Wood. But now you will never . . . quite . . . be satisfied with anything else on Earth. Will you?”

I couldn’t manage an appropriate comeback as they dragged Angela away.

CHAPTER 101

Horror and Home

I sagged back into the cushions of the small private jet. One of the compensations of being rich was
not
having to wait in an airport line and riding among a mob of people; I definitely didn’t want to ride in a public conveyance after
this
fiasco. Not until the fuss died down. No, just me, lone passenger, with two attendants to serve me on the flight back to New York and home.

Angela had gotten in a good last stroke, but I’m not an addictive personality, fortunately. She didn’t understand the way humans think, I suspect. Yes, for pure enjoyment, luxury of the senses, that one perfect moment would be there forever, but there were pleasures much more subtle, complex, and broad. And going home to Syl was one of those. I smiled and leaned the chair back, closing my eyes.

“An excellent piece of work, Mr. Wood. I particularly enjoyed the endgame,” said a cheerful, urbane voice beside me.

Icicles speared my heart as my eyes snapped open.

Standing over me, wearing a cheerful smile without the faintest hint of malice, was a blond man with more than a passing resemblance to Robert Redford. A man I recognized all too well.

“
V-Virigar,
” I managed.

“Indeed.” He dropped into the seat next to me. “As I said, beautifully done.” He glanced sideways at me. “Oh, please, Mr. Wood, relax. You realize I could certainly kill you now and none of the crew would notice anything. However, there are two excellent reasons why I will not.”

“Oh? What are those?” I asked in a surprisingly normal tone.

“Firstly, unless I simply caused you to die of . . . no apparent causes, rather than slashing you to ribbons, the false comfort of your CryWolf devices would be damaged. I find it personally useful, even if my children find them annoying. Secondly, and far more important, is that it would be very unamusing for me to do so. I do not find the kill of a worthy adversary to be satisfying if there’s no significant struggle, no chance whatsoever for the victim to win.”

This did make grim sense and fit with what Verne had told me about him. “What about Angela? She’s likely to be executed. Aren’t you a bit peeved at me over that?”

He laughed, a big happy sound at total variance with what I knew of him. “Oh, far from it, Jason. Tanmorrai was old enough, and thought herself clever enough, to actually be contemplating a . . . change in leadership, one might say. I’d been observing her preparations for years. Now, she’ll be humiliated as well as killed off.”