American Craftsmen (10 page)

“I set up little bunny and squirrel for friend to shoot?” asked Roman, miming bunny ears.

“Something with your shape will do,” said Scherie.

“Charmed,” said Roman, still grinning. He gave a little bow and went inside.

After I observed Scherie on a target run and made some minor corrections to her stance and technique, I gave a demonstration. Letting my craft idle in neutral, I fired. The feel of each weapon’s kick reassured me—simple physics, action and reaction, no magic necessary to concentrate shots in a target’s head and heart. This felt like West Point again, when I had trained without craft, saving my power to defend myself against anything truly heinous from the upperclassmen. Craftless training was a point of pride with us Mortons, and an essential discipline that might decide life and death for self and others.

But I had some necessary craft to perform as well. While Scherie took the next run, I invoked my enemy.
See me now, Sphinx. See what I’m doing. Come to me, or I’ll be coming for you.
To freshen the scent, I discreetly dropped a small bit of handkerchief stained with my own blood to the dusty floor. Perhaps this would bait her into the open.

Scherie lowered her gun. “Your turn again.”

I fired through my clip.
Cease.
A barely audible echo of the curse mixed with the gun blasts. I clenched my teeth, and lowered my gun.

Scherie took off her headset and put her hand on my shoulder. “You alright?”

“Just a cramp,” I said. “I’m fine.” And I was. Something about Scherie’s touch blocked the pain. But I detected no craft. Did my focus on her allow me to avert the curse? What was happening here?

Another hand, cold, on my shoulder. “She’s got to go, son,” my father said.

I knew Dad had commitment issues, but this was getting ridiculous. “How did your gun feel?” I asked Scherie.

“Excellent,” she said. “Very comfortable.”

“Roman,” I called, “I want to get a gift for my charming friend.”

*   *   *

I sent Scherie home with a load of Morton family texts on tactics. As the sun set, my doorbell rang a John Phillip Sousa riff in a minor key—Grandpa’s humor with gothic patriotism.

Like responding to reveille, I trotted downstairs to the great oak door. I readied a wind against a possible intruder, but the House whispered that it was already prepared. So no, not Scherie or Hutch. Instead, a man, slightly smaller and younger than me, with perfect skin without blemish or scar. Most officers were clean-cut, but this man was clean to the bone. For the occasion, he smiled too much, and his sidearm bulged too much.

The man offered his hand. He stank of craft, and a handshake was not good craft etiquette, when mere touch was a weapon. He was familiar. From the desert?

The man said, “I’m Major Sword.”

The whole House whispered anathemas into my ears. The House knew this one’s blood, and I could nearly smell it myself.

“Endicott?” I was gobsmacked. “You’re an Endicott.”

Unlike me, Endicott hadn’t learned to mask his feelings well. Right now he looked furious. “Morton, you’re in violation of your contract. I’m placing you under arrest.”

“Oh come on, Endicott! Would you need to exert any craft, or pray, or whatever you do, to tell that I’m a Morton in this House?”

Endicott looked around at the ancient furnishings, and I detected the slightest of shudders as Endicott felt the House’s hate. “Point taken.”

“Then here’s another point. We don’t work well with Endicotts.”

“You’d prefer a Mather?” asked Endicott.

“I’d prefer a family who doesn’t want me hanged,” I said. An Endicott had busted up Thomas Morton’s attempt at a craft union between native and European; the same Endicott had helped drive Anne Hutchinson out of Massachusetts. Later Endicotts had a talent for cheap propaganda theatrics, like the time they helped both Jefferson and Adams live until the fiftieth Fourth of July.

“That was a long time ago,” said Endicott. “Our superiors don’t think much of grudges.”

“I’m not just talking about the past,” I said. Endicotts continued, albeit nonviolently, to keep Mortons out of positions of authority.

“But we have our orders.”

“No. I have a contract. And I’ll keep my word.” I pointed at Endicott’s oversized firearm. “Planning on shooting someone today?”

“I might ask you the same thing,” said Endicott. “You’ve been spending some time at the range.”

I ignored this. “So, where’s Hutchinson?”

“You mean Colonel Hutchinson?”

“I’m not in the military anymore, Mr. Endicott.”

“I’m well aware of that,” said Endicott. “I was upstairs during your treatment. I prayed for you.”

“Oh,” I said, momentarily abashed. “Thank you.”

“Just doing my duty, as I am now.”

“You’re not going to tell me where Hutch is,” I said.

“That’s classified,” said Endicott.

“Classified?” I couldn’t believe Endicott could say the word without laughing. “Two things that Hutch is good at, and one isn’t keeping out of my face. Or yours, I’ll bet.”

“Classified,” said Endicott.

I tried another tack. “Has anyone been doing craft nearby?”

“The army has a right…”

“Not you,” I said. “Someone else.”

“Mr. Morton, I remind you again of your contract—”

“Damn it, how many ways do I have to say it? I’m not concerned because I’ve been practicing or whatever
you’d
call it. I’ve got eyes and instincts.”

“Until you can tell me something more specific, I can’t be of much assistance.” Endicott took out a checklist, a goddamned checklist. “In the past month, have you experienced any night terrors? Has anyone in the household been harmed by nonconventional means? Have you left the state for any reason?”

“No.” Hell, they knew that. “But I may need to leave town. To see my mom. She’s—”

“Feeling fine, last time we checked,” said Endicott.

“The ghosts say she misses me,” I said. The ghosts had said no such thing, other than my father’s confused message. My mother had shown only minimal interest in me since my childhood and Dad’s death. One day, I would try to find out why, but now I needed my mother as a blind, not a mystery. “I know, she could come here, but…”

“I’ll see about it.” The toad was stalling.

I said, “My discharge doesn’t place any limits on my movements.”

“That’s up to my superiors,” said Endicott.

“Lying is a sin,” I said.

Endicott took out a pamphlet and patted it on the table.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“A little reading material,” said Endicott. “Strictly as a citizen.”

All True Miracles Come from Jesus
. “Well, that explains a lot,” I said. “Thank him for me. But I prefer the cheesy gospel of Cecil B. DeMille and his sword and sandal pals.”

For a moment, I could have sworn that Endicott’s lip twitched up into a smile, but it quickly tightened into something dyspeptic.

“I thought you’d appreciate this,” said Endicott, “after what that be-jerseyed fakir did to you. You should know better than anyone that Islam is an evil religion.”

“I’m not sure how Muslim he was,” I said.

“His power wasn’t from God,” said Endicott. “We could have protected you. We still could. You could come back. You could be doing God’s work.”

“I worked for the Constitution,” I said, “and no one else. For a Morton, America is our religion.”

“And how has that worked out for you, for your family?” asked Endicott. “And not just you, but all the other craftsmen? We think we can do better. A Christian power for a Christian nation.”

“Not really my concern anymore whose power,” I said.

“I think it is,” said Endicott. “We could protect you and your loved ones.”

“I thought there wasn’t anything to protect me from.”

“I didn’t say that. I also didn’t say anything about the security risk that Scherezade Rezvani represents.”

In God’s name, go ahead, take your best shot.
The alien thought intruded into my brain. A compulsion spell. I knew Endicott was trying to make me react, but when he had mentioned Scherie with menace, he had hit the right button. I couldn’t help my fingers twitching for the bastard’s sudden death.

Give him to us.
Another alien thought, but this one came from downstairs. Endicott had no idea the danger he was in.

Save the fool.
That thought was my own. I somehow found the will to speak instead of act. “Isn’t it time you were going, citizen?”

“One more bit of advice,” said Endicott. “The days of privilege and immunity for the Fighting Families are over. The days of criminals and unreliables on the streets practicing black arts are over. Christian soldiers and leaders whose power comes from Jesus are the future. Men like Thomas Jackson.”

I just about choked. This toad knew what a Morton did to Stonewall. “Here’s something for you to think about. We Mortons have been serving and dying for this land for four centuries. We try not to think about religion too much. ’Cause it pisses us off. So you’d better go. Now.”

“We’re not finished,” said Endicott.

“But the House is,” I said. “It’s slow, but powerful. It doesn’t like you.”
And the things in the subbasement like you even less.

Endicott picked up his briefcase. “Please have your house better prepared for our next meeting.”

After Endicott left, I leaned against the door, breathing heavy, sweating with the effort to control my anger. Shit, just what I needed: another enemy, and the Left-Hand spirits straining at their chains.

Grandpa called from the hallway. “Dale, are you OK?”

“Yes,” I croaked. “I need a moment here. Alone.”
Otherwise I might hurt myself, the House, and you—not necessarily in that order.

Slowly, my body and mind cooled, and I could no longer hear the insistent whispers of the Left Hand. I had no quarrel with evangelical craftsmen as a group. Craft soldiers practiced all kinds of traditions and religions. The Mortons were rare in our complete disdain for theism.

But why was Endicott deliberately trying to piss me off? Was he part of the mole threat, or was he still fighting the old feud? Either way, he was a fool. No Morton had ever given in to the Puritans—not then, and not now.

*   *   *

That night I had another dream. Scherie and I were laid out in his-and-her coffins at the local funeral home. But then, like the devil’s cameraman, the dream panned back to show another coffin, and another. Many coffins. The corpse faces were fuzzy, as if the identities weren’t resolved yet, but the features were a mix of all the Families I knew of. The rictal-smiling Red Death stood among the coffins, with a tall ghastly thin woman with pale gossamer hair in his grasp.

I woke up. That was the second Lincoln dream. I knew the pale woman from descriptions and her association with the Red Death of Roderick Morton: his twin sister Madeline. That they were together in my dream could only have one meaning: our time had nearly run out. Time for Scherie and me to go. Again, the threat to Scherie seemed more important than any threat to me, but by now this feeling seemed natural, and I reflected on it even less than before.

I ignored Grandpa calling after me as I bounded downstairs for the phone. I called Hutchinson’s office, but Endicott, somehow on duty at the early hour, took the call. I said, “I need to leave town.”

“I’m sorry,” said Endicott. “Your request is denied.”

“Denied? Get me Hutchinson.”

“No,” said Endicott.

“Why are you hiding her?” I asked.

“Hiding?”

“Look, it’s not just about me,” I said. “My family, all the Families, are at risk. You get me Hutchinson, or I’ll use any means necessary to contact her.”

“That would have serious consequences…”

I hung up. New trouble brewed, and rain poured. A summer thunderstorm blasted outside. Nature had a way of sympathizing with a Morton. A knock at the door seemed to shake the whole House. Grandpa moaned with the wind.

Like Macbeth’s porter or Poe’s scholar, I went to the knock, picking up my father’s Colt .45 on the way. I would be lucky to have some hot witches or a smart bird at my chamber door, and not my doom. If I needed a blast of craft, I’d draw the lightning down.

At the door, I felt the knob. Death was near, but not mine, not yet.

I opened the door. Lightning crashed, illuminating Hutchinson’s face. I exhaled, nerves jangling. “Jesus, Hutch, what took you so long? Come in.”

Hutch trailed silvery water, her hand was wet and stone cold. She was not well. “I understand you’ve been trying to unearth me,” she said.

“I’ve had the Lincoln dreams, and Endicott has been harassing me. Where have you been?” I asked.

“I was working your case,” said Hutch. “Then I got … distracted. I need to tell you what I’ve found.”

“You’ve found something,” I said. “Then I’m not crazy.”

“Crazy or not,” she said, “someone is trying to kill you.”

“Why me?” I asked.

“Dale, it’s not just you.”

“I know,” I said. “I saw it. They’re going for the Families. Our families. But who are these assassins?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “And I don’t know why. It could be to undermine the craft defense, it could be a revenge thing. It could be … something else. Dale, you know how my Family and I value loyalty. So it hurts like hell to say this, but…”

“But I can’t trust my own government,” I said.

“No. No, you can’t,” she said. “Even if they’re not actively against you. At best, the brass fears disclosure of the craft militant, and they’d rather sacrifice you and a lot of craftsmen than risk it.”

“And at worst?” I asked.

“At worst,” she said, “something’s rotten on the inside.”

“You should come with me,” I said. “We should leave.”

“No,” said Hutch.

“Then why are you telling me all this?” I asked. But my heart could guess why. “How do you know this?”

“Because I’m dead,” she said.

“Oh shit,” I said. “I’m sorry, Hutch.” I took a breath. “Who did it?”

“I don’t know. Dale, I can’t find my body! I’ve got nowhere to go. I don’t even know how I got here.”

Can’t find her body? Only serious power could hide a body from its spirit. “Hutch, was it Sphinx?”