The Last Hot Time (26 page)

Doc's eye caught a shimmer of black on black from the opposite direction, and he dared to turn away from W 7 hisper. McCain raised his crossbow and pulled the trigger; there was a bass plunk and a hiss. The bolt nailed Whisper's right wrist to the rough wooden wall. Whisper Who Dares yelped like a kicked puppy and groped toward the arrow with his free hand. McCain pumped the bowstock, re-cocking it, and had another bolt loaded in five seconds. He placed it right below the elf's left collarbone, stapling his shoulder back. Blood splashed Whisper's cheek, his left arm went limp, and he groaned, a sound like tearing cloth.

McCain slung the bow, walked up to the pinned Ellyll. Whis-per's left hand came up, holding a tiny stiletto, its blade stained with something like tar. McCain's hand slashed, and Doc heard Whisper's forearm snap; McCain didn't seem to have thought about it. Whisper began sobbing, calling out in some Trueblood language, not Kllytha.

McCain's fist hit Whisper's jaw like a twenty-pound sledge. "Shut up, Tinker Bell,* 1 McCain said. "Nobody believes in you no god damn more." He took a step back, unbelted his coat. Metal gleamed underneath.

Doc turned away. "Let's go," lie said to Kitsune, and led her

down the tunnel, helping her over the worst of the ice. They paused at the bottom of the curving stairway.

"Here's the hard part," he said. "I'd love to carry you, but. . ."

"Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn," Kitsune said, and they climbed.

They found two cars at the curb. Stagger Lee opened the door of the new arrival. Inside, Mr. Patrise sat up against a pile of cushions, holding a slim delicate glass of champagne. "Konban wa, Kitsune-sama, " he said, his voice soft and a bit ragged. "Dozo, ohairi kudasai. "

"Domo arigato gozaimasu, oyabun Patrise-san. "

"Doitashimashite. There is tea hot. And perhaps a little brandy. Then Hallow and Stagger Lee must attend to you. And your sister-image."

"Yes, thank you," she said to Patrise, and then to Doc, "Gokuro-san, Doc. Thank you very much."

McCain stepped onto the sidewalk. He gestured. Doc went to him.

"You took him down," McCain said. "He's yours." He pointed to Doc's black bag. "Got everything you need?"

Doc nodded. McCain said, "I'll be at the car. Take your time, we got all night." As he went by, he said, much more softly, "If you need to think, think about Cloud." The doorway stood empty, lit dimly from below, just as it had before. It seemed like a much longer trip down this time.

Whisper Who Dares the Word of Words in Darkness was standing upright, arms outstretched. His chalk-white face was tilted, blood glaring red on his cheek and lips, a Pierrot puppet on wires.

He was held there by the two crossbow bolts, their steel fins quivering as he breathed, and maybe a dozen twenty-penny nails hammered through his clothes and his hands and one ear; some were driven through his boots into a slat of wood on the floor. On the concrete, little pools of gwaed Ellyll were glazing over.

The brass wire noose that had been around the Fox's neck was now around his, its trailing end twisted around another nail high up on the wooden barricade.

Doc set his bag down on the broken desk.

Whisper's eyes went wide open, looking at Doc and then away

from him, semaphoring pain and fear. Doc took hold of one of the crossbow bolts, pulled it out. Whisper shuddered.

Doc wrapped the bolt in a gauze pad, tucked it away in his bag. He took out another small object. He held his hand in front of Whisper's face, turning a tarantelle cap over in his fingers. He pressed the cloth-covered ampule against Whisper Who Dares's upper lip, which trembled. The elf's pupils looked as big as silver dollars.

Doc thought of the flaying rooms, of all the abuses and the sufferings. He thought very hard of Cloudhunter.

He closed the cap in his palm, turned to replace it in the medical kit. As he did, his fingers brushed a thin edge, an object Doc had forgotten was still in the bag. He pulled it out, held it up in the bad light. Whisper saw the movement and whimpered in absolute terror of whatever might be worse than the tarantella dance: he tried to shuffle backward, in spite of the nails.

"Ace of Clubs," Doc said, hearing his own voice rumble and echo in the arched hall, "not worth the effort." He threw it down at Whisper's feet, closed his bag, and climbed back up to the street without looking behind him.

Mr. Patrise's car had already gone. He slid into the front seat of the remaining car, beside McCain.

"Give me the phone," Doc said.

He waited for the connection. "Get me Lieutenant Rico. No. Officer O'Gara, I won't wait. I said get her."

When he finished delivering his message and put the phone down, McCain said, "No, huh."

"No."

"Everybody tries to guess, and nobody knows. Not till you got the motive and the weapon and the target in your sights. You just can't know till then."

As he started the car, the flare of blue police lights was visible far behind them.

IVitsune and Jolie-Maric were lying side bv side in the surgery Stagger Lee had put them both deeply under with spells, copper bands around their foreheads, lead set with amber at wrists and

ankles. He had also explained how the operation was to proceed:

"There are five amulets placed beneath the skin of each double. The incisions may be well healed, but there will probably be wheals, and a mark will be visible. When you find and remove an amulet, go to the other double—the scar will be in the same place— and remove its mate. Try to remove them all intact; especially try not to break one inside the wound."

"And do you want them kept?" Doc asked.

"No," Stagger said quietly.

Phasia was there as well, sponging the sleeping women's foreheads, and Doc's, holding a coffee cup for him to sip from, bringing clean gauze.

The first cut was in the upper left arm. Doc reopened it with a scalpel, used a small retractor to spread the insertion channel. He shone his headlamp in. There was a disk of gray metal, the size of a quarter. A hemostat brought it out easily. It was carved with symbols. He dropped it into a basin and went to remove its duplicate.

The second amulets were of lacquered wood. Adhesions had formed, and he got a small ophthalmic scalpel, called for Stagger to retract and irrigate.

The third, under the left breast, uncomfortably near the heart, were of bone; finger bones, apparently. Oh, the fearful wind and rain, his mind sang.

The house shook somewhere deep down, and the lights went out. Doc's battery-powered headlamp made huge shadows on the tile walls. Stagger got out another lamp, and Fay brought in spirit lamps.

The fourth, over the right shoulderblade, were metal disks again; a different metal, badly discolored, with necrosis and pus around them. Doc had to open an area the span of four fingers, flush and cleanse and dress the wounds. Stagger adjusted the trance bands and stood away. Fay carried away the soiled sponges without a flinch. Doc argued with himself about putting in a rubber drain. They might heal more neatly if he just cleaned and closed, but. . . it was so damned dark. ... He decided to trust to goldenrod and careful observation.

The last cuts were inside the right thigh, and the probe led to thumb-sized lumps of waxy white stuff, smelling faintly of camphor.

Doc held one up to Stagger's lamp. There seemed to be something buried inside them. Doc didn't ask what, or cut one open. He didn't care. He threw them into the basin, cleaned up and dressed his incisions.

They moved the patients into the infirmary bedroom, turned the lamps down.

Stagger Lee stripped off his gloves, said, "I really need a drink."

"Why don't you go get one, then."

"Good night, Stagger. Thank you."

"Yeah, Doc. Good night." He bowed slightly to Phasia, left the infirmary.

"Flesh leyell ins'ta?" Fay said. "Kissna Kissna verdet well." Her face, lit from below, looked unreal. Doc thought she seemed near collapse with the effort of making words. He felt exhaustion like a hand rearranging his guts.

He made a sleeping gesture. She nodded. He took both of her hands and held them, not knowing how else to say thank you. There must be ways, he thought. Had they done enough with sign language?

She went out. Doc went to look at the sleeping women again. He should stay here tonight. He couldn't possibly watch them even an hour longer, but at least he would be here if something happened.

He called the kitchen. As they were connecting, the door opened and Lucius came in. Doc said, "I was just calling for some coffee and a sandwich. Would you like something?"

"Never to refuse free coffee, that is the Law, are we not men?"

Doc smiled and made the order. They sat down. Doc found himself nodding off in the chair. "What. . . brings you here?"

"Just a couple of things to say. One is thank you. For getting Kitsune out alive."

Doc thought about what the simulacrum had been made to say. "You love the Fox, don't you."

"Birdsong on love in one paradox: Nothing is more perfect than the unattainable," Lucius said. Crying to make it sound like I joke. "See, the audience all knows that the lady's supposed to fall in love

with the hero, even though she's running a clue short. So the hero has to go into the fire, or the ice, or the generally bad place, and come back with the plot coupon that says Good for One True Love." He shrugged. "We don't do that anymore. Not if we're really heroes."

"What's the other thing you wanted to say?"

"Wait till the butler's come and gone. It's only for you."

After the coffee came, Doc said, "Well?"

Lucius looked at the bedroom.

"They're asleep."

"I should have told you this before. Or maybe I shouldn't. I didn't know what was going to happen when you found her. I suppose I thought things didn't need any more complication. And that, if she died, it might as well stay unsaid."

"What you mean is," Doc said, "she did sell Mr. Patrise out."

"Ah. I see you love a mystery too. But that isn't what I've got to say. Kitsune did try to deal with Whisper Who Dares, but it wasn't anything to do with street fights and gwaed gwir bootlegging. She wanted something she thought Whisper might be able to give her."

"Which was?"

"Truebloods lie about magic, did you know, Doctor? They know that in the Shades the spells that can reshape the stuff of reality itself work like a two-stroke lawn-mower engine with grubby plugs and bat guano in the fuel line. But magic's part of elf style. So they lie about what they can do. Or can't do."

"Okay. . ."

"The Fox is a consummate deal maker. I'm sure she expected Whisper to deal tough. But she probably didn't count on pure-quill Ellyll crazy. So she got caught. I wish I knew just when she got caught, when it started being the copy. Information did pass Whis-perward after that, but that was different. I'll never know, though, because I'll never ask. Will you?"

"I don't suppose it matters."

"No," Lucius said, suddenly very still, "I don't suppose it does." He stood up. "Good night, Doctor. Thank you for the coffee and the attentive ear. And thank you again for my friend's life." He stood up, got his hat, went to the inner door and looked in on Kitsune and Jolie-Marie in their beds. His hands clutched the hat

tight to his chest. Doc turned his head until Lucius came away from the women, headed for the exit.

"Lucius."

Birdsong stopped.

"Will you tell me one more thing?"

"Knowing that it will surely make none of us happy, why, yes, Doctor, I should be delighted."

"What did you see at the Rush Street, that night?"

"Remember that there was gunfire, before the explosion?"

"Yes."

"Were any windows broken when you got out to the front room?"

Doc thought back. "No, there weren't."

"I saw the bullet marks. They were all high and outside. Nobody's that bad a shot, except on purpose. All the gunshots were supposed to do was bring somebody out of the back room, just in time for the blast to get him."

"To get who?"

Lucius looked infinitely sad. "Someone who'd dash right out to help the shooting victims, without thinking twice." He opened the door to the hallway, smoothed his lapels and tilted his hat to hide his eyes. "It shouldn't be possible to forget, given all the strings round our fingers: Hammett, Chandler, Crumley, Macdonald and McDonald. Not to mention Oedipus the King. But we do. Something in the genes, in the winds of DNA, that says The Answer is Good. I really cant be trusted, you know, Doctor. Good night."

And he was gone.

Doc sat down heavily, and just stared at the wall for minutes on minutes, thinking.

There must be some reason for a thing like that, he thought; people didn't just kill each other for the amusement value. Another part of his mind answered back. Wanna betf

But if there was a reason, what was it? What did he know: What could he do? He wasn't any threat to Whisper Who Dares, certain]) not before the meeting with the Highborn Glassisle. Even afterward, he'd only used her gift as a bluff.