Urban Shaman (14 page)

—
by the son of a bitch who had killed
children—

All the colors of darkness stopped with a shock so hard I bounced. For one blessed moment, there was silence.

“Oh, no,” I said into the quiet. “You don’t get to take me that easily.”

And the howling started again, but I wasn’t alone anymore. Four children, less than insubstantial, stood around me, watching with pleading in what was left of their souls.

“I’ll find him.” My voice cut through the howling so sharply I knew they’d heard me. One by one they gave me thin, ghostly smiles, and one by one they flew up like the silver and gray had flown.

This time I followed them.

I took one staggering step and opened my eyes, expecting the sunlight to be gone, expecting the police guard to have changed, expecting the world to be completely different.

It was exactly the same. Billy didn’t say my name this time, but I felt him standing less than an arm’s length away, just on the other side of the yellow tape. Goose bumps stood up on my arms and I shivered, looking down at the four bodies. I felt him, the murderer, could feel what he’d done.

“They were lucky,” I heard myself say very quietly. “Something stopped the circle from being completed.” I crouched and touched the hair of the last boy, whose outflung arm and sprawled legs were inches away from the legs of the two closest him.

“Lucky?” Billy asked, not as incredulously as I would have under the same circumstances.

“It was supposed to be a power circle of some kind,” I whispered. “I can feel his exultation at the last death. And then rage. Something stopped him from aligning them properly. North, east, south, were all closed. West wasn’t closed. He took their life essence.” My voice shook and I couldn’t stop it. “Drained them. But he meant to take their souls. Bind them to…” I shook my head and stood up unsteadily. “I don’t know.” I was crying. “But the circle wasn’t closed, and their souls escaped.”

Someone let out a very gentle breath. It changed the current in the room for just a moment, displacing air-conditioned air, adding moisture and warmth. I felt it as potential, like the butterfly who makes a storm in China. I could feel everything living in the room, an awareness a little bigger than my skin.

“Can you recognize this guy’s power again?” Billy’s question was quiet, but intense, spoken just behind me.

I took a deep breath, tasting copper on the air, tasting death and power and the last burning emotions of the murderer, his glee and his fury. “Yeah. I’ll know him when I feel it again. I’ll know the fucker.”

I
should have expected the wall of flash-photography that hit when Billy led me out of the classroom. Should have: that I didn’t was a flag that I was a complete novice, just in case I hadn’t figured it out on my own. Someone actually shoved a gray padded microphone under my nose, which I thought only happened in movies. I squinted into the flashbulbs and recognized one of the local TV anchors, Laura something. Corvalis. Laura Corvalis. She was some kind of exotic blend of ethnic backgrounds, Filipino and black and something else, probably white. Her eyes, just a little tilted, were blue in a café latte face.

And she was yelling at me.

In fact, a lot of people were.

Officer Walker, can you tell us—local police officer Joanne Walker—who did this, Officer?—are you
ready to make a statement, Offi—three-year veteran of the SPD—the wave of murders that has Seattle talking about the Christmas Killer—arrival on the scene—

I retreated one bewildered step. Billy’s voice broke over them all like a tidal wave. “The police department has made all the statements it’s able to at this time, ladies and gentlemen of the press,” he all but bellowed. I admired how he didn’t even sneer at the last six words. The hubbub died down suddenly.

Laura Corvalis stepped forward into the silence, the mike back at her own mouth. “Detective Holliday, can you at least tell us some details about the serial murders Seattle’s been besieged with the past two weeks? Do the deaths today match the pattern? Are you any closer to finding the killer? How about you, Detective Walker?”

“I can’t,” Billy said at the same time that I said, “I’m not.” Everyone looked a little shocked, including me. Billy’s shock turned to alarm and he shook his head minutely at me. Laura Corvalis’s shock turned to delight and she moved in for the kill.

“You’re not what, Detective Walker?” She shoved the microphone under my nose long enough for me to inhale, then pulled it back to demand, “What do you have to say about that, Detective Holliday?” and to push it at Billy.

“Ms. Corvalis,” Billy said with the patience of a man who’d been through the exact same routine dozens of times, “I’ve given you all the information I can—”

“I’m not a detective,” I said under him. He kept his expression schooled, but exasperation flashed in his eyes. I should have kept my mouth shut. Laura thrust the microphone back in my face.

“Don’t tell me you’re a civilian, Ms. Walker. Detective Holliday, has the Seattle Police Department fallen so far that you’re allowing civilians on the scene? In which case—” she produced a delightful, flirtatious smile. “How about letting me in?” Laughter sounded from the press corps, and Ms. Corvalis looked pleased with herself.

“I’m a police officer,” I said, still quietly. “Just not a detective. I just wanted to be sure you got your story right.” Billy’s big hand closed around my biceps.

“I’m afraid this is the end of this interview, Ms. Corvalis,” he said very firmly. He propelled me in front of him, using me to shoulder our way through the photographers and cameramen.

“Wait! Can you tell us why you’re here, Officer Walker? Can you give us any information about today’s killings? Damn,” Laura Corvalis said as we made our escape. “Cut the tape. Maybe we can get something out of this.”

Billy threw me in his car before he started yelling. “Would you care to tell me what the hell that was?”

I rubbed my forehead where I’d cracked it against the door frame and looked at him sullenly. “I’m
not
a detective. I can just see Morrison coming down on me like a load of bricks for giving myself an on-screen promotion. Anyway, I didn’t say anything damning.” I didn’t think I’d said anything damning. Please God, let me not have said anything damning. “It probably won’t even be on the news.”

“You shouldn’t have said anything. You’ve been
suspended, for God’s sake, Joanne. You’ve been suspended and you just showed up at a murder scene and don’t think for a
minute
that Laura Corvalis isn’t going to do her homework on you. It’ll be on the news. ‘Suspended officer, suspected of murder, visits crime scene’. God, why didn’t you keep your mouth shut?”

I shrank down in my seat. “I’m sorry.”

Billy glared more, then sighed. “I didn’t tell you not to say anything. It’s as much my fault as yours.” He went silent, then sighed again, more explosively. “Did you get anything in there?”

I sighed too, shrinking farther down into the seat. “Yeah. Kind of a good news/bad news scenario.”

“Give me the good news first.”

“It’s not Cernunnos.”

Billy hit the steering wheel with the heel of his hand. “What’s the
bad
news?”

“It’s not Cernunnos.”

“Shit.” Billy didn’t say anything for a couple of blocks. “All right, well, it’s something. We’re not dealing with a Celtic god here. Good. Great. Fantastic.” The sarcasm dripped. “You know, Joanie, I’m glad you don’t think I’m crazy anymore, but—”

“But now you think
I’m
crazy.”

He glanced at me. “You could’ve picked a smaller way to break into the wonderful weird world of the paranormal, yeah.”

“I guess I didn’t get the memo on that one.” I slid my fingers over the thin scar on my cheek. “Do we have a physical description of this guy?”

“About six-one, mid-thirties, Caucasian, long light brown hair, green eyes, big shoulders but overall a slender build, carries a very sharp knife.”

“A teenager told you he was in his mid-thirties?” I remembered distinctly when twenty-six was old. I was pretty sure I wouldn’t have recognized mid-thirties as such, when I was fifteen.

“No, the teacher, Mrs. Potter, did. She gave us most of the description.”

“Where is she?”

“Hospital. You said they got lucky, the circle wasn’t closed? That’s probably thanks to her. She tackled the guy. Got cut up pretty good herself, two stab wounds to the abdomen and a lot of minor cuts.”

“Brave lady.” I sucked my lower lip into my mouth, staring out the windshield. “I think I need to go see her.”

“They won’t let you in without a police escort.”

I looked at him. “Well, you’re in trouble anyway.”

Hospital antiseptic is chemically balanced to cut through the smells of blood and vomit and urine and death. It also makes me sneeze so hard I cry.

Gary arrived in time to stand next to Billy and watch the end of the sneezing fit. They were both grinning and not trying to hide it when I unfolded from a fetal position and looked up with watery eyes. “Oh, shud-dup,” I said thickly. Gary offered me an enormous red handkerchief that looked like it hadn’t been used. I wiped my nose and stuffed it in my own pocket, on the assumption that he didn’t want my snot in his pocket. He didn’t object, so I figured I was right. “Thanks,” I
said as politely as I could. “What’re you doing here, anyway?”

“He called me up while you were on your way over.” Gary tipped his head at Billy. “Said you were gonna need a ride back to your car and he had to go down to the station to get his ass chewed.”

“Oh.” The minute Billy had agreed to take me to the hospital I’d fallen asleep. He could have run a brass band over my head and I wouldn’t have noticed, not with the comforting thrum of wheels against concrete soothing me.

Mrs. Potter was in a private wing down a rat’s maze of gated hallways. Billy stopped and talked to the guard, who opened the gates and ushered us through into a corridor that looked like its sole purpose was keeping important people safe. There were no windows, the walls were prison gray and the lights did nothing to cheer it. My boots echoed on the linoleum. “What do they do, bring people down here to encourage them to die?”

“It’s a little morbid, isn’t it? Supposed to discourage people from exploring down this way.” Billy waved a hand at the nearly empty hall.

“Like they can get past the guards,” Gary muttered. “What’s the point?”

“Used to be a psychiatric wing.”

“Sure,” I said. “Like crazy people need
another
reason to be depressed.”

Billy scowled at me. “They converted it about ten years ago, and the primer color paint got donated. These days it’s used for celebrities, criminals and
emergencies. The isolation helps keep sightseers and ambulance chasers away.”

“And visitors,” I opined. “I’d have gotten discouraged three corridors back. What happens if sainted Aunt Sally wants to visit her precious movie star nephew who got hurt filming on location?”

“First sainted Aunt Sally gets a background check, then she gets brought down here with a police escort. Just like you did.” Two more guards stood at attention as we came around a corner and up the hall. I wondered if they’d been like that the whole time, or if there was a poker game hidden around the next corner.

“Does that mean you did a background check on me?” Gary asked. Billy ignored the question, walking up to the guards. Gary grinned. “Bet that means no.” Billy gave him a dirty look and pushed the door open, gesturing me in.

I had an image of Mrs. Potter built up in my mind. She was young, in her early thirties at the most, with heavy blond hair she usually wore up. It would be down now, and she would be pale under her light tan. She’d be tall, although not as tall as me, and muscular like a swimmer. She’d have blue eyes and not need much makeup.

A woman who was at least in her mid-sixties lay on the bed, the oxygen mask they’d given her set askew on her face. An orderly tried steadily and without the slightest success to get her to put it back on.

She had gobs of white hair that stood out in random directions, a state that seemed natural rather than
caused by a traumatizing day. She was, in fact, both tall and muscular, and she had an amazingly solid feeling to her, like Mrs. Claus on steroids. “My lungs, young man, are perfectly functional,” she was saying as I walked in. “I do not need this ridiculous contraption and I will not wear it. The doctor has verified that my brain is operating quite within normal parameters. If you insist, I will sign paperwork absolving the hospital of all responsibility should my lungs suddenly collapse, leading to my demise through suffocation, but I have had quite enough of that silly mask.”

“You like
Star Trek?
” I asked, surprised. Mrs. Potter removed her gaze from the orderly, who sagged in either relief or resignation, and fixed it on me.

“I do,” she said crisply. “How ever did you deduce that?”

I grinned and walked forward. “I don’t think anybody who wasn’t a
Trek
fan would say ‘operating within normal parameters.’ Hi, I’m Joanne Walker.” I stepped up to the side of her bed and offered my hand. She had a strong grip.

“Good evening, Joanne Walker. My name is Henrietta Potter. To what do I owe the pleasure of your acquaintance? And who are these two ruffians?” Sharp blue eyes glanced over Billy and Gary, and she waved a hand. “Who is the one ruffian,” she corrected herself. “I see our detective with the unfortunate name has returned. You are a very polite interrogator, young man.”

Billy grinned and half bowed, all charming modesty. “I try, ma’am. This is Gary Muldoon.” Gary hung back in the door, trying to look small. It didn’t work.

“Well, Gary Muldoon. I normally prefer to be a little more attractively attired before entertaining gentlemen callers, but you may as well come in.” Henrietta returned her gaze to me. “You were about to launch into a detailed explanation of why you were here,” she reminded me. “As I have never seen you before, I can only gather that either you are involved in the police investigation of this morning’s events, or you are a shyster hoping to trick the last few pennies out of a dying old lady.” The precision of her tone never failed, but I saw tremendous pain flicker in her eyes as she referred to the morning.

“I don’t think you’re dying,” I said slowly. I could all but feel determination pouring off her, a refusal to be beaten by the injuries she’d sustained. I wondered how much of the strength she was showing was a facade, and how much she was buying into it herself.
I
was buying it, anyway. “You may be agéd, but I’m not sure old is exactly a word that applies to you, Mrs. Potter. If I’m a shyster, I’m in trouble.”

She graced me with a small smile. “It is the morning’s tragic business that brings you here, then. Sit down, child, and tell me who you are. Go fetch us some coffee,” she added imperiously. Billy, the orderly and Gary all flinched and started for the door. The orderly recovered first.

“Ma’am, you’re not to have any caffeine for at least forty-eight hou—”

“Then make it decaffeinated,” she suggested, and this time all three of them bolted for the door. There was a moment’s struggle while they stuck there, be
fore the orderly squirmed out and Gary and Billy had room to follow. After a few seconds, the door swung shut.

“Wow,” I said, impressed. “How did you do that?”

“Years of practice,” she said modestly. “I had six suitors, at one time. I had to find some way to deal with them. Now, what can I do for you, Joanne Walker?”

I studied her curiously for a moment, trying to see the young woman who had had so many suitors. It wasn’t hard: she still had magnificent cheekbones and a firm chin, and I realized suddenly that she bore a striking resemblance to—