Paradigms Lost (17 page)

I grinned back. “Picked it up at one of those seized-property auctions. I think it belonged to a mid-level drug-runner. It was the silver and black colors that caught my attention. That and the fact that I’d been shot at twice made an armored car sound like a good investment.”

“I can understand that.” She finished off an egg roll, then sat back. “Okay, let’s get working. Everything here’s being recorded, of course. We’ve got some questions for you and I hope you’ll cooperate.”

“Hey, I want this twit caught as much as you do. Maybe more; he killed my friend and tried to get me sent up.”

“Right.” She pulled out a laptop computer from a case slung over her shoulder, and opened it up. “First, tell me how you got into this and what you know so far.”

I told the whole story, starting with my arrival on the scene in the woods, leaving out certain small points—like vampires and werewolves—and finishing with finding Jerome dead. “That’s about it.”

“I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me who your contact was that spilled the beans on Gorthaur and his particularly annoying technique?”

“Don’t even think about it. Confidentiality is a large part of my business. If the police can’t trust me to keep my mouth shut, they wouldn’t hire me. Nor would a lot of other people.”

“Thought not.” She glanced at a few papers. “Okay, Mr. Wood, now let’s have the whole story, shall we?”

Uh-oh. “What do you mean?”

“Give me some credit for brains, please. Interrogation is my business. I’ve been doing this for sixteen years now, and I assure you, I know when I’m not getting everything. So far, you haven’t lied to me . . . but I know damn well that you’re hiding something. So let’s try specific questions and answers, shall we?”

“Go ahead,” I said, trying to look confused. “I’ll tell you what I can.”

“First, what was your part in the death of Elias Klein?”

What the hell had put her on that track?
“He was trying to kill me and accidentally electrocuted himself; you can look that up in the records.”

“Funny thing about those records,” Winthrope said with a nasty smile. “It is written up as you describe it . . . but the coroner’s report is about as vague as I’ve ever seen. In fact, our analysis department has a ninety-percent certainty that the report was totally fabricated.”

Oh crap
. “I’m not the coroner; you’d have to ask him.”

“Oh, I intend to. But let’s go on. What was Elias Klein working on before his unfortunate demise?”

“I’m not exactly sure. I wasn’t always up on everything he did.”

“Now, that’s very odd, Mr. Wood, since according to this receipt, he used your services just days prior to his death. Also very odd is that the files for his last investigation are not to be found.”

Damn, damn, damn! Renee must’ve forgotten the accounting office files.
Either that or, more likely, some of the stuff had been misfiled and was found and properly filed some months later.

“And finally, it’s very interesting that neither of Mr. Klein’s partners can give a detailed account of his investigations. However, we are fortunate that the wife of one partner recalled a name that her husband had mentioned during the time in question: Verne Domingo.”

That tore it. The Great Vampire Coverup was full of more holes than a colander. “Okay, Ms. Winthrope. I’d like to tell you a story. But I can’t do it without permission—it affects more people than just me, and like I said, confidentiality is my business.”

She studied me a moment. “Sure. Here, use my phone. I’ll wait right here, of course.”

I grimaced. “Naturally.” I took her cell phone and punched in Verne’s number.

“Domingo residence, Morgan speaking.”

“Hey, Morgan, this is Jason. I have to talk to Verne.”

“Of course, sir.” A few moments went by, and then that well-known deep voice came on the line. “Jason! I heard you were arrested! Are you all right?”

“Physically, I’m fine, but we have a serious issue. I’m being interrogated by an NSA agent named Jeri Winthrope, and she’s been asking some pretty pointed questions. In particular, she’s been looking into the past history of certain people, and she wants the truth about Elias Klein.”

Verne was silent for a few moments. “You do not believe you can, as you would put it, ‘scam’ her?”

“I wouldn’t want to try. I tried tapdancing around the whole subject and she yanked my chain but good. They’ve found some remaining files and gotten a few clues that give them you as a lead.”

I could sense the consternation on the other end. Finally, he sighed. “Jason, I trust you. I have to, in this instance, for you have had it in your power to bring me down for months now, had you wished, and instead you have proven to be a friend. Tell her what you must. I will prepare my household to move, if things become impossible.”

“I don’t want you to—”

“I know. But also, if you do not tell her the truth—about me and about what is behind this entire series of murders—we may be condemning her to death. Do as you must.”

I swallowed. “Thanks, Verne. Maybe it won’t come to that. Bye.”

I turned back to the agent. “Okay, Ms. Winthrope, you win. I’ll tell you everything. But I’m not going to argue it out with you. If you don’t believe what I tell you, it’s going to be your loss, not mine.”

CHAPTER 26

Special Guest Appearance By . . .

“What was her reaction?”

“About what you’d expect.” Verne raised an eyebrow. “Well, she didn’t believe me, that’s for sure. But she also wasn’t comfortable not believing, either; the stuff Gorthaur’s been up to has got them spooked.”

“And she let you go rather than have you examined by a specialist? Isn’t that a bit odd?”

“Not really. She’d already admitted she knew I hadn’t killed Jerome, and she wanted to trace me and find out who I met with and who I knew.”

“How do you know that, Jason?” asked Syl. Her high boots with shining metal inlay rapped loudly on the wood as she crossed the floor with the coffeepot.

“Simple.” I held up a small, silvery object that looked like a button. “Someone stuck this inside Mjölnir’s front bumper.” I dropped a few other tiny gadgets of varying color on the kitchen table where we were all seated. “And these were planted around the house.”

Verne reached out and picked one up, examining it carefully. “Monitoring devices? How very rude. I presume you have deactivated them?”

“No.”

They all stared at me. “Why in the world not?”

“Because I’ve already told Winthrope everything we know, so I don’t have a thing to hide from her, and if I shut these off, she could just put in others that I’d never find. Right, Winthrope?” I said, addressing my words to the audio bug I’d removed from the business phone. “Besides, if Gorthaur tries to nail me, he’ll be doing it on prime-time with the NSA watching. That should make the bastard think twice.”

“Perhaps,” conceded Verne. “But perhaps not. Have you not realized the most important part of your latest adventure?”

I thought for a moment. “I guess not. What is it?”

“Our opponent was able to imitate you perfectly. While his powers are vast, they still do have certain limitations. In order to imitate anyone, he must have seen them at close range. That means that you have been close to him in the past few days.”

That made my skin prickle. “How close?”

Verne considered. “I would say no more than five feet. Werewolves can assume any form they can visualize, but to pick up on details as explicit as fingerprints would require them to be close enough for their aura to interact with yours.”

“And the Demon’s death shows he’s aware of your involvement,” Renee added.

I frowned. “So who . . . no, that question won’t work either. He doesn’t have to be a single person. He could have been a hacker watching the local boards and that’s how he got on to me. Then all he had to do was go out on the street and bump into me. Or he could be a customer.”

The doorbell rang. I went to the door, looked out the peephole. “Agent Winthrope? Come in. I’ve been expecting you.”

“I rather thought so,” she said. Her assistant Steve followed her in. “Since you made it clear you want us to hear things, it seemed a waste of comfortable seating to hang around in a van trying to eavesdrop.” She glanced at Renee. “I thought we told you and the entire police department to stay out of this. Oh, never mind. I’ve been known to ignore orders on occasion myself.”

With two more people in my house, it was too crowded. We all moved next door to Sylvie’s shop, which had a big conference-room-style table in one room. Syl rented the room to various groups, usually psychic types for seances.

“So
all
of you people are in on this? What in hell happened to security, Lieutenant Reisman?” Winthrope demanded, her faint smile taking the edge off her question.

“Wood showed up before you classified the operation, ma’am,” she answered. “And the only way to get him to drop anything is to put him in jail, or shoot him.”

“Not practical solutions as a general rule, I’ll admit,” she said. “Okay. I know why
you’re
in on this, Domingo. I’m not sure I believe in it, but I know why. And I see why Jason had to brief Ms. Stake—”

“Sylvia, or Syl, please,” she broke in. “You understand why.”

“Hm. Yes.” She shifted in her chair, glancing around at the dark-panelled walls. “The important question is, how many others know about all this?”

Verne spoke first. “I assure you that I, at least, have told no one else. It would be a generally futile effort, and I need no advice on this subject.”

Renee gave Winthrope a look. “I’d like to continue a career. If I mentioned this to anyone else, my career’d be inside padded walls.”

“I’ve consulted with the Wizard—you remember him, don’t you, Jason?—on how to deal with werewolves,” Sylvie said.

“Really? And what did he say?” Winthrope asked. Her assistant looked uncomfortable; he was probably bored or wondering if he was trapped in a room full of lunatics.

Syl made a face. “Not much. He said that most spirits can be controlled only if you know their origin, that is, what religious or spiritual discipline they belong to; otherwise you’re limited to whatever their classic weaknesses are.”

Verne agreed. “It is true. Vampires who believe in the Christian faith can perhaps be turned away by crosses or bound by a daemonic pentacle; but an enlightened nosferatu cares little for such things. There are certain mystical methods which work on all such . . . but even those are of no use against a Great Wolf. Silver, and silver alone, will suffice.”

“Just what did you tell this Wizard character?”

“Actually not that much; I didn’t want to get him involved, so I just asked about werewolves.”

“And you, Mr. Wood?”

I shrugged. “No one outside of this room knows any of the weird stuff. A couple of the BBS users know I’m poking around in a classified investigation, but no more.”

Steve smiled suddenly. “Thanks. That’s all we needed to know.”

His teeth glinted sharply as he lunged.

Winthrope moved faster than anyone I’d ever seen, even Elias Klein. Her hand blurred and came up holding a nine-millimeter automatic. Before she could fire, though, the werewolf’s hand grabbed her arm and pitched her like a horseshoe straight into Verne. “Steve” was no longer human at all, but a shaggy, lupine nightmare with crystal-sharp claws and razor-sharp fangs. If the monster hadn’t been delayed in its attack on Agent Winthrope, we all would have been lost to the momentary paralysis of shock. Chairs crashed to the floor as we all rolled, sprang, or ducked away from the huge, monstrous thing that had appeared in the place of Steve Dellarocca.

Verne caught Winthrope, set her aside. “You must be a fool, Virigar. Though this mortal was not expecting you, the rest of us are prepared to deal with your sort. And our prior duel seems to have rendered you less than what you were. Against us you stand little chance.”

It smiled, showing glittering rows of crystal teeth. “Not so. My name is Shirrith. I am honored that you mistake me, even for a moment, for the Great King, yet I am but His servant. And we are not unprepared.” It gave an eerie howl.

In a shower of glass, two werewolves crashed through the large windows. One sank its claws into Verne’s shoulder, but Verne smashed it aside with a tremendous backhand blow that sent it back through the wall into the night. Verne shoved Winthrope towards me. “Run!” he shouted. His face showed shock and, chillingly, the same fear I’d seen before.

Shirrith began to come after us, but Verne dove across the room and caught him. The third werewolf almost reached Renee, but she had her gun out and pumped three shots into him. The .357 magnum slugs drove the creature back far enough for her to run out and slam the door between the conference room and the Silver Stake’s main floor. The werewolf tore the door off its hinges and threw it at us. The impact knocked Renee and me down, and sent the ten-millimeter with its silver bullets skittering out of my hand. The creature lashed out, caught Sylvie, and bent its muzzle towards her throat.

Silver inlay flashed as the toe of her right boot slammed into the werewolf’s groin. Its eyes bulged; a ludicrously tiny whine escaped its lips, and it staggered backward. As it folded in pain, Sylvie grabbed a large silver candlestick from a shelf and clobbered the werewolf over the head; it crumpled to the floor.

A tremendous crash shook the building as the battle in the conference room escalated. The second werewolf crashed through the broken doorway; it rolled and came up, slashing at Sylvie. She swung the candlestick but it glanced off the thing’s arm; the claws left long trails of crimson across her dress. I had my pistol now; before the creature could lunge again, I put three shots into it. The wolflike face snapped back, glaring at me in astonishment. Then it sagged and fell.

“Syl! Jesus, are you okay?” I ran to her. Blood was soaking her dress, spreading quickly.

“I’m fine,” she said weakly. “Help Verne!”

I hesitated, looking around. Renee had hit her head when the door knocked us over; she was still dazed. Winthrope was backed up against the wall, staring at the two bodies and repeating, “Oh crap . . . oh crap . . .” She cradled her right arm, which hung limply; Shirrith’s grip had crushed it like a paper cup.