Red Iron Nights (24 page)

“How do you know?”

“I saw them. I was down there scouting out how I wanted to do cover tomorrow night. I saw them snatch her when she left work. I chased them till I collapsed. They saw me too. They laughed at me.”

“You lost them?”

“I lost them. I’m going to kill myself.”

I told the Dead Man, “You want to let him do that now so I can get some sleep? I’ll get rid of the body tomorrow.”

Nonsense. Captain Block, you must return to your barracks and turn out every man who knew Corporal Winchell or Private Ripley. Determine if any knows where either man might hide. Send squads to check those. Worry more about saving the girl than capturing the villains. A success there will endear you to the public and your superiors alike. I suggest you begin moving now. If, in fact, you do manage to overhaul the villains, do capture rather than kill them. The curse will be easier to control with its carrier still alive.

“I tried that last time. The clown made us kill him.”

I suspect that, too, is part of the curse. Whoever cast it originally, for whatever reason
—
you seem to be taking an inordinately long time examining the official records
—
was a genius. He did not just toss off a spell that compelled someone to go forth and slaughter a certain sort of woman. He created a curse that interacts with its environment, that learns when it fails, that goes on and gets harder to overcome with time.

Block had grown pale. “There’s no way to beat it? If I do stop it today, it gets harder to stop tomorrow?”

I can think of several ways to stop it. None are especially appealing. You can make certain the current curse-bearer dies in the presence of someone so handicapped that he cannot manage a killing. Or with a prisoner who will never be released. I am now convinced that the accursed must be kept alive while the appropriate experts study him and determine how to deactivate the curse, cantrip by cantrip.

Alternatively, inasmuch as each transfer has been from a dead man to a living one through direct association, we might experiment with a live burial. Even better might be a live burial at sea. Perhaps entombment if we could be certain the tomb would remain unopened forever.

“You saying the curse itself can’t be stopped, only the guy wearing it?” I asked.

That has been the situation to date. In reality, burial has just been a means of passing the problem to a subsequent generation.

“I smell legwork.”

Indeed. Much of it legwork that should have been done already. I suspect actual dismemberment of the curse will require identification of the sorcerer who cast it and a clear picture of circumstances surrounding the casting. Motive may be as important as means. Knowing why the curse was created could provide a clue as to how to get at it, where to start unraveling it.

I told Block, “I’ll bet he’s been thinking this way since the first time you came around. And you’ve been sloughing off the research on account of it seemed like too much trouble.”

He didn’t argue and neither did the Dead Man.

I said, “Whatever’s happening now, I’m not involved. I’ve got sleep to catch up on.”

Block opened his mouth.

“Don’t start on me, Captain. How many times do I have to drag your ass out of the fire before you’re satisfied? You have the same equipment I have. Old Bones here told you what to do. Go do it. Save a life. Get famous. Where’s Dean? Can’t he let Block out? Gone to bed? Come on.” I grabbed Block by the elbow. “Do what he says. Get that research when you can. Good night.” Out the door he went, sputtering.

45

I got me a few hours of horizontal, but not hardly enough. A big racket awakened me. I smelled food cooking, so it must’ve been around the solar dawn, though still a long way from any time when a rational being would be awake.

For whatever irrational reason, I pulled on my pants and stumbled downstairs. I rambled into the kitchen, dropped into my customary chair. “I thought those little shit morCartha were all taken by the army for aerial scouts in the Cantard.” MorCartha are a flying race, knee- to hip-high, resembling old-fashioned red devils with bat-style wings, only they’re more brown than red. They’re a contentious, loud, and obnoxious species possessed of no consideration whatsoever. They came from the north, fleeing thunder-lizards. TunFaire had been plagued by them till somebody suffered a seizure of smarts and hired them as auxiliaries. If they did what they were paid for, they could have a dramatic impact.

“These come from a new wave of immigrants, Mr. Garrett.” Dean handed me a cup of tea. “Or so they say. I suspect the hired tribes are returning, hoping they can get paid to leave again.”

“Likely. Why couldn’t we have lived in imperial times? It’s one damned thing after another. Look at all this shit. MorCartha on the rooftops. Thunder-lizards everywhere. One of those five-horned things swam the river and went crazy on the Landing last month.”

“I felt sorry for him.”

“Huh?” I cracked an eyelid, looked to my left, discovered that I was sharing the table with my houseguest. And me in nothing but my pants.

“I felt sorry for the big stupid thing. It didn’t know what was happening. It was terrified, all those little creatures screaming and throwing pointy things at it.”

“You hear that, Dean? Ain’t that a woman for you? Here’s a monster going berserk, stomping people to death, ripping up property, and she feels sorry for it.”

“Actually, I rather felt that way myself.”

Yeah. And so had I. And probably everyone else who hadn’t suffered directly from the poor beast’s fear and confusion. When you went and looked at the thing, now caught in a big pen on a vacant lot, it just seemed a big lovable puppy that looked like it had moss and lichen growing on it. I don’t see how you can call something that weighs in at fifteen tons cute, but it was cute.

“I guess it was good practice in case one of the big carnivores tries the same trick.”

“He always have to play hardass, Dean?”

Come on. On a first-name basis already? The old boy drives me crazy doing that.

“Always, Miss Belinda. Pay him no mind. He means well.”

“Dean, you checked how you feel lately?”

“Sir?”

“You said something nice about me.”

“This is a nice young lady, Mr. Garrett. I approve thoroughly. I’d like you two to get to know one another.”

Holy shit.

“Ah. Yes, sir. I know who her father is. We cannot be held accountable for our choice of ancestors. I know who your father was.” That was news to me, if he meant that he’d known the old man personally, back in those olden days before Pop went to the Cantard to get himself killed. “As I understand the situation, this isn’t a problem. Mr. Contague, begging your pardon, Miss Belinda, is as good as dead, and the real say lies with Mr. Crask and Mr. Sadler.”

“Two fun-loving boys who haven’t stopped being dangerous because they’ve started running things by forging Chodo’s signature. What’re you trying to do, Dean?”

“I’m doing what I always do, Mr. Garrett. I’m matchmaking.”

His easy admission struck me dumb. Belinda found nothing to say either. We exchanged helpless looks. I added an apologetic shrug.

Dean said, “I’ve spoken with Miss Belinda extensively and find her quite your type behind her antagonistic public face.”

Belinda snarled, “Is this some kind of teamwork seduction effort, Garrett?”

I protested, “You have to excuse him. He’s got this thing about getting me involved.”

Dean didn’t listen. He hummed and did kitchen work while we traded excuses and accusations, then declared, “The Dead Man is napping. Why don’t you two go upstairs, make love two or three times, then finish arguing over lunch?”

I couldn’t believe Dean would say something like that. This just wasn’t the Dean I knew.

Not that I found the idea repulsive. Something about Belinda got to me.

Belinda just sat there staring while Dean smiled, then winked. I suffered the faintly hopeful suspicion that she didn’t find Dean’s suggestion entirely repulsive either.

However, this had become one of those situations where you couldn’t carry forward if both of you were randier than a cat in heat.

I said, “You’re pushing your luck, Dean. I’m going back to bed. I’m sorry, Miss Contague. Please don’t think ill of me because of Dean’s presumptions.”

I thought Dean was going to break out laughing. Was this some scheme to sabotage all hanky before it turned into panky?

Belinda didn’t say anything. As I fled I thought I detected the faintest look of disappointment.

You know how it goes. As soon as I was alone and the risk of her reaction was no longer part of the equation, I stared at the ceiling and entertained regrets while Belinda Contague grew more attractive by the moment, any warts magically fading.

An incurable romantic. That’s me.

46

I was about to head out and see what Block had accomplished. Or had not, as was more probable—though the fact that he hadn’t been back did seem promising. Belinda came bounding upstairs. “Can I go?”

“No.”

“Hey!”

“There’re people out there looking for you. I don’t think your continued good health is uppermost in their minds. And the way you look, we’d be in trouble before we got two blocks.”

“What’s wrong with the way I look?”

“Not a damned thing. And that’s the problem. Was I to walk out of here with you right now, my neighbors would hate me for life. Also, anybody Crask and Sadler might have watching the place would be sure to recognize you. It isn’t like they trust me to dig my own grave unsupervised.”

“Oh, hell!” She stamped a foot, a neat move you don’t see that often. It felt rehearsed.

“If you were a redhead, nobody would pay any attention. I mean, the uglies wouldn’t. My neighbors would hate me even more. And I don’t know if I could stand it if you were everything you are now and a redhead besides.”

Dean leaned out of the kitchen, behind Belinda, gave me a look that said he thought I was laying it on with a trowel.

Belinda said, “You’re laying it on with a trowel, Garrett. But I love it. I hate being cooped up. I’ll see about becoming a redhead. Or maybe a blond. Would you like that?” Breakfast was forgotten.

“Sure. Anything. I’m easy. Just don’t put on a hundred pounds and grow a mustache.”

She winked. My spine turned to water. But I wasn’t a complete dummy. I wondered why she was getting so nice. I suggested, “You might change your look while you’re at it. Especially if the black is like a trademark.”

“Good idea.” She blew me a kiss.

I looked at Dean, who looked back and shrugged, shook his head. I couldn’t tell if he meant he didn’t know or didn’t want to be blamed.

I started toward the door again.

Garrett.

The story of my life. I can’t go anywhere or do anything without everybody in range nibbling at my time.

I stalked into the Dead Man’s room. “Yes?”

Tell Captain Block that, on consideration, I feel last night’s abduction to have been that only. The Candy woman will not be murdered until tonight, at the necessary hour. If the captain has, as seems likely with him, given up searching and is waiting for a body to surface, then he is
—

“I’m on my way.”

I hit the street. I made the tail within a block. I took him for one of the outfit’s boys, not chosen for his skill at remaining unobtrusive. Crask and Sadler wanted me to know they were watching. The really good tails would stay away till they thought I’d had time to do some serious searching.

I’d fool them. I wouldn’t look at all.

Block wasn’t hard to find.

I went to his headquarters hoping to get word where to look and, behold! There he was, right there in the shop. “What the hell you doing hanging out here?” I demanded.

“We didn’t get anywhere last night. I had five hundred men on the street. They found squat. I called it off after midnight. Didn’t seem there was much chance we’d do any good then. All the killings took place before midnight, near as we know.”

“You’re waiting for somebody to find the body for you. The Dead Man said you would be.”

Block shrugged. “I’m open to suggestions. Unless you think you need another thousand marks just to open your mouth.”

“On the house this time. The Dead Man said tell you the girl is alive. They won’t do her till tonight. The killer never breaks his schedule. He just grabbed her last night because he knew we’d be watching later.”

“Still alive?” Block grabbed his chin with his left hand and started kneading while he thought about that. “Still alive.” More silence, more thought. “I’ve had all the men Winchell knew trying to guess where he’d go to hide, who he’d get to help him.”

“Probably wouldn’t need anyone but Ripley.”

“Maybe not. Laudermill!”

A staff sort of sergeant materialized. A classic of the type, his butt was twice the width of his shoulders. “Sir?”

“Anything yet on Winchell or Ripley?”

“Winchell hasn’t contacted any family or friends. They’re still checking on Ripley, but he’s a negative so far too.”

I had a thought, which has been known to happen. “Maybe we could try looking on the inside.” When this happens, it always startles people. This one surprised even me. “What was Winchell working on?”

“Huh?”

“Case-wise. Look, Block, I’ve been close enough to know you’ve been going a little farther than you’re telling anybody except maybe the Prince. Looking to make a splash when they cut you loose, I figure. Whatever. I don’t care. But some of your guys have been making some serious efforts to do real police work lately. Was Winchell? What was he doing? Maybe—”

“I got you.” Block held a debate with himself, showing expressions that suggested he was reluctant to let a cat get out of a bag. Finally, “Laudermill. Get me Relway and Spike. In here. Soon as you can.”

Laudermill departed with astonishing quickness for one of his bulk. He was a twenty-year man for sure, growing anxious about his pension.

Block said, “These guys Relway and Spike were teamed with Winchell and Ripley on a decoy thing I wanted to test. They’re irregulars. They’re off shift now, so it might take a while to find them. I never thought to check the auxiliary operatives.”