Taliesin Ascendant (The Children and the Blood) (6 page)

From what he’d read in the paper, the property had been one of those relics sometimes found in less-than-pleasant areas: a quaint cottage owned by the same old lady and her late husband since the neighborhood’s happier times. In the moments before the blast, however, a neighbor had called the police to say that the woman had been taken hostage by a handful of people, including the black-haired girl wanted for murder in Montana. The police had hurried to the scene.

Then the house blew up. The old woman hadn’t been found in the ruins, but she also hadn’t been seen since. Given how Ashley generally treated those who got in her way, it all tracked.

And left slim odds that the old lady was still alive.

Shaking his head, he nudged a piece of drywall aside with his foot, revealing the half-burnt photograph of a smiling couple in a charred frame. Sighing, he left the picture alone and moved on.

He wondered what Ashley had wanted with the old woman. Was it just a place to stay, or had she known the lady somehow? And if she hadn’t, why come here of all places? The elderly were vulnerable, he knew, but the girl had a whole country of potential spots in which to hide.

Picking his way through the wreckage, he moved farther into the yard. Glass crunched beneath his shoes and blackened bits of plaster covered the ground like grimy snow. Chunks of wall and ceiling had been tossed haphazardly into the shrubbery, and from the boards covering the windows of neighboring homes, he guessed some of the debris had made it into there too.

“Hey you.”

Harris glanced back. Beyond what remained of the chain-link fence, a boy stood, an artfully patched backpack slung over his shoulder and an expression of cultivated boredom on his face. A thick swath of purple hair flopped in front of his kohl-lined eyes, and his jeans were tighter than any Harris had seen since the seventies.

Looking as he did, Harris found himself wondering if the kid got beat up a lot, living in a neighborhood like this.

“What’re you doing?” the boy continued, tossing the question out like an accusation.

“Did you know the old lady who lived here?” Harris asked, backtracking across the yard.

The boy’s eyes narrowed. “You a cop?”

Harris paused. “Not anymore.”

The answer seemed to please the kid, and a wry grin twisted his face. “You get booted or something?”

“Or something.”

The grin spread. Half-glancing toward the wreckage, the kid gave a nod. “Yeah, I knew her. Total freak. Never left her house.”

“Did you see what happened a few days ago?”

A casual shrug answered him. “It was weird. Never seen the old lady have visitors before. And then a day later the house blows up? Totally wild.”

“You saw her visitors?”

A semi-bored nod.

“What’d they look like?”

Shrugging again, the boy kicked at a piece of explosion-warped chain-link fence near his foot. “Two guys and two girls who really didn’t seem the types to be visiting her. She never let anyone in besides that old guy down the street. And even he–”

“Old guy?”

“Norman or Norton or something. Lived about three houses that way. But he moved out in a real hurry about a day ago.”

Harris’ gaze moved in the direction the kid pointed. “And the others?”

The boy shrugged as though it was his default action before answering. “An old white man and a black guy who looked like, I don’t know, maybe fifty? The blonde girl with the dreads was pretty freaky looking, but the other might’ve been cute. I couldn’t see much of her though. She tucked up under a hood real quick when she got out of their van.” The shrug returned. “Dark-haired white girl. That’s all I saw.”

The last would have been Ashley then. And as for the others…

“Did you see what happened to them after this place blew up?”

“Nah. My friends and I were inside my place when it happened. Shook the whole house though. Thought the walls were going to come down.”

Harris nodded. He could imagine. “Thanks,” he told the boy.

The kid shrugged.

Ignoring the motion, Harris headed for his car, glancing to his watch as he went. It was still early, but the hour would have to do, because the kid’s descriptions had corroborated one thing. Just as in Monfort, she’d been on the run with a middle-aged African-American man.

And according to the paper, a body matching that description, found only a few blocks from the apartment fire, was lying in the city morgue right now.

Cranking the engine, he checked the street swiftly and then sped off, leaving the ruins of the little yellow house behind.

He’d originally intended to reach the morgue at a reasonable hour, and thereby appear more credible, but from the look the mortician had given him the moment he entered the door, Harris was glad he hadn’t bothered.

“You’re from where, again?”

“Monfort, Utah.”

“And why do you want to see the body?”

Harris suppressed a scowl. He’d answered the question twice, and was starting to suspect the mortician had a mental disability of some kind. “Because it may be related to a case.”

“And you’re a cop?”

“Yes.”

“Where’s your badge?”

“In my pocket.”

This met with a suspicious look. Harris forced his face to remain calm.

“So what’s the case?” the mortician persisted.

“Homicide.”

“And you think this guy might be involved?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I do,” Harris snapped. “Now, are you going to let me in, or do I need to report you for hindering a murder investigation?”

The mortician blinked, his already pale skin going snowy in alarm. “I’m not supposed to let anyone down here without an escort,” he sputtered defensively. “We got in major trouble last year because–”

“I don’t care,” Harris retorted, relieved that the aggressive approach was working. After twenty minutes of repetitive questioning, laying into the ghoulish little man was cathartic to say the least. “Either you let me in to see this body, or I start making phone calls, understand?”

For a moment, the man considered the words, and then he gave Harris a resentful look. “Well, you’re still going to have to sign in,” he sniped. “
And
I’ll need to see your ID.”

Harris couldn’t stop himself from grimacing. Even if the badge
was
in his pocket, he’d still hoped not to have to bring it out.

The damn thing felt like it weighed a hundred pounds.

Turning the expression into an impatient glare at the mortician, he tugged out the badge and showed it to the man. Still glaring, he crossed to the logbook and scrawled something resembling a signature.

“Happy?”

The man looked as though he wouldn’t ever have considered using that word. Mouth twisted sourly, he led the way back to the heart of the morgue.

Over the years, Harris had often wondered if morticians sent out special for the lights that glowed radioactively in every morgue he’d set foot inside. This one was no different, and the almost imperceptible, rapid-fire flicker of the bulbs sent familiar pain shooting through his head within seconds of stepping past the swinging doors.

Immune to the obnoxious lighting and looking more ghoulish than ever, the mortician wove by the covered bodies on the autopsy tables to the steel doors lining the wall. Tugging the latch, he yanked the door open and then rolled out a tray. Tossing Harris a last scowl for good measure, he twitched aside the sheet and then waited with obvious displeasure.

Ignoring him, Harris looked down.

He hadn’t been looking directly at the camera when Harris had seen his picture, but nevertheless, he was still recognizable. A bloodless, dark bullet hole now pierced his chest, along with thick black stitches from the autopsy. But his face was the same.

Harris sighed. He wished he could believe the loss of one of her allies would slow her down, but he knew he was just kidding himself. A bunch of people engaged in a war would be used to casualties by now, and wouldn’t stop killing just because of one more.

“Well?”

The little man’s snide voice snapped him out of his thoughts. Affecting a considering expression, Harris made a noncommittal noise.

“Did he have anything on him when he was brought in?”

Mouth twisting again, the man said, “Gun, cell phone, nothing else. Cops bagged it for evidence.”

Harris buried a grimace. Of course they did. Protocol.

“So is he the one you’re looking for?” the mortician asked impatiently.

Thinking for a moment, Harris pretended he hadn’t heard the question. “The people I’m after have something of a pattern. They don’t just kill one in an area. It’s usually more. Any other murders get brought in over the past few days?”

His pasty face tightening further, the mortician hesitated. “Yeah,” he admitted. “There was that mob hit on Jefferson.”

Harris nodded. Ridiculous as it was, the papers were claiming the destruction of the apartment building had been some kind of mob hit, despite its location at the heart of the state college’s campus. Of course, the building had been wired like crazy, which gave a bit of credence to the theory. And it’d also possessed enough computers to take over a small country.

But still, blaming the
mob
seemed a bit of a stretch.

“And then someone torched a homeless guy in an alley off Van Elliot.”

At this, Harris looked up.

“They haven’t reported it yet,” the mortician said, flustered by Harris’ expression. “They’re trying to get an ID, notify the family, that sort of thing. It’s procedure.”

“Anything to tie him to this guy?”

The mortician blinked. “Why would there be?”

Harris gave him a look.

“Well, not that anyone’s told me.”

“How many died in the apartment fire?” Harris asked, returning his attention to the body. From the brief interchange he’d had with Simeon, there hadn’t been any discussion of fatalities, just mention that they hadn’t found anything and then a click as the call came to an abrupt end.

After talking to the man, he’d been reminded why he was grateful to have mostly dealt with Brogan and Jamison thus far. For some of the wizard converts to Jamison’s cause, their prejudices against ‘regular’ humans obviously hadn’t been left behind.

“Ten,” the mortician said. At Harris’ raised eyebrow, he grudgingly gestured to the bodies on the autopsy tables. “Six burned and four shot. But the burned ones show minimal traces of smoke inhalation, and no bullet wounds or other injuries, so we’re checking for drugs to see if they were unconscious before they were set on fire.”

Pausing, the man studied the bodies. “It’s sort of sick, if you think about it.”

Harris stared at him and the man’s pale skin flushed a splotchy pink. “Well, I mean… I mean, obviously or whatever, but–”

“Thanks for the help,” Harris said, cutting him off. He cast a last glance to the body on the tray.

“So is he the one you’re looking for?” the mortician asked again.

Harris shook his head. “Not quite.”

Without another word, he left the morgue.

Shutting the car door behind him, he closed his eyes and then wrapped his hands around the steering wheel. Ten bodies. Eleven, counting the homeless guy who might have been one of Brogan’s men.

Or maybe he hadn’t. Maybe he’d just been some poor schmuck, sleeping off his last beer or whatever.

And then he’d gotten in the way.

Harris looked out the window. Cars slid past and people strolled along the sidewalk. The spring weather was drifting toward summer, and pedestrians were gladly taking advantage of the renewed warmth. Fluffy white clouds dotted the blue sky and in all ways, it was a postcard perfect day.

It took effort to force himself to breathe.

There was a chance she’d left the city already. He had to admit it to himself. But there was an equal chance she hadn’t, and until he’d exhausted every lead, he couldn’t abandon the search. And meanwhile, she had one less ally. He knew it wouldn’t slow her down but, on some level, it was still comforting.

Turning the key, he glanced back at the street. She’d come here for a reason, taken the old lady hostage for a reason, and burned that building for one too. There was a purpose to this place, to Monfort, to everything she’d done. And no matter what, he’d figure it out.

He had to.

*****

Grimacing, Ashe opened her eyes.

She was still in the same room. Soft pillows supported her head, and the gun remained clutched in her fist. A few lights glowed in the drop ceiling of the converted office, and the thick blanket beneath her felt uncomfortably warm.

But nothing had changed. Despite what she wanted, nothing had turned out to be a dream.

Same as always.

Pushing away from the pillows, she sighed. She’d only lain down for a moment after Katherine left, just to process the chaos spinning through her head, and then… morning.

Or several hours into the morning, she realized, glancing at the bedside table and the small clock perched there. But in spite of the time, a tray of steaming food sat waiting on the nightstand.

She looked to the door. They’d slipped in and out of the room while she slept, replacing the food without her waking. And despite their words, repeated over and over about her safety, the knowledge they’d been so close when she was sleeping sent shivers running over her skin.

Drawing a breath, she tried to stay calm as she eyed the tray. Wisps of steam rose from the bowl of oatmeal and moisture dripped from the tiny carafe of cream nearby. A flask of orange juice sat next to the meal, beside a crystal glass. Carefully setting her gun aside, she reached up, tipping a small amount of the cream into the bowl and then drawing the dish down from the table. Vaguely sweet and deliciously warm, the oatmeal nevertheless hit her stomach like lead, though her body seemed determined to accept even lead as welcome at the moment. She kept eating, and in only a few minutes, returned the empty bowl to the tray.

Her head cleared as the food settled, and she ran a hand through her hair, tugging at the mess of tangles. They’d be waiting out there. The wizards, with their talk of royalty, former identities, and binding spells. They’d want to speak further, and carry on like she had any intention of staying in this place, all while continuing to stare at her like a bug on display.