3 Blood Lines (15 page)

“Shit!”

She stamped the emergency brake into the floor. Abused metal shrieked under the car.

Trembley’s partner, the fingers of one hand dug deep into the dash, grabbed for the radio. “This is 5239! The car . . . Jesus, Trembley!”

“I see it! I see it!”

She yanked the wheel hard to the left. Tires squealed against asphalt. They passed behind the College streetcar with only a prayer between them.

“Throw it into reverse!”

“That’ll fuse the engine!”

“So?”

The world slowed as PC Trembley suddenly realized that the car was not going where she steered it. The wheels had turned, but the car, drawing dark lines of rubber behind it, continued to head for the concrete memorial at the corner of the Toronto General Hospital.

The world resumed its normal speed just before they hit. Trembley’s last feelings were relief. She didn’t think she could stand dying in slow motion.

 

Upwind from the clouds of greasy black smoke, Celluci stared at the wreck of the patrol car, the heat from the fire lapping at his face. If by any miracle either officer had survived the impact, the explosion when the engine ignited would have finished them off. The blaze was so intense that the fire department could only let the flames burn out, concentrating on keeping them contained.

In spite of the early hour, a small crowd had gathered and the flower seller, who had been just about to set up on that corner, was having strong hysterics under the care of two paramedics.

“Funny thing,” rasped a voice by Celluci’s shoulder.

He turned and glared down at the filthy man swaying beside him. Even over the smell of the accident, he stank.

“I seen it,” the man continued. “Told the cops. They don’t believe me.”

“Told them what?” Celluci growled.

“I am
not
drunk!” He staggered and clutched at Celluci’s jacket. “But if you could spare some change . . .”

“Told them what?” Celluci repeated in a tone honed over the years to cut through alcoholic haze.

“What I seen.” Still holding the jacket, he turned and pointed a filthy finger at the car. “Wheels was goin’ one way. Car was goin’ nuther way.”

“It’s barely light now, how could you have seen that then?”

“Was layin’ in the park. Had a wheels-eye view.”

It wasn’t much of a park, more a garden planted on the median strip, but the trail of black rubber scorched onto the road passed right by it. Celluci followed the line to the wreck and then followed the smoke until it became a part of the overcast sky, spreading over the entire city.

The wheels were going one way.

The car was going another.

With a cold hand closing around his heart, Celluci ran for his car. It had suddenly become very important he see Trembley’s occurrence reports for Monday morning.

 

“Jesus Christ, Celluci,” Staff-Sergeant Bruton snapped, phone receiver cradled under her chin and three people clambering for her attention, “this is
not
the time to bother me with a missing fucking occurrence report, you . . . What?” She turned her attention back to the phone. “No. I don’t want to call back. I want you to find him! Do not put me on ho . . . damnit!” She scrawled her signature on a preferred form, glared through the chaos and shouted, “Takahashi! Get that other line! Now then,” she jabbed a finger in Celluci’s direction, “if you need that report for a case, you call later. You hear me? Later.”

“Sarge?” PC Takahashi held out the phone, his hand tightly over the mouthpiece. “It’s Trembley’s husband.”

 

The hieroglyphs that had been etched into the paint of the toy police car had been completely obliterated and the small piece of paper folded three times toward the heart and then slipped into the front seat was no more than ash. He slid a magazine under the smoldering remains and lifted it out of the tub with a trembling hand. It had been a very long time since he’d worked that spell and, as burning down the hotel had not been part of his intention, he’d carefully set it up so that any random power would be contained. Because he’d forgotten that the fuel these cars relied upon was highly flammable, his foresight proved fortunate. As it was, the shower curtain appeared a little singed. He would have to have it replaced.

Dumping the nearly unidentifiable bit of metal into a crystal ashtray in the living room of the suite, he collapsed, exhausted, into a chair. Although there existed easier and less draining ways to accomplish the same purpose, the morning’s work had, while removing the last two memories of his mummified form, proven that all his old skills were still intact. A quick trip to the station and a short chat with the young man on the desk had taken care of the written records last night.

In the old days, he wouldn’t have dared to take his power as low as he had this morning. But in the old days with the gods gathering up souls almost at birth, he wouldn’t have been able to feed with the ease he now could. Later, perhaps around lunch, he’d take a walk. According to Dr. Rax’s ka, there was a school of sorts for very young children not so far away.

 

“You’re late.”

“I was down at 52 when the accident call came in.” Celluci shrugged out of his jacket and dropped into his chair. The accident had happened at College and University, three short blocks from Headquarters; everyone in the building knew about it; half of the arriving day shift had been there.

“Was it as bad as they say?”

“Worse.”

“Jesus. What do you think happened?”

Celluci glared across the desk at his partner. “The team who died in that crash were the uniforms on the scene Monday morning at the museum.”

“Christ, Mike!” Dave leaned forward and lowered his voice. “We are not in some bad monster movie here! There never was a mummy, but if there had been it wouldn’t be getting up and killing people and it sure as shit wouldn’t be causing car accidents. I don’t know where you’re coming from with this, but could you just drop the bullshit so we can get on with our work?”

“Look, you don’t know . . .”

“Know what? That there’s a lot of strange things going on in this city? Sure I know, I’ve arrested some of them. But there’s plenty of perfectly normal, human slime out there so don’t go borrowing trouble.” He studied Celluci’s expression and shook his head. “Like money through a whore’s hands . . . You haven’t listened to a thing I said.”

“I heard you,” Celluci growled. He realized that nothing he said in turn could convince the other man that another world existed outside—or more frighteningly, inside—the boundaries he’d lived with all his life.

“Hey, you two; Cantree wants to see you in his office.”

“Why?” Celluci scowled at the messenger even as Dave was getting to his feet.

She shrugged. “How the hell should I know? He’s the Inspector, I’m just a detective.” She skipped back out of the way as Celluci stood. “Maybe he just got a look at your last expense report. I told you that you should’ve kept receipts.”

Inspector Cantree glanced up as the two detectives came in and indicated with a jerk of his head that they were to close the door. “It’s about those deaths at the museum,” he said without preamble. “I’ve looked at the reports. I’ve had a talk with the Chief. Leave it.”

“Leave it?” Celluci took a step forward.

“You heard me. A heart attack isn’t a homicide. Leave it to the B & E team. I want you helping Lackey and Dixon on the Griffin case.”

Celluci felt his hands curl into fists, but because it was Cantree, probably the one cop in the city he respected without reservation—and
that
carried a lot more weight than the man’s rank or position as his immediate superior—he kept a tight hold on his temper. “I have a hunch about this . . .” he began, but the Inspector interrupted.

“I don’t care. It isn’t a homicide, therefore it isn’t any business of yours. Or your hunches.”

“But I think it is a homicide.”

Cantree sighed. “All right. Why? Give me some facts.”

Celluci’s lips narrowed. “No facts,” he muttered, while Dave stared at the ceiling, his expression carefully neutral. “Just a feeling.”

“All right.” Cantree pulled a pile of folders across his desk. “I’ll give
you
some facts. We’ve had seventy-seven homicides in this city so far this year. A teenage girl found dismembered in the lake. A man knifed behind a bar. A doctor killed in the stairwell of her apartment building. Two women bludgeoned to death in a parking garage in middle of the fucking afternoon!” His voice rose and he surged up out of his seat, slamming his palm down on the folders. “I don’t need you making murders where there aren’t any. As far as you are concerned, the case is closed. Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly,” Celluci told him through clenched teeth.

“As a bell,” Dave added, pulling his partner toward the door and keeping a tight grip on his elbow until they were back in the outer office. “Well, I guess that’s that,” he said, caught sight of Celluci’s face, and rolled his eyes. “Or maybe not . . .”

 

“Nelson. Investigations.”

“Cantree pulled me off the case.”

Vicki dropped her bag and, balancing the receiver under her chin, shrugged out of her jacket. She’d barely gotten in the door when the phone rang. “Did he say why?”

“He said, and I quote,
‘I’ve looked at the reports. I’ve had a talk with the Chief. A heart attack isn’t a homicide
.’ ”

“And you said?”

“What the hell could I say? If I told him I thought there was a mummy involved, he’d think I was crazy. My partner
already
thinks I’m crazy.”

In her mind’s eye she could see him shoving the curl of hair back off his forehead and forcing his fingers up through his hair. “You still think there’s a mummy involved?”

“Trembley’s occurrence report for Monday morning is missing.”

“And Trembley?”

“Is dead.”

Vicki sat down. “How?”

“Car accident on the way back to the station this morning.”

“I passed the site coming home, but I had no idea Trembley was . . . involved.” Emergency teams had just managed to get close to the slag. The bodies had been burned beyond even retrieval. “I talked to a couple of the uniforms. They said the car went out of control. ”

“I have a witness who saw the wheels pointing one way while the car continued to go another.” Celluci took a deep breath and she could hear the tension in it humming over the wires. “I want to hire you.”

“You what?”

“Cantree tied my hands. You don’t work for him anymore. Find that mummy.”

She recognized the obsession in his voice. She’d heard it there before and as often in her own. Obsession made a good cop. It had also broken a few. “All right. I’ll find it.”

“Keep me informed every step of the way.”

“I will.”

“Be careful.”

She saw again the melted remains of Trembley’s car. “You, too.”

Hanging up the phone, she frowned, remembering.
I’ve looked at the reports and I’ve had a talk with the Chief.
“Now why,” she asked of the empty apartment, “would Inspector Cantree have talked to the Chief about a departmental matter?”

“. . . no one is available to take your call at this moment. If you leave a message after the tone, I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Please don’t assume I can remember where I put your phone number.”

“Henry? Vicki. I want to check out that workroom tonight. The Department of Egyptology is on the fifth floor at the south end of the museum; meet me there as soon as you can.” She thought for a second, then added, “There’ll be a single guard on the desk. I assume you can get in without any trouble.” Brow furrowed, Vicki put down the receiver. As it was still a couple of hours to sunset, she hadn’t actually expected to speak to Henry, but she suddenly doubted the wisdom of putting that message on the machine.

“You’re being ridiculous,” she sneered at herself. “The odds of Celluci’s alleged mummy randomly tapping phone lines or gaining access to Henry’s answering machine are about as likely as . . .” She sighed and redialed Henry’s number. “. . . as it existing at all.”

“Henry? Vicki. Erase this tape once you’ve listened to it.”

“I’m probably just being paranoid,” she told a piece of cold pizza a moment later, picking a slice of salami off the congealed cheese. But as four people were already dead and they had no idea of the enemy’s strength or its capabilities, she had no intention of being body number five or setting Henry up as number six.

 

It took less than fifteen minutes to walk to the Royal Ontario Museum from Vicki’s apartment, but by the time she ducked down the alley between the McLaughlin Planetarium and the museum’s main building, she was wishing she’d taken a cab. Everything below the angle of the umbrella had gotten soaked and the wind had blown cold rain up into her face at every opportunity.

“I hate October,” she muttered, using the narrow band of shelter under the second floor walkway to shake some of the excess water off the bottom of her trench coat. As she straightened, a cold dribble ran off her chin, down the inside of her collar, along the side of her neck, and into the hollow of her collarbone where it finally surrendered and was soaked up by her shirt. “On second thought, I can live with October, I hate
rain.
”

At the staff entrance, she paused and peered through the outer set of glass doors. The only way to the inner set, and then into the museum, passed by a manned security station. A large sign instructed staff that security badges
must
be worn at all times and that visitors
must
check in at the desk.

Vicki smiled, peeled off her leather gloves and stuffed them in her pockets, then opened the door.

“Hello.” She extended her smile to include the guard and he willingly returned it. Her clothing said, respectable and her attitude said, nice person—just the sort security guards preferred to deal with. “My name’s Celluci. I’m here to see Dr. Rachel Shane in Egyptology.” She figured it was the one name guaranteed to get her upstairs and if the guard recognized it, she’d merely use the same story she planned on giving Dr. Shane.