Broken (29 page)

Zoe nodded, obviously relieved. A few of the names on those lists undoubtedly had been her victims. A vampire doesn’t kill every time she feeds, but she does need to drain lifeblood once a year to retain her immortality. Most pick someone like the men and women on this list. Choosing a victim from the streets lessens the ripple effect, affecting fewer lives than, say, killing a suburban mother of four, and drawing less public attention. Still, however much has gone wrong with a life, it is still a life. I suppose vampires realize that, at least some of them.

As we headed for the front doors, Clay said, “So what’s up with Anita Barrington?”

Zoe blinked. “Why? What did she—?”

“You heard where we were, and suddenly didn’t want to meet us,” he said.

“No, I—” She paused, then shook off the denial. “I’m sure there’s nothing wrong with Anita Barrington. She’s quite new here, but from what I hear, a nice lady. It’s just…well, she’s an immortality quester.”

Zoe looked across our blank faces. “An immortality quester is—”

“A supernatural trying to find the secret to immortality,” Clay said. “Yeah, we know. Ran into a couple of vampires doing that a few years back.”

“Edward and Natasha.” Zoe nodded, then lowered her gaze for a moment before continuing. “Well, even vampires can catch the bug. But those questers who aren’t vampires sometimes develop an…unhealthy interest in our kind, the semi-immortals.”

“So Anita’s bothered you—”

“No, no. Never met her. But I had an…experience with an immortality quester years ago. It just taught me to avoid them.”

Clay studied her face, then grunted. “Let’s get inside. Before this Tolliver guy takes off.”

We climbed the steps to a set of tall, narrow green-painted wooden doors, propped open to welcome daytime visitors. Inside was a reception area, staffed by a volunteer at a table with guides and history booklets. To our left, a huge framed antique coat of arms hung over recycling containers. On the right, tarnished brass memorial plaques hung above a bulletin board covered in flyers for antiwar demonstrations, AIDS clinics and missing-person notices.

Zoe led us to the left, where the pews were. They were arranged to form a three-sided box that faced a table in the middle. Above the western entrance doors were colorful banners for social justice, peace and cultural diversity. Beneath them, a young man slept on a green sofa.

Zoe headed toward two men talking near an interior door. The younger man, probably in his early forties, turned and started walking briskly down the aisle. Dressed in jeans and a T-shirt from the Metro-Central YMCA, he was fit, average height, dark-skinned with a short beard and distracted eyes. In one hand he carried a black bag that looked like an old-fashioned medical satchel.

He almost smacked into me, as if I’d materialized from nowhere. With a murmured apology, he started going around me.

“Randy,” Zoe called after him.

He stopped, and turned. “Zoe?”

“Hey, Doc. Do you have a minute? We need to talk to you.”

A discreet glance at his watch, then at Clay and me, as if curiosity was warring with an insanely busy schedule. Without a word, he nodded and waved us to a hall on the east side of the church. We went down a few steps, then out a single door into a courtyard.

Brightly painted red and blue metal chairs and tables were arranged around a small fountain. Every chair was empty, but Tolliver still led us around the fountain, to take a table at the far side, where the noise of the falling water would mask our conversation.

He gestured to the chairs. There were only three, and he seemed ready to give them to us, but when Clay took up position at my shoulder, Tolliver turned the third chair around to face ours, then sat.

“So…” he began. “What’s this about?”

I told him the story. A version of it, that is. Zoe had suggested we remove the part about stealing the letter ourselves. If that would bother Tolliver, it seemed a little hypocritical, considering he engaged Zoe’s services often enough to be on a first-name basis. But she’d advised us to stick to a variation on the truth—that we were interracial council delegates investigating the portal and trying to close it.

I also left out the part about suspecting Shanahan of being the zombie controller.

When I finished, Tolliver looked at Zoe.

“You know that these two are council delegates? For a fact?”

She laughed. “Why else would they be investigating this? It’s hardly the kind of thing people volunteer for.”

“I can think of one group who would, particularly if they could use this portal to their advantage.”

“A Cabal?” Zoe waved at me. “Does she look like a Cabal goon?”

“No, which would be a perfect way to convince us she isn’t. It would also explain why Patrick is missing. They likely took him into custody themselves.”

“Yeah?” Clay said. “Then why would we be looking for him? That’s what we’re doing here. Trying to find him, hoping he can close this thing.”

Tolliver’s expression didn’t change. “If you
are
on the council, then tell me this. Who’s the sorcerer delegate?”

“Trick question,” Zoe muttered.

“No,” I said. “If Dr. Tolliver does know the current council, then it’s a trick question within a trick question. There is no sorcerer delegate. Never has been. However, one other delegate is married to a sorcerer who does help with our investigations, though he doesn’t participate in matters of policy.”

Tolliver met my gaze. “You know him?”

“Of course. And he knows us. Call him up and ask, about either us or the investigation. He’s aware of it, and has been helping with background.”

Tolliver hesitated, then nodded, but didn’t move. I suspected he didn’t know Lucas well enough to have his number, though he might be able to get it if he made a few calls. I reminded myself to ask Lucas about Tolliver. He hadn’t known Shanahan, but he was more likely to know a supernatural doctor, at least by reputation.

Tolliver finally put his medical bag on the ground and relaxed into his chair. “I can tell you this much. Whoever said Patrick’s letter is responsible for this portal is wrong.”

“Right,” Clay said. “So the fact that this portal opens on the same night his letter is stolen, and spews out Victorian zombies and cholera is…a coincidence?”

Tolliver blinked. “This portal is responsible for the cholera?”

“Nah, it’s just a coincidence.”

Tolliver ignored him and turned to me. “Is there anything else?”

I hesitated, then said, “Possibly something with the rats, but we aren’t sure yet.”

Tolliver let out a quiet curse. “Typhus, probably. I’ve been dealing with rat bites all day.”

“Typhus? How…bad is that?”

“Treatable with antibiotics if it’s caught. People haven’t started showing symptoms yet. I’m just dealing with the bites, far more than normal. Typhus will be a concern, if that’s what it turns out to be, but at this stage, I’m more worried about infection from the bites. The rats seem to be more aggressive than normal.”

“We found that out. They’re attacking in daylight too. Is that from the disease?”

“I don’t know enough about typhus to say.” He leaned back. “First, cholera. Now this. No wonder I’m so busy.”

Clay looked at him. “So, getting this portal closed might not be such a bad idea.”

“I never said it was. Cholera and typhus notwithstanding, I completely agree that it needs to be closed, but I’m not convinced that finding Patrick will help. Yes, it seems impossible that this is a coincidence, but I find it very hard to believe his letter is to blame. It’s a fake.”

“That may be,” I said, “but whether Jack the Ripper wrote it or not—”

“No, I mean it wasn’t a real portal device. It was a fake. That’s what Mr. Shanahan—Patrick’s father—always said.”

As he looked across our faces, he must have seen our confusion, and continued, “Geoffrey Shanahan was what you’d call an affable drunk. Normally, he barely said two words to me, but when he’d been drinking, he liked to talk, especially about his father’s collection. He’d take Pat and me in there and regale us with the stories behind the pieces, what they were supposed to do, who had exposed them as fakes—”

“Fakes?” I said.

“Of course.” Again, Tolliver looked at us, then Zoe. “You must know this, Zoe. You put some of those artifacts in that collection yourself.”

She shook her head. “Theodore Shanahan placed the order and I filled it. Half the time, I barely even knew what I was stealing.”

“Not surprising, I guess. He was an arrogant old bugger. Like most men who get their money from shady dealings. If you act like you’ve been born to it, no one questions where the money came from.”

“So it’s a collection of…fakes?” I glanced up at Clay, remembering the files we’d found in the house, where we’d thought he’d cleverly documented his artifacts as counterfeits. “Supernatural curiosities.”

Tolliver nodded. “All of them, including that letter.”

“So it supposedly
did
contain a portal,” I said. “One that was believed to be fake.”

“I don’t remember the exact story behind it, but Patrick will have it on file.”

“File’s gone,” Clay said.

Tolliver nodded, as if neither surprised nor indignant that we’d searched Shanahan’s house.

“Can you remember anything about it?” I asked.

He paused, then shook his head. “I’ll think on it some more, but that piece never interested me. Neither did Jack the Ripper in general.” A small laugh. “Even as a child, I think I was offended by the suggestion that a doctor might have been responsible. Patrick would know more. The letter was one of his favorite pieces.”

“Which brings us back to square one…” Clay said.

“Finding Patrick. I agree that the portal needs to be closed, and quickly. Even if I don’t know how much help Patrick can be, I’d be happy to help you locate him…if I could.”

“Why can’t you?” I said.

“Because, while Patrick and I were close as boys, we’ve barely seen one another since college. He only calls now and then to see whether I’ve come to my senses and taken up a more profitable branch of medicine…with profits he could help me invest. When he learns I haven’t…” Tolliver shrugged. “That’s the end of our contact until the annual Christmas card. I can try—”

Tolliver’s cell phone rang. He answered. As he listened, he closed his eyes, suddenly looking very tired. “Tell them I’m on my way,” he said, then hung up.

“There’s a small outbreak of intestinal upset at a nursing home I cover, and they’re worried it’s the cholera. More likely food spoilage from the heat, but I need to check it out immediately. As I said, I’ll think about the letter some more, and Patrick as well, and see what I can come up with.”

I took out a piece of paper, jotted down my number and gave it to him. He was out of the courtyard before I got to my feet.

Zoe made us promise to call and update her. In the meantime, she’d try to track down more on the story behind the letter.

The five of us went to dinner before the meeting with Matthew Hull. Jeremy had decided we’d go—that the potential reward outweighed the risk.

We found a sit-down restaurant and a quiet table. Easy enough now—in the wake of the cholera “epidemic,” they were all quiet. The city still hadn’t cleaned the water supply. They’d taken every step—multiple times—but the problem persisted. As long as the portal remained open, the cholera was here to stay.

While Jeremy and Antonio updated us on their dead-ended investigations, Clay kept casting anxious glances at me as I picked at my dinner.

When it was our turn and I asked Clay to tell them what we’d learned, he leaned my way.

“What’s wrong?” he murmured.

“Noth—”

“You’ve barely touched your meal.”

“It’s just the heat.”

“You look pale,” Jeremy said. “I thought it was the lighting, but—”

“It is. I’m fine.”

“You’re probably dehydrated,” Antonio said. “Finish your milk and we’ll order you another.”

I lifted my hands. “Enough. The pregnant woman is fine. Not terribly hungry tonight, that’s all.” I felt Clay’s gaze boring into me, and sighed. “Okay, maybe a little tired, but no more than everyone else, I’m sure. It’s been a very long day.”

Clay pushed back his chair and stood. “Come on. I’m taking you up to our room.”

“Before I finish my dinner?”

That gave him pause, but only for a second. “We’ll ask for takeout.”

I shook my head. “Yes, I am tired, probably from the heat, but the sooner we get this done, the sooner I can go home and really rest, in my own bed. Now sit down and bring everyone up to speed on what Randy Tolliver said.” I looked up at him. “Please.”

Sorcery

“
SEE
?”
I SAID AS JEREMY LEFT OUR HOTEL ROOM
. “
DIAGNOSIS
: just tired.”

“Exhausted,” Clay said as he handed me a bottle of water. “And dehydrated.”

I took the water and made a face. “Oh, that’s just Jeremy.”