Depths: Southern Watch #2 (30 page)

* * *

Lerner and Duncan were still sitting outside the whorehouse, staring at the goings-on and had been for hours. What else were they going to do? “Laywer looks like she’s cockblocking everything,” Lerner pronounced with a note of sympathy. They had lawyers to deal with in their own work, though fortunately not as frequently as human law enforcement had to. The Pact from whence their authority was derived had a variety of interpretations, and lawyers tended to find lots of devils in the details of it.

“Deputy Harris has seen us,” Duncan said, calm on the outside, but Lerner could hear the alarm in his voice.

“That’s the little blond, right?” Lerner asked. “This could be good or bad, I suppose. For Hendricks, I mean; not likely it’ll have much effect on us.”

“She could make herself a pain in the ass,” Duncan said, about as succinctly as Lerner himself could have put it.

Lerner sighed. “Let’s hope she doesn’t, then. I’d hate to have to—” He stopped as Duncan’s head snapped up, eyes wide open. “What?”

“Someone just threw up a conjuring,” Duncan said, mouth hanging open when he finished talking. “A big one—loud, showy but without any substance, at Hendricks’s motel room. Someone’s with him there, now, and they want to get our attention.”

Lerner sighed again. This was not going to look good to Deputy Harris, taking off after she just noticed them. Probably seemed suspicious. He started the car anyway, put it into gear, and executed a three-point turn on the street to take them back where they came from.

* * *

Arch unlocked the door to his apartment and set his keys on the table just inside. He paused as the cool air hit him, and listened for a sign that anything was moving in his home. Not a sound. This was getting to be usual.

Alison sat there, on the couch, swallowed up by the boxes rimming the white walls. She was dressed in one of her halter tops with a pair of jean shorts that had been cut ragged. Her hair was all done up, he noticed.

When she turned to look at him, she wore that same aura of indifference, that cool, unemotional look that had become so common on her lately. He wondered if she was suffering from PTSD. They’d been through something traumatic, after all. “Hey,” he said, casually as he could.

“Hey,” she returned, without much in the way of enthusiasm. She was seated without anything in her lap. The TV remote was on top of the entertainment center, and he hadn’t even hooked up the cable yet. What had she been doing? Just sitting there? “I thought you were working again.”

“I was,” he said with a nod, taking a few tentative steps toward her. “Reeve sent me home. Figured I’d, uh … seen enough, I guess.”

“Oh?” She asked it with no more seeming interest than she’d devote to a coupon circular. “Nothing new going on, then.”

“Actually,” he said, almost regretful to spoil her image of the town back at peace, “there was another murder this morning.” He figured it’d get some reaction out of her, but she didn’t even blink.

* * *

Erin watched the sedan do its turn in the middle of Water Street and drive off. She wondered if it was because she’d seen them that they were taking off? She thought about going after them, but a peal of thunder overhead caused everyone to look up, and the first droplet of water hit her on the cheek.

“Goddammit,” Reeve said. “Can we please take this show on back to the station?”

“Aiming for a change of venue?” Deivrel asked, the same insufferable smile on her face. Erin still wanted to punch her.

“Aiming to not get soaking wet,” Reeve replied, hitching his thumbs in his belt. Erin couldn’t tell if he was doing it for some kind of effect or if he was holding up his pants under his gut.

Lex Deivrel seemed to ponder this. She’d been stonewalling them all morning, had come up with fifty different excuses thus far. “All right,” she said finally. “Back to your station. But my clients come in my car.” Her smile broadened. “Which seems to be blocked in by a crime scene van.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Reeve said. “I’ll take you in one of my squad cars—all of you. And you can watch to make sure I don’t say anything out of line.”

“I’m afraid my clients would be insulted by a ride in the back of a police car,” Deivrel said with a smile. “They’re not criminals, after all.”

“Sure,” Reeve said, deadpan, “there but for the grace of a prostitution charge or twelve, go I. Or you. Probably more likely you.”

Deivrel’s smile grew colder. “We can wait.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Reeve said. “Two of you with me—in the front seat, if need be, and one of you can ride with Deputy Harris.” He chucked a thumb at her. “You pick the arrangements, but I’ve had enough of this stonewalling shit, Lex. You got no ground to stand on here because I haven’t charged your clients with anything, they’re probably not guilty of anything I’d charge them for, but that is gonna change rapidly if you don’t stop fucking with me and help me get their goddamned statement on paper!”

Deivrel didn’t flinch, didn’t change expression one whit, just froze. “Fine. I’ll ride with you and Ms. Cherry. Lucia can ride with Deputy Harris.” She shot a look at Erin that was malice wrapped in razor blades. “Talk to my client about anything other than the weather and I’ll make sure it ends your career.”

Erin started to say something but Reeve held up a hand to shut her up. “I think we can live with that.” He looked back at her. “Right?”

“The weather,” Erin said, looking up in time to get hit in the face with another drop of rain. “Got it.”

* * *

Hendricks wasn’t sure how to feel about Wren Spellman, at least not until he frowned at Hendricks, waved a hand at him and produced something that looked like a cured cow’s bladder he’d once seen when he was younger. “Drink this.”

“Are you fucking kidding?” Hendricks retorted. Stranger shows up to your hotel room, tells you to drink something. Sounded like the perfect setup for him to be roofie’d. “No.”

“Suit yourself,” Spellman said with a shrug. “But it’d cure what ails you. I just feel bad for you, sitting there, looking like hell. I can tell some people have been less than gentle with you of late, and coupled with what I’m reading of your past,” his eyes flashed blank—like, white—for a minute, “I’m just feeling a spot of pity. Like I should help you.” Spellman pushed the bladder thing toward him, held out in a lightly spotted and wrinkled hand. “Drink this. You’ll feel better. Promise.”

Hendricks took the thing, not really sure why. It was kidney shaped, seemed kind of like leather, like something you’d see in a fantasy movie when the characters would drink on a long journey. “What is this?”

“The container is a cured cow’s bladder, as you might suspect,” Spellman said, talking with his hands. They came up in a looping gesture that turned into a palms-up shrug. “What’s inside is a tonic tinged with certain ingredients that are … otherworldly, let’s say.” Spellman grinned. “It’ll heal your injuries in the course of about thirty seconds. Call it a sample.”

“Uh huh,” Hendricks said, and stared at the bladder. “Why?”

“I told you, pity,” Spellman said. “Also, marketing. I have a store out in the country. You should come see me sometime if this works for you.” He held up a hand to his lips. “But don’t tell your friends,” he said in a whisper that felt … shrouded, somehow, like it had been breathed right into his mind.

Hendricks stared at the bladder, pondering if the Percocets he’d taken were still fucking with him, and how hard.

“Ah, here we go,” Spellman said mildly. “About time.”

“About time for what?” Hendricks asked, looking from the bladder to the unassuming man in the Nehru suit. Vaguely, he heard something outside, like tires squealing. He listened closer and heard car doors slamming then watched as Spellman gently opened his door for him.

“Let’s keep them from knocking down another door, shall we?” Spellman said. “I hate to cause any more expense for the owner of this motel. Concern, you know, from one business owner to another. It's tough enough out there without someone cutting into our margins.”

Lerner and Duncan came up seconds later, and Hendricks just stared at them as Lerner paused on the threshold, a rough look on his face, peeking his head inside like he was afraid he’d get whacked in the head or something. He had something clutched in his hand and Hendricks stared at it. It was a little cylinder that was an inch longer than his hand on the top and bottom, and he kept it by his side.

“What the hell is that?” Hendricks asked as Lerner scanned the room and stopped on Spellman, who was now standing by the table in the corner.

“Baton,” Lerner said and stepped inside. “Used for breaking shells. Who is this?” He pointed the baton at Spellman.

“My name is Wren Spellman.” The mystery man bowed to Lerner. “I’m here with some interesting information, as evidenced by my rather obvious attempt to get your attention.”

Duncan followed Lerner into the room a moment later, and Hendricks watched him. He wondered if Duncan’s suit had always been so purple. He couldn’t remember. “He’s clean,” Duncan said. “It’s just a screen.”

Hendricks waited to see if anyone would explain what that meant. They didn’t, so he asked. “Screen?”

“Empty vessel,” Lerner said. “Someone’s communicating through ‘him’ from somewhere else.” He waved at Hendricks. “Now take a seat, kid, and let the big boys talk, huh?”

Hendricks stifled the urge to pull his sword and show Lerner how the big boys reacted to consecrated metal, but Duncan gave him a sympathetic smile so he didn’t.

“You seek a Sygraath named Gideon,” Spellman said, hands neatly folded in front of him, same pleasant smile perched on his lips. “I am here to tell you where he’s going, what he’s going to do, and when he’s going to do it.”

“Why?” Lerner shot out immediately. Hendricks was wondering the same—once his brain translated it through the fog he was in. He figured he was on about a five second delay, but his head was so fuzzy it wasn’t really possible to be sure.

“Because,” Spellman said, “his plan is no good for my business interests in this area.”

Lerner seemed a little suspicious at that. “How is it bad for business?”

“Because,” Spellman said with little emotion, “he’s going to blow up the dam that holds back the Caledonia River.” Spellman made a helpful hand gesture to illustrate. “And when that dam breaks, everyone in this valley—including my potential customers—will all be washed away.”

* * *

Gideon pulled up outside the gate at the end of the dirty road. His car was really struggling at the end, and by the time he reached the guardhouse with the gate, he was worried it wasn’t going to carry him much further.

That was all right, though. One of the security guards probably had a pickup truck he could use. He ran a hand over his smooth cheek, scratching his flesh. He’d just need to ask nicely.

There was a yellow and black striped gate barring his passage. He suspected it was metal, but it really didn’t matter in any case. It was starting to rain, so he stepped out of the car just as the security guard was stepping out of the guardhouse. It wasn’t really a house so much as a six-by-ten-foot booth, roughly. Looked a little like a tollbooth to Gideon, like one of the ones that dotted every off-ramp around Chicago.

Gideon felt his shoes splash in the first puddle he came to. It drenched his sock. He felt the cool water wash down into his shoe, soaking him all the way to the toes. It was a sensory discomfort for him, but little else.

The booth had an overhanging awning that stretched a couple feet out from the roof, and Gideon felt the volume of rain soaking his t-shirt lessen as he stepped under it. “Ugly day out,” he said to the man who was coming out of the booth to greet him. The guy had on a khaki uniform and a polite smile, but Gideon had a feeling it wouldn’t last long.

“You look lost,” the security guard said. Like he’d had this happen before.

“I could use some directions,” Gideon said, stepping closer to the guard. The guard didn’t flinch away. Probably figured he’d have time to go for the gun on his belt if Gideon tried anything.

“Where you heading?” the security guard asked.

“Not far,” Gideon said and reached for the man. He had him gripped by the time the guy’s hand got anywhere near his holster. He broke the security guard’s arm, snapped it and jammed it hard so that the bone tore through the skin. The guard let out a scream, and it was sweet. He pushed the man down and looked in his eyes. He could feel the fear coming off him as he held him down with one hand. “I think I’ll go straight for your heart. Have you heard what the quickest way to it is?”

Gideon found out. Turned out, it wasn’t through the stomach. It was through the ribcage.

* * *

Erin sat in awkward silence with Starling—Lucia, she was constantly correcting herself—in the passenger seat. The redhead wasn’t saying a word, and she was tempted to let that rest. Tempted. “So,” she said, breaking the silence, “you want to talk about the future again?”

There was a pause, and it was almost painful. When Lucia answered, it was with a quiet confusion. “Excuse me?” She talked in a deep Southern accent that sounded nothing like Starling’s blank, unaccented speech had.

Erin wondered if she was being punked, or if this girl had some sort of multiple personality disorder raging inside her. She’d seen that shit on a movie before, and it was just about as crazy as what was happening around her lately. “Oh, you’re gonna play like you don’t know what I’m talking about, Starling?”

Erin watched Lucia go paler than her usual self. “Who’s Starling?”

And Erin got the feeling she meant it.

* * *

“Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit, fuck, damn,” Lerner said. Spellman had spilled it, really, answered the follow-up questions, and it smelled real enough to him. Based on Duncan’s expression, he felt the same. “A whole fucking town gone under. How’s he gonna do it?”

Spellman gave a sympathetic nod. “He has a conjuring that will damage the structure enough to break the dam open, I think, with the increased pressure from all the rain that’s been falling.”