His Father's Eyes - eARC (2 page)

One of the officers, a short, barrel-chested white guy, bent and picked up my Glock. “Did you fire your weapon?”

“No.”

I heard him sniff at the barrel. He retrieved the other weapon and sniffed at that one as well. I couldn’t see him well in the darkness, but I thought I saw him nod once to his partner.

“All right, Fearsson,” this second cop said. “You can get up.”

I climbed to my feet and pulled out my wallet. The other cop checked my ID before handing me my pistol and walking over to the wagon.

The second officer, a young, light-skinned African-American man, kept his shotgun aimed at Darby, but he was watching me. “You’re the guy who caught the Blind Angel Killer, aren’t you?” At my nod, he said, “That was nice work.”

“Thank you.”

“And now you’re back doing grunt work like this?”

I grinned. “That’s the job, right? I still need to earn a living.”

“I hear that.”

The other cop, who was still by Darby’s car, let out a low whistle. “There must be twenty grand worth of stuff in here. Maybe more.”

I walked over to Darby. “Your word against mine, eh?”

He raised his head fractionally. “Screw you.”

They cuffed Darby and read him his Miranda rights, and then they took a statement from me. I made sure to mention my suspicion that Mark was working with at least one of his fellow salesmen. While I was still answering questions, a second police cruiser showed up. A few minutes later, so did Mister Felder, driving a BMW, dressed in a suit I couldn’t possibly afford and flinging himself out of his car very much like a man who had been called away from a social occasion he didn’t want to leave.

One of the cops explained to him what had happened. Felder eyed the loading dock and Darby’s car as the cop spoke to him, but when they were finished talking, he walked straight over to me.

He shook my hand, a tight smile on his tanned, round face, but there could be no mistaking his tone as he said, “I thought we agreed that we were going to handle this matter without involving the police.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, not flinching at all from what I heard in his tone. “But then Darby took a few shots at me with a .380. Someone heard the shooting and called it in. It wasn’t my decision.”

“He shot at you?”

“Yes, sir.”

Felder huffed. “Then I suppose it couldn’t be helped.” A pause, and then. “You’re all right?”

“Thanks for asking. Yes, I’m fine.”

Even as I spoke the words, though, a memory stirred. Not of the shooting itself; I’d have nightmares about that—the flare of flame from the muzzle, the deafening
pop! pop! pop!
of the shots.

Rather, I recalled—as I should have long before—that fraction of a moment during which I felt magic all around me, charging the air like an impending lightning strike.

“Mister Fearsson?”

I roused myself with a small shake of my head and faced Felder again. He was watching me, expectant; I assumed he’d asked me a question.

“I’m sorry, sir. What did you say?”

“I asked if Darby did all this alone.”

“No, I don’t think he did. The police showed up before I could get a name out of him. But I have some experience with these things: He won’t hold up long under questioning. If he had a partner, you’ll know it soon enough.”

“Fearsson!”

I turned. The African-American officer was striding our way.

“Sorry to bother you, man, but Darby is claiming that you assaulted him. He says you hit him with your weapon.”

I glanced off to the side, exhaled.

“Did you?”

“It was hardly an assault,” I said. “I was asking him some questions, and he was having trouble remembering stuff. I was trying to jar the memories loose.”

The cop laughed; even Felder allowed himself a chuckle.

“But officially,” I said, “I never hit him.”

“Good enough for me,” the cop said. “You can go. If we need you for anything else, we’ll let you know.”

“Hey, wait a minute!” Darby called from the back of one of the squad cars.

“His word against yours, Darby,” the officer said. He gave me a wink.

Darby swore loudly.

“Come by tomorrow, Mister Fearsson,” Felder said. “I’ll cut you a check.”

“I will. Thank you.”

I walked back to the Z-ster, favoring my bad leg, conscious as well of a dull ache in my arm. I guess this is what the doctors had in mind when they warned me about trying to do too much.

Still, I was pleased. Sure, the police had shown up, but Felder hadn’t been too angry. And given how the evening could have ended—with me in a body bag—I couldn’t have asked for a better outcome.

Again, I thought of that frisson of magic. I hadn’t cast a spell, and I was certain that Darby was incapable of casting. Had I imagined it? Everything had happened in such a rush—it could have been a sensation born of panic and desperation. But how else could I explain the fact that Darby had missed me?

I needed to have a conversation with Namid’skemu of the K’ya’na-Kwe clan, the Zuni shaman who had been my runemyste for the past seven years, and who had been dead for close to eight centuries.

CHAPTER 3

The runemystes were created by the Runeclave centuries ago, their collective sacrifice an act so courageous, so selfless that it boggles the mind. Essentially, they were once weremystes, like me—sorcerers who had devoted their lives to the mastery of runecrafting. Thirty-nine of them were sacrificed by the Runeclave, the governing body of their kind, their spirits granted eternal life so that they could be guardians of magic in our world. They were essentially ensorcelled ghosts, although I’d learned over the years that they didn’t like to be referred to as such.

As I understood it, Namid and others like him were tasked with training new generations of weremystes and keeping watch on those who might turn to the darker elements of runecrafting. In all but the most extreme circumstances, they were forbidden from acting directly on our world, but through their instruction and training of weremystes, they could help to keep wielders of dark magic from doing harm to either the magical community or the non-magical population. The renegade-turned-serial-killer I mentioned, Cahors, was one of the original thirty-nine. But he chafed at the limits placed on his powers by his fellow runemystes, and he found a way to escape their controls and assume corporeal form once again. More, by committing murders each month on the night of the first quarter moon, he was able to keep himself young and powerful. If Kona and I hadn’t killed him, he would have gone on murdering for as long as he wished to live.

But Cahors was dead, and the runemystes now numbered thirty-eight. In the weeks since we’d killed him, I’d often wondered if Cahors had been training runemystes the way Namid did. Were there sorcerers out there who for years had been learning the darkest secrets of our craft?

I could have asked Namid about this, but he tended to be tight-lipped when it came to answering questions about the runemystes. To be honest, he was that way about everything, which at times made him an exasperating teacher. And tonight I had other questions that were more urgent.

I drove to my home in Chandler. It was a drive of no more than eight miles, and at this hour it took only a few minutes. At rush hour, which these days in the Phoenix-Scottsdale area stretched from dawn to dusk, it might have taken me three-quarters of an hour.

It had been a scorching day—July in Phoenix; go figure—and it was still hot in the house. But the night had cooled off considerably, as nights in the desert often did, and so I opened every window and changed into gym shorts and a T-shirt.

“Namid,” I said, pitching my voice to carry over some distance. I probably could have whispered it and he would have shown up just as soon, but I liked to maintain the illusion that I had some small measure of privacy.

Within seconds, he began to materialize before me, shimmering with the light of my reading lamps like the surface of a mountain lake reflecting the moon.

In life, Namid had belonged to the K’ya’na-Kwe clan of the A’shiwi or Zuni nation—the water people, as they were known. His clan was extinct now, and had been for centuries. I didn’t know if Namid’s appearance was his way of honoring their memory, or if it was simply the natural, or perhaps magical, manifestation of his tribal heritage. Whatever its origins, Namid always appeared to me as a being made entirely of water. He had the build of a warrior: tall, broad-shouldered, lean, muscular. On this night he was as clear as a woodland stream and as smooth as the ocean at dawn, but one could read his moods in the texture of his liquid form the way a ship’s captain might gauge the weather by watching the sea. His eyes were the single exception: They always glowed, like white flames within his luminous waters. I would never have said as much to him—I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction—but he was the most beautiful creature I had ever seen.

“Ohanko. It is late. You should be asleep, and I should not be summoned at such an hour.”

He was also the most infuriating.

He’d been calling me “Ohanko,” which, as far as I could tell, meant “reckless one,” for so long that I couldn’t remember when he had started. And he had been talking to me as if he were my mother, telling me when to sleep and what to eat, for even longer.

“I’m sorry I called for you,” I said, “But I can’t sleep yet. I need some answers first.”

He regarded me for the span of a heartbeat before sinking to the floor and staring up at me, those gleaming eyes seeming to ask why the hell I was still standing. I sat opposite him.

“You conjured tonight.”

“Yes, I did. But that’s not—”

“What spells did you cast?”

Did I mention that he could be infuriating?

“I used a seeing spell—”

“Using the techniques we have discussed?”

“Yes, and—”

“Did it work?”

“Yes, it worked fine.”

“Good. What else?”

“I cast a couple of . . . well, I call them fist spells.”

His watery brow furrowed. “Fist spells,” he repeated, his voice a low rumble, like the rush of distant headwaters.

“They act like a punch, but I can cast them from a distance.”

He nodded. “Crude, but effective. What else?”

“A camouflage spell,” I said. As impatient as I was to discuss other matters, I couldn’t keep a hint of pride from creeping into my voice.

Namid’s eyebrows—such as they were—went up a fraction of an inch. “That is high magic, Ohanko. Your casting was successful.”

“Yeah, it worked great. That is, until I tripped over an empty beer bottle.”

His expression flattened. “Have I not told you that you must tread like the fox, that you must act at all times with great care?”

“You’ve told me,” I said. “And I try. This time . . .” I shrugged. “What can I say? I screwed up.”

“You are fortunate that your carelessness did not carry a greater cost.”

I’m a grown man—thirty-three years old. My mom has been dead for close to twenty years, and my dad has been crazy for almost as long. In many ways, Namid was the closest thing to a parent that I had, and his scoldings still stung like cold rain. But at that moment, his disapproval was the least of my concerns.

“So you weren’t aware of all this,” I said. “You didn’t see me cast the spell, or knock over the bottle. You weren’t there for what happened next.”

Namid had a way of going still; it almost seemed like he turned from water to ice, and most of the time I thought it was very cool. Not now. Seeing his face harden, his body tense, I shivered, as from a winter wind.

“Tell me,” he said.

“I’m not sure exactly what happened. I was trying to sneak up on a guy, and when I kicked over the bottle he raised his weapon and fired at me. Three times. I couldn’t have been more than ten feet from him, and though he couldn’t see me, he aimed right at my chest. I . . .” I took a breath. “I should be dead.”

“Why are you not?”

“I don’t know. But in the instant that his finger moved, I was almost sure I felt a spell. I—I thought that maybe you had intervened.”

“You know that I cannot.”

“You did, not that long ago.”

“The circumstances were different. Cahors was our . . . screwup.” The phrase sounded odd coming from him. “I cannot keep you safe in the normal course of your life. My responsibilities lie elsewhere.”

I would have liked to ask him about that, too. Another time.

“Maybe I imagined it, then.”

“Is it possible that you cast without intending, without even knowing that you did it?”

I grinned. “I’m not sure how to answer that.”

“I am not sure how you could, either,” the myste said, his tone wry. “But you understand the point I am making.”

“Yes. But I don’t think that’s what happened. I was scrambling to cast a different sort of spell. I should have cast a warding, but it all happened so fast.” I shook my head. “Maybe he missed, plain and simple, though I don’t see how he could have. Is it possible that another of your kind has taken an interest in me?”

“Another of my kind?”

“Another runemyste.”

“I have told you, Ohanko: It is against the laws that govern my kind to interfere in your world. Another of my kind would be bound by the same prohibitions that bind me. And where you are concerned, another runemyste would not chafe at those prohibitions nearly as much as I do.”

I made no effort to mask my surprise; he wasn’t usually prone to such kindnesses. “Thank you, Namid. That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

His translucent hand flicked out in annoyance. “I mean simply that others have not invested so much time and energy in your training. They would not be inconvenienced by your death the way I would.”

That was more like the Namid I had come to know over the years.

“Still, I’m touched.”

Namid frowned, but I could tell that my questions had piqued his curiosity. Or maybe it was more than that. Maybe he was scared.

“If it was someone else,” I said, “a weremyste or a runemyste who’s less bound than you are by arbitrary rules, it’s all right. He or she saved my life. It’s like I have a guardian angel.”

This deepened the myste’s scowl. “There are no guardian angels, Ohanko. There are sorcerers and mystes, and they rarely act out of altruism.”

“So you believe that someone wants me alive for a specific reason?”

“I do not know what to believe. I will have to think on this at greater length.” He started to fade from view. “Tread like the fox, Ohanko. Do not screw up anymore.”

I chuckled. “Thanks, ghost.”

I heard another rumble, like the whisper of approaching thunder. A moment later he was gone.

I stood, stretched my back, and crossed to the answering machine, which was a relic from a time when devices like this used tiny little cassette tapes. I had several messages, most of them from prospective clients. One was from Billie Castle, who was, for lack of a better term, my girlfriend.

“Hey, Fearsson, it’s me.” I couldn’t help the dumb grin that spread across my face every time I heard her voice. “I know you’re working, and I know we have plans for Friday, but I was wondering if you had time for lunch tomorrow. Nothing fancy—I was thinking the burrito place on Main, near the mall. Call me in the morning.”

I made a note to call her, and jotted down numbers and names from the other messages. Then I dragged myself back to my room and fell into bed, too tired even to bother pulling down the shades.

I woke with the sun, went for a run and showered, and then called Billie to confirm our plans. After grabbing a bite to eat, I got in the Z-ster and drove out to Wofford, west of the city, where my dad lives in an old trailer.

I go out to see him most Tuesdays. I bring him groceries and other supplies. Sometimes I cook for him. Sometimes I do no more than sit with him and listen to him ramble on and on about God knows what. Every once in a while—maybe one week in five, if I’m lucky—I catch him on a good day and we sit for hours talking about baseball and stuff in the news and police work; he was a cop, too, until his mind quit on him and he lost his job.

Today was Thursday, but I hadn’t liked the way he looked or sounded a couple of days ago, and I wanted to check in on him again. It was a slow drive out of the city—there weren’t any quick drives left in Phoenix—but by nine o’clock I was on US 60, following a lonely stretch of road past sun-baked telephone poles and dry, windswept desert. Reaching the rutted dirt road to my father’s place, I turned and steered the Z-ster past the stunted sage, a plume of pale red dust billowing behind me.

I could tell before I reached him that Dad was no better off today than he had been the last time I saw him. He sat slumped in the lawn chair outside his trailer, beneath the plastic tarp I had set up for him a couple of years before. He had his eyes trained on the horizon, and his old Leica binoculars rested in his lap. He wore dirty jeans and a threadbare white T-shirt; they might have been the same clothes he’d been wearing on Tuesday. His sneakers were untied; he didn’t have on socks.

The same way I could judge Namid’s moods by how roiled his waters were, I could tell what state my father was in by the care with which he dressed. When he didn’t change his clothes or bother with socks or shoelaces, it meant he was out of it, and had been for a while. I hoped he’d been eating. Hell, I hoped he had slept in his bed rather than in that old chair.

I parked and got out, squinting against the glare and the dust.

“Hey, Dad,” I called, raising a hand.

He didn’t respond, or even turn my way. I could see that he was muttering to himself. Every few seconds he seemed to wince, as if he were in pain. He hadn’t shaved since the last time I saw him; his slack cheeks were grizzled, making him appear even more haggard than usual. His white hair, unkempt and probably in a need of a washing, stirred in the desert wind.

I walked to where he sat and kissed his forehead. He stank of sweat, and his breath was rank. His gaze found mine for a second or two but then slid back to the horizon and the mountain ranges that fell away in layers until they were lost in the brown haze hanging over the city.

“How are you doing, Dad?”

He didn’t take his eyes off the desert, but he shook his head. “Not so good,” he said, his voice strained, the words clipped.

As interactions with my dad went, this was better than it could have been; at least he had responded to my question, which meant that he was communicative and aware of my presence. Sometimes I didn’t even get that much from him.

I pulled out a second lawn chair and placed it beside his. Sitting, I leaned forward, peering into his eyes. Like mine, they were a soft, smoky gray, and today they appeared glazed, sunken.

“What’s wrong?” I asked him. “Tell me what you’re feeling.”

“It Tuesday already?”

“No, it’s Thursday. But I was worried about you when I left the other day, so I thought I’d come back.”

He answered with a slow nod, his gaze following the flight of a hawk.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s this burning,” he said, whispering the words. “It’s . . . The burning. I can’t make it stop.”

I laid the back of my hand against his forehead, checking for fever. His skin felt cool and dry.

“What burning?”