Good Guys

From Dallas to Aviano Air Base in Italy, and then the train to Madrid. Matt decided he liked train travel. He thought about bumming around Europe taking trains everywhere, and it didn’t seem too bad, what with one thing and another. The few words of Farsi he had didn’t help any, and it was amazing how little he remembered of the Spanish he’d had in school. Three years of it, but anything beyond “Good day, mister” defeated him. He wondered what he’d do at night.

  When he reached Madrid, he found a phrase book, and was able to memorize the most important phrase: “No hablo español. Soy canadiense.” Fortunately, no one demanded he speak French and people were happy to direct him to a hotel where he was assured they spoke English.

  They did. He took a room, ate a meal, and got some sleep. The next morning, the concierge, who spoke better English than Matt did, was happy to not only direct him to the Paseo del Prado but also compliment him on his choice of tourist destinations, waxing eloquent about its beauty. Then the concierge secured him a cab, sending him away happily.

  At 9:00 AM local time, he stood opposite the headquarters of the Spanish Foundation and considered his next move.

  * * *

  It wasn’t as bad as Donovan had been afraid it would be, at least for the first day. Susan ran out and picked up a couple of cheap pillows and a sheet and some extra food, and the whole thing crazily reminded Donovan of when he’d had sleepovers with his brother and cousins and blankets and a flashlight.

  A couple of hours later, Becker called on the phone, meaning he’d called from home. “Mr. Becker,” said Donovan. “Good to hear from you. Did you find the clairvoyant?”

  “We did, and we’ve questioned him.”

  “And is he still in one piece, Mr. Becker?”

  “He was very cooperative, Mr. Longfellow. There was no need for enhanced interrogation of any sort. Apparently he’s a dupe, not conspirator.”

  “Go on, Mr. Becker.”

  “He did, indeed, spend occasional evenings over the past year reading archaeologists’ journals, looking for potential artifacts, and reporting them.”

  “Who’d he report to?”

  “He thought he was reporting to someone at Artifacts and Enchantments.”

  “But?”

  “He was not.”

  “How did it work?”

  “He sent it to an email address. It looked right—it was to our own server. He had no reason to believe it was going to anyone outside.”

  “Which means,” said Donovan, “that someone inside had to set up the email address, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “It also means—okay, I don’t—” His uncle had given him the basics of this, but it was years out of date, and he’d never used it. “He has to, I mean, his computer has to do a thingie where it requests that email, right? So while he’s requesting it—”

  “Yes, Mr. Longfellow. I spoke with our computer people here. A ‘script,’ as she called it, was put, or set, or started, to detect when our query checked his email.”

  “And?”

  “Now we wait until he downloads his email again.”

  “Do we have any idea of when that might be?”

  “In the past, he has connected over the weekend, presumably because there are fewer people here.”

  “And today is Thursday.”

  “Here it is the very early hours of Friday.”

  “All right. So, we’re waiting. Is that what you called about?”

  “No. I’ve acquired your security information. I’ve just emailed it to you.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Becker. Get some sleep.”

  “Yes, Mr. Longfellow. Thank you. I shall.”

  Donovan checked his email, and there was one from Becker. It had “security feed” as the subject line and just a URL for the body. Donovan said, “If anyone is interested in watching with me, I’ve got the tapes from the hotel lobby.”

  “Tapes?” said Marci.

  “I don’t mean tapes tapes. I mean a video feed, from the hotel.”

  “Oh,” said Susan, getting up from the couch and hovering over him. “What for?”

  “Identifying the guy who immolated Alexander Young.”

  “You think,” said Susan, “you’ll see him cast the spell?”

  “Probably not, but it’s possible. This is the first killing at a place with a security feed; it’d be stupid not to watch it. Worst case, I get something I can use next time.”

  Marci said, “Just seeing someone walk through the lobby from a grainy security feed, you think you’ll recognize him later?”

  “Uh, how do you do. I’m Donovan.”

  “All right.”

  They both hovered around him as he started running the feed from a point eight hours before the killing, and fast-forwarding past parts where the lobby was empty.

  An hour and ten minutes later, he stopped it and said, “Son of a bitch.”

  “What?” said Susan.

  “That’s him.”

  “Huh? Where?”

  There were three people on the screen at this point, two of whom had their faces toward the camera. Donovan tapped one with his finger.

  “Him?” said Susan. “He looks like a salesman who doesn’t work out enough.”

  “Yeah, but that’s our guy.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I recognize him.”

  “From where?”

  “He was in the restaurant in Chicago at the same time we were. He was in the booth next to the door, hunched over, drinking water and ignoring his coffee. Shit. He was shaken. I should have put it together. We could have had him right there.”

  “Are you sure?” said Marci. “How could you be that sure from just one glimpse?”

  Donovan turned and looked at her. “In the booth behind him were a mother and daughter, white, midfifties and midtwenties respectively. The daughter worked around there; the mother was visiting from out of town, somewhere warm. At the table next to them was a guy reading the sports section. Black, midforties, corporate lawyer. At the next booth—”

  “Okay, I get it.”

  Donovan turned back to the screen. “Son of a bitch,” he said again.

  “Well, all right, then,” said Susan. “We have a face. Do we have any way to go from a face to a name?”

  “There’s Google face recognition,” said Marci.

  “I’ve heard of all sorts of government agencies that have more sophisticated versions,” said Donovan. “But I don’t know any way to get access to those.”

  “You could ask Upstairs,” said Susan.

  Donovan nodded. “They’ve all gone home now, but I’ll do that first thing tomorrow. Worst that’ll happen is they’ll say no. In the meantime, Marci, try the Google thing.”

  * * *

  Once upon a time there was a woman named Shveta Tyaga. Some would have said she was born a Shudra to very devout but poor farmers; others would dispute this, denying the validity of the term Shudra in her region of Tamil Nadu, if not in the entire subcontinent. That her family were farmers, and poor, and devout could not, in any case, be denied.

  She discovered her sorcerous abilities at the age of twelve, when she found a small sample of Combretum ovalifolium, which her mother called the Heartflower, and Shveta wanted it to grow quickly, and it did—it grew from a seedling to a fully formed plant in under a minute. She tried it again, and it worked again.

  She thought this was delightful, and wondered what else she could do.

  She didn’t discover the grid lines, the grid points; she simply became aware of her knowledge of them, as if it were something she’d known all along. Her ability to reach out to them, connect, use them, was remarkable, though certainly not unprecedented.

  Throughout history, there have been those who had special, unusual, or unique talents; there have also been those who have been able to harness the energy of the grid and shape it to their will without training. Perhaps the latter is an example of the former. In any case, Shveta was one of these. In essence, she tau
ght herself magic, learning certain limited but useful spells, mostly associated with growing things. Within a couple of years, her family, though not wealthy, could no longer be called poor. She kept her abilities a secret until her sixteenth year, when she was drawn to a node a few miles due east of Keelakunupatti. She left her home after dark, walking miles and miles until she reached it, and she was thus found by the subcontinent recruiter for the Roma Vindices Mystici.

  For the first two years of her training, she amazed her instructors, who soon wondered if they’d be able to keep up with her, much less continue to teach her. It seemed she instantly mastered everything she attempted—defensive spells, observation spells, and especially attack spells. She could use magic to kill someone in 109 different ways—although, to be fair, more than half of those were either pointless or silly. Causing someone’s blood vessels to burst doesn’t much matter when you’ve had to boil the individual’s blood to accomplish it, and puncturing someone’s brain with his own hair is actually not all that painful and a considerable waste of energy.

  In any case, she stayed with her lessons for two years, growing in ability and control and knowledge. She couldn’t do everything—no one can—but those things she could do she could do very well.

  Some said the trouble was that it had taken so long to find her; by the time the Mystici began her training, she had acquired the habit of independence, which naturally led to a resentment of authority.

  Whatever the reason, she walked away from the Mystici at the age of nineteen, afterward traceable only by effect: an abusive wealthy husband robbed and murdered, a slumlord robbed and murdered, a brutal pimp robbed and murdered. See the pattern? Bad person with money becomes a dead person, and the money goes into Shveta’s pocket.

  Shveta’s parents had been poor, and she didn’t care for it. But it had always been important to them that she be a good person, and that, too, was ingrained.

  She didn’t kill often—every year or so. And then she’d live on the proceeds as long as she could. This made her very hard to find, for those who objected to her activities, and for those who might want to find her for other reasons.

  Hard, but not impossible.

  “Good morning, Shveta. Sorry to bother you so early.”

  “Hello, dear. What is it?”

  “I need a favor.”

  “For you, anything. Almost anything. Some things.”

  “Would you mind heading to the States? I think our guy there may need some help.”

  “Um. I’m kind of involved in this thing in Warsaw. Remember? You wanted me to do it?”

  “I know. But this trumps everything else. It’s important. Please.”

  “All right. For you, this is one of the things.”

  “Thanks, sweetie. I’m emailing the details … now.”

  13

  ASSUMPTIONS AND GUESSWORK

  There was a long hallway with nothing off to the sides, then a desk, a man behind the desk, and an elevator behind the man. He was a young man, neat, looked like a business major. There was nothing on the desk except a computer and a telephone; Matt hoped he had some good solitaire games on the computer.

  Matt approached the desk, smiled, and said, “Do you speak English, by chance?”

  “Why, yes, sir. How may I help you?”

  “I’d like to speak with Mr. Becker, please?”

  Matt was watching for any change of expression; he saw none. “I’m sorry, I do not recognize that name.”

  “Um, is there a building directory?”

  “Sir, I’m afraid this is a small set of private offices and apartments; we have no directory.”

  “I see. May I speak with anyone in the Spanish Foundation?”

  The man never lost his smile, but he shook his head. “Are you certain you have the right address, sir?”

  Matt knew when the best move was to husband his forces for another attack. He matched the young man’s smile and said, “Perhaps not. I’ll go check. Thank you.”

  “You’re very welcome, sir.”

  Matt went back out and across the street to sit on a bench, consider matters, and give the Spanish Foundation time to have a good look at him if they wanted to.

  * * *

  Donovan woke up next to Susan, who must have climbed in after he’d fallen asleep. He looked at her and shook his head, muttered, “Dayam,” and got up. Marci was already at the computer. It was a little annoying to be unable to check his email, but he never got anything interesting anyway. And the smell of already-made coffee made up for it.

  He threw on a robe and stumbled toward the bathroom, now overflowing with toiletry kits. The bathroom seemed a lot more cramped than it had yesterday. Go figure. Shaved, showered, dressed, and set for the day, he made straight for the coffeemaker, took some.

  “I decided,” said Susan, “that if we didn’t leave you any coffee you couldn’t be blamed for what happened.”

  “You are a good human being,” said Donovan as she headed toward the bathroom. “I don’t care what Marci says.”

  Marci turned and gave him a look, then went back to the computer. Donovan drank his coffee and made another pot. Once Susan was back, he came up behind Marci and looked over her shoulder. “What are you working on?”

  “Since you were sleeping, I went ahead and called Mr. Becker and asked him about running the picture.”

  “Damn. Initiative and everything. Well done. First time talking to Becker?”

  “No, no. We met in Spain, after the, after Chicago.”

  “Oh, right. What’d you think of him?”

  “He’s creepy.”

  “Yeah. What did he say?”

  “He said yes, but they didn’t get any more than we did last night. They ran the face through Interpol, and at least some of the Homeland Security files, and came up blank. So I’ve been organizing notes since then.”

  “So,” said Donovan, “if his face didn’t pop, we know that he doesn’t have a criminal record. Or, at least, not for a major crime. He’s not on a no-fly list, and probably no felony convictions. I don’t think we can conclude more than that. So what else do we know?”

  Marci looked at her list. “We know his motivation.”

  Susan, who had been pulling out eggs and bowls and milk, looked at her. “That’s news to me,” she said. “Okay, what is it?”

  Marci looked mildly startled, as if she were being asked to explain how she knew when she was walking uphill. “Revenge,” she said.

  “For what?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, frowning. “How could I know that?”

  “Well,” said Susan, “how do you know it’s revenge?”

  “Well, because. How he’s been killing people.”

  “Uh. I’m not getting it.”

  Marci looked at Donovan, as if explaining the obvious was beyond her. Donovan nodded and turned to Susan. “The first one he just killed, right? The victim probably didn’t feel anything. The second one was a heart attack, which has to suck. Then drowning beneath a layer of ice. Then the bends, which is horrible. And this last guy was burned alive. Each one gets worse, like he hates each one more than the last.”

  “Well, but—” said Susan. “Maybe he’s a psychopath, and as he goes, he wants to hurt his victims more and more.”

  “That’s silly,” said Marci. “He can’t just choose anything he wants. He has to pick from the things that were in the cache. So he has to pick what order to do them in.”

  “Jesus,” said Susan. “You’re right.” She turned to Donovan. “You knew that, too?”

  “Yeah,” said Donovan. “Sorry. I should have made it clear earlier.”

  Susan drew her brows together, then raised her head and said, “It makes too much sense. You’re right.”

  “So, okay,” said Marci. “We have a face, and we have motive. We have connections among his victims. You’d think we’d be able to move forward from there.”

  “We also,” said Donovan, “have a vague notion of how it all c
onnects to the Mystici. They sell their services.”

  Susan frowned. “Did we already know that?”

  “Not exactly. We knew that some of their agents might sell their skills on the side, like Blum did. But what Young was doing went beyond that. It’s, like, official policy. From what I can put together, the Mystici find civilians who can use magic, and can afford magic, and they supply it. They avoid anything that might make waves, but that still leaves a lot open. Some of the money goes to the guy who casts it, some to the Mystici. I don’t know how they divide it, but that’s how Young got so rich. Defensive spells—like, a permanent bulletproof vest, or protection against maybe dying in a car crash or whatever—are going to be the perfect thing.”

  “Well,” said Susan, “that’s good. Rich people don’t have enough advantages; nice to know they have access to magic, too.”

  “Whatever,” said Donovan. “That explains where the Mystici get their money, and where Young got his, and why our shooter wanted Young dead—Young was protecting someone our shooter wants to go after. It means we could be looking for a guy who is, basically, a decent person, who’s been badly fucked over by someone protected by the Mystici. Doesn’t that fit?”

  “It fits,” said Susan. “But you’re making a lot of assumptions.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, what makes you think our shooter is ‘a decent person,’ whatever that means?”

  “Oh,” said Donovan. “Right. Name all the victims who were killed at home.”

  “Um,” said Susan. “Just one, the State Senator.”

  “Right. Now name all the victims who didn’t have family.”

  “Oh. Yeah.”

  “Yeah. He’s making sure that we don’t have a kid coming along and finding Daddy’s body.”

  “Well, damn,” said Susan. “That might not help, but it gives me some idea of what ‘a decent person’ means, so thanks for that.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “But I still think it’s a stretch to go from the killer having some basic human decency to concluding that therefore the ultimate victim doesn’t.”

  “Then instead of a conclusion, let’s call it a hypothesis.”

  “Sure,” said Susan. “But how does that help us? I mean, if we’re going to comb the world for assholes who have hurt non-assholes we’re not going to get to a number we can examine in our lifetimes.”