Текст книги "Evil Dark"

Автор книги: Justin Gustainis

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

  "Doesn't sound like an easy talk to have."

  "It wasn't. Karl reminded me that he's a vampire because of me, just like you are. I asked if he'd prefer that I let him die, back there at the pump house."

  "And what did he say?"

  "He said he didn't know, since he's never been dead."

  "'Course he has," she said. "So have I – twelve hours every day, or however long the sun's up. It's boring, frankly. When Chandler called it 'the big sleep', he wasn't kidding."

  "What about the afterlife? For the truly dead, I mean. Heaven, and all that."

  "Far as I'm concerned, that's still an open question. Nobody's offered an answer that makes sense to me, so I'm not willing to take my chances just yet, if I don't have to." She pushed her chair back. "I need to jump into the shower and get dressed."

  She took a few steps toward the doorway, then stopped and turned back to me. "I know this would sound really weird out of context, but – thanks for making me a vampire, Daddy." She gave me a big grin, fangs and all. "And remember to get two sets of keys for those new locks."

  "Already ordered," I said. Then she was gone.

  Christine usually leaves for work about an hour before I do. After we said goodbye, I toasted an oversize English muffin and ate it with peanut butter, shaved, took a shower, and cleaned Quincey's cage. I swear, that hamster seems to shit more than he eats.

  As I pulled the front door shut behind me and felt the lock click into place, I was thinking about Karl and his onetime lust object, the detective in Chicago who might be able to give us a lead on Mr Milo's killer. Fortunately, I wasn't giving it all of my attention, or I'd be dead now.

  Standing in the driveway, I pushed the button on my keychain that opens the garage door. Then my brain got around to processing a sound I'd heard a second or two earlier – something that sounded like a quickly stifled screech, and it had come from inside the garage. And there was an odor, as if somebody had left the lid off a garbage can – but trash pickup had been yesterday.

  I backed up fast, drawing the Beretta as I moved.

  Once the door had risen five or six feet, the goblins came pouring out, screeching like a platoon of scalded cats. Light from a nearby street lamp glittered on the blades of the long knives they held.

  The only thing that'll kill goblins for certain is cold iron, and that fact put me in a good news/bad news situation.

  Good news: I had cold-iron tipped slugs in the Beretta.

  Bad news: I only had four of them. The clip holds eight rounds, but I usually carry half cold iron and half silver, alternating them when I load the clip. I never know what I'm going to have to deal with, and cold iron's no good against vamps or weres. I carry a round under the hammer, but that's silver, too – I have more confrontations with the undead and shifters than with goblins and other fey, so my ammo load reflects that.

  Worse news: I had more goblins than bullets. As I backed down the driveway, the fucking gobs kept coming out of the garage, like clowns from a circus car. I counted six of them. They were all making that screeching noise they do in battle, which sounds like claws on a blackboard. It would have really annoyed me if I wasn't busy being scared shitless.

  Thank God, or whoever's in charge, that Christine usually parks in the driveway. I don't know how well a vampire would have done against six goblins, but I'm glad Christine didn't have to find out. Whatever happened to me, she was out of danger – I hoped.

  Despite my hasty retreat, the goblins were getting close now. I double-tapped the nearest, putting two rounds into his furry green chest. One was silver, which had no effect, but the cold iron slug did the job just fine. The goblin clutched at himself, screeching even louder for a second before he fell on the asphalt and was immediately trampled by his buddies, who just kept coming.

  I dropped the second goblin the same way. That left me with two rounds of cold iron, and four goblins who wanted to kill me.

  I pointed the Beretta at them two-handed and yelled, "Police officer! Freeze!" in my most authoritative-sounding voice. If I could get them to hesitate, I'd have the chance to make a break for the street. The gobs might not want to follow and kill me in front of witnesses. I was sure the neighbors had heard the shots. They might've called for help by now, but whether they dialed 911 or 666, nobody was going to get here in time to do me any good.

  My Dirty Harry act was a flop. The goblins didn't even break stride. The light was better here and now I could see that their eyes, usually hooded and barely visible, were wide open and crazed. Meth? Again? A meth-addicted goblin had killed my partner eighteen months ago, but things had been quiet on that scene since, and I'd figured that the problem had burned itself out. Looks like I was wrong – maybe dead wrong.

  Another goblin was closing, eager to stick that long blade in my guts. I fired twice and put him down. Another one was right behind him, so I fired my last three rounds, knowing one of them would be the cold iron that would ruin this greenie's night. It did. But now the Beretta's slide had locked open, meaning that I was out of ammo, and almost out of hope. I had a spare clip in my pocket, but I'd never be able to reload before the little green bastards were on top of me.

  Two goblins left. Two knives. And me with no cold iron at all – except…

  I snaked my left hand back near my hip and grabbed the handcuffs off my belt. I wasn't hoping to restrain the two goblins, but the cuffs are made of an alloy that contains silver – and cold iron.

  I wrapped three fingers around one of the cuffs and swung the other one like a flail. I caught one of the goblins full in the face and he yelped and jumped back. It wasn't pure cold iron, but the blow had both hurt and surprised him.

  The other one hesitated, and I thought for a second they might back off and give me room to run, but then the first goblin gave his misshapen head a quick shake and came in again. After a moment, his buddy joined him. I swung the cuffs again, but this time he ducked and the other one came in under my raised arm. I stiff-armed him back, but that was only going to work once – even goblins aren't that dumb. They separated a little now, muttering in their incomprehensible language, and I tried to console myself with the thought that Karl would track down these little bastards, and whoever had sent them, and then God help the whole fucking bunch. I figured that thought was going to be one of my last when a deep voice behind me said calmly, "Drop flat."

  I didn't hesitate. A half second later I was on the ground, trying to turn my head around and see what was happening. I heard a loud thump and looked up in time to see the nearest goblin's face explode in a bloody mass of fur and bone. The last one stopped, looked at the remains of his pal, then screeched and threw himself at whoever was behind me. He got maybe half a step before another shotgun blast practically cut him in half.

  I rolled over on my back to get a look at whoever had just saved my ass. He'd only said two words, but that was enough for me to know that the voice wasn't Karl's.

  The first thing I saw was the weapon – a cut-down shotgun with smoke drifting from the end of a foot-long tube attached to the barrel. I'd heard they made silencers for shotguns, but never saw one in use until now. Very handy, if you were looking to kill somebody with certainty and not make a lot of noise about it.

  I tried to focus on the man who was now lowering the weapon. He wore a long black leather coat that hung open to reveal the bandolier of shells across his chest, a widebrimmed hat keeping his face in shadow, and Oakley sunglasses, even after dark. On a lot of people that getup would look silly, but on this man it seemed exactly right. Of course, I'd seen him once before – even though, until recently, I'd thought he was dead.

  "Sharkey." It wasn't a question – I knew who he was.

  He looked down at me and a smile split his thin face for an instant. He touched the brim of his hat, said, "Evening, Sergeant," in that Darth Vader voice, then stepped back into the gloom at the end of the driveway.

  I scrambled to my feet and went after him. I couldn't tell you what I wanted – to say "Thank you," or ask him why he'd saved me, or even arrest him. That last choice was the least likely. Even if I'd had a loaded gun, I'd have hesitated before trying to arrest Sharkey all by myself.

  It didn't matter, anyway. By the time I got to the street it was empty. A couple of my neighbors were out on their porches, but I didn't yell over to ask if they'd seen the man in the hat and leather coat. Most people only saw Sharkey when it was too late.

  Sirens off in the distance now, wailing like the souls of the damned.

I spent the next hour at my house, answering questions from fellow detectives and giving statements. Then they let me go to work, where I spent three straight hours with Internal Affairs. But it didn't go too bad, for Internal Affairs. They had a couple of new guys, Boothe and Durkin, doing the Q-andA, and I guess they hadn't yet been through the "Advanced Asshole" course that seems mandatory for everybody on the Rat Squad, because it wasn't nearly as unpleasant as such sessions have been in the past.

  It also helped that all the ones I shot were goblins. If I'd iced four humans – with two more courtesy of Sharkey – I'd have been with IA all night and into the next day. But nobody cares too much about a bunch of dead goblins. Maybe they should.

  After that it was McGuire's office, where at least I was offered a decent cup of coffee. The lieutenant considers himself a coffee gourmet. He's got a Braun coffee maker in his office, and a can of Maxwell House has never been anywhere near it. He orders these Jamaican Blue Mountain beans from someplace, grinds them at home as needed, and brings the result into work in sealed sandwich bags. He doesn't share it very often, and I don't blame him – that stuff is too good for the common people.

  Karl and I sat there with McGuire and the three of us tried to answer the latest Whiskey Tango Foxtrot question – why would a bunch of goblins want to kill me, and why did Sharkey, of all people, stop them?

  We were getting exactly nowhere when McGuire's desk phone buzzed. I knew he'd told Louise no calls, but she let this one through. A minute later, I knew why.

  McGuire mostly listened, saying "Uh-huh" a couple of times. Then he said, "Thanks, Homer, I appreciate it," and hung up.

  He looked at me. "I called in a favor Homer owed me and got him to rush a tox screen on one of the goblins – I told him any one of them would do. Looks like you were on the money, Stan. That little green bastard was wired up to his furry eyebrows. I'd be surprised if the others weren't exactly the same."

  "Meth," Karl said. "Jesus H. Christ on a pogo stick."

  "I thought after Big Paul got killed" – that was mostly my fault, but I decided not to bring it up – "the State Police raided the goblins' little encampment out there by the city dump."

  McGuire nodded. "They did."

  "They were supposed to confiscate all that dumped cold medicine the gobs were using to cook with."

  "They did that, too," McGuire said. "And the DA told the Loquasto brothers – the city subcontracts dump operations to them – that they'd face criminal prosecution if cold medicine in any quantity was ever found there again. Dom and Louie believed him – they've got people checking every truck that goes in there now."

  "So, if there's no more cold medicine at the dump," I said, "how come a bunch of meth-head goblins were after my scalp tonight?"

  "Other people are still making meth," Karl said. "Here in the Valley and elsewhere. They must be – the profit on that stuff is huge."

  I looked at Karl, then turned to McGuire. "So, if the gobs didn't make it themselves, where'd they buy it?"

  It was quiet in the little office until McGuire said, "I figure they got it from whoever sent them to kill you."

  "Sent them?" I said, frowning. "I was assuming they just wanted payback for the goblin I killed in the liquor store."

  "That was a year and a half ago, Stan," McGuire said.

  "The boss is right, Stan," Karl said. "For gobs to hold a grudge that long would be like a squirrel remembering that you gave him some peanuts last fall. They're not real smart, haina?"

  "And here's something else to ponder," McGuire said. "How did those goblins get to your house from where they live, out near the dump? That's what – three miles?"

  I shrugged. "Some of them drive, even if they don't have licenses."

  "Yeah," McGuire said, "but what were they driving? I got the deputy chief to assign me some manpower, and they used a goblin-sniffing dog to check every parked vehicle for a radius of three blocks from your place. Not a whiff."

  I sat and thought about that. "So somebody got these little green fuckers wired on meth, drove them to my place, let them in through the side door of the garage, and told them to wait until I raised the door. Then he just drove away?"

  "Could be," McGuire said. "He might've just abandoned them, figuring that no survivors would be able to tell us anything useful, what with the meth and their natural stupidity."

  "Or maybe he was parked someplace where he could see your driveway," Karl said. "When you and Sharkey smoked all six of the gobs, he figured there was no reason to hang around any longer, and split."

  "Speaking of Sharkey," McGuire said, "that's something else that puzzles me – why did he intervene? I'm glad he did, mind you, but I can't figure his motivation."

  "Yeah, me neither," Karl said.

  "You two aren't exactly best buddies," McGuire said to me, "and Sharkey isn't known for his compassion. He doesn't just help people for giggles."

  "I've been thinking about that," I said. "You're right about the Shark – he doesn't do anything on impulse. The only explanation that makes any sense to me is – Mister Milo."

  "You mean the vic from the Radisson?" McGuire said. "I don't get it."

  "Milo was sent out here to take care of whoever's been making those snuff films, right?" I said. "When he and his ghouls didn't turn up anything, maybe he figured Karl and me were his best bet for finding the bad guys. So he hired Sharkey to follow us around until we identified the source, then the Shark could step in and do what he does best. Milo must have told him to make sure nothing happened to us in the meantime."

  "Yeah, but Milo's dead," McGuire said.

  "Doesn't matter," I told him. "Sharkey always gets paid up front, and he's got a strange sense of… professional ethics – strange, considering what he is, I mean. If he takes your money, he does the job. Period. He doesn't stop until the contract is fulfilled."

  "Sounds like you know this dude pretty well, Stan," Karl said.

  "Better than I ever wanted to."

  Karl looked like he was waiting for me to say more, but when I kept quiet, he didn't push.

  "All right, so maybe we know why Sharkey's acting like your guardian angel," McGuire said. "But what we still don't know is who he's guarding you from."

  "I'd say it's gotta be related to one of the cases we're working, but so far we haven't got shit on any of them. Suspicions and theories – that's it."

  "If somebody's trying to take you out, maybe that's a validation of your suspicions and theories," McGuire said.

  "Could be," I said. "And that reminds me – in all the excitement I didn't get around to telling you my latest theory – and it's a doozie."

  McGuire sat back. "I'm all ears."

  I told him my idea that the snuff films and murders of supes – and maybe a human, too – were all being carried out by the same people.

  When I'd finished, McGuire didn't say anything. He checked his coffee mug, dumped a mouthful of cold coffee into the wastebasket and poured himself a fresh cup.

  "It's a reach, Stan," he said at last. "Especially the part about the snuff films being part of this big Helter Skelter conspiracy. I don't see how they can get the public all upset if the torture murders are all underground – and that's exactly where they are."

  "They have to be sold on the sly," I said. "It's like kiddie porn – just possessing that stuff means you're going to jail, let alone selling it."

  "My point exactly," McGuire said.

  "Yeah, maybe you're right," I said. "Could be that whoever killed Milo just hates ghouls for some reason, and that's why he gave them special attention. Although I figure all the mutilation was post-mortem, which means it wasn't torture."

  "Post-mortem?" McGuire said. "How do you know that? The ME's report hasn't come out yet."

  "They weren't restrained," I said. "Nobody who's still alive is going to just lie still while you disembowel him, let alone cut his dick off."

  McGuire thought about that for a second. "Could be that your perp is extremely strong. Or maybe he had help, to hold the vics down while he cut on them."

  "There's something else to consider, too," I said. "Blood splatter."

  McGuire frowned at me. "What about it?"

  "There wasn't any," I said. "Or none to speak of, anyway. You cut somebody like that while his heart's still beating, blood's gonna spray all over the place. It'd be on everything. Plus, the vic is sure to struggle, which would increase the mess." I spread my hands. "I saw the room, boss. No mess."

  "Sounds like you've proved your new theory," McGuire said. "But that doesn't make the big conspiracy true. You can't horrify people with this stuff if they don't know about it."

  "They'd know about it if they read it in the fuckin' papers," Karl said. We both stared at him.

  "Papers?" I said. "What fucking papers?"

  "Remember, Stan? I told you the other night. I got a call from this dude at the Times-Tribune, asking if I knew anything about snuff films."

  "You didn't say anything to me about this," McGuire said.

  "I didn't figure there was anything to say, boss. I told him snuff films were a myth, and not to bother me with that bullshit again." Karl shrugged. "End of story. Or that's what I thought at the time."

  "What was his name again?" I asked. "The reporter."

  "Mitchell Hansen," Karl said.

  "That's right, I remember now," I said. "He left a message with Louise last week for me to call him – I just tossed it. Haven't heard from him since."

  "Well, now." McGuire took a sip of coffee and put the cup down carefully. "I got a call the other night from a so-called journalist, asking me to comment about snuff films. I told him my comment was to stop wasting my time with fairy tales." He looked at Karl, then at me. "He said his name was Tod Solin, and that he worked for the People's Voice."

We left McGuire's office more puzzled than when we had gone in – and that was saying something. If the local media had the snuff film story, how much did they have? Who had leaked it to them? And even if they figured out what was going on, how could they turn it into a news story without grossing out all their readers? Maybe that was the whole point of this – to make people sick to their stomachs and eager for payback against somebody, anybody.

  As we reached our desks, I asked Karl, "Did you talk to that detective in Chicago about those knife wounds?"

  "I haven't had the chance to track her down yet, but I'll do it now – as long as McGuire doesn't send us on another call."

  "Didn't get the chance? Our shift's half over – what've you been doing all this time?"

  "Well, uh…" If vampires could blush, I'm pretty sure Karl would have been.

  "Karl – come on, this is me, remember? I don't give a shit if you were buggering a goat on the front steps of City Hall."

  Karl shook his head. "That's not fair, Stan – it wasn't a goat, and, besides, we're just good friends. Anyway, those weren't the front steps. There's two side entrances, you know."

  "You crack me up, Karl. Now cut the crap. What have you been up to?"

  He wouldn't look at me. "Watching your house."

  "Watching my – what the fuck for?"

  "To make sure nobody came back and set any more traps for you while you weren't home. I figured one attempt on your life is enough for one night, even for a tough bastard like you."

  "But how did you–"

  "I was here when the OIT call came in. And once I found out the officer in trouble was you, I figured I'd better get over to your place, pronto."

  "McGuire OKed that?"

  "I didn't bother to ask."

  "Jesus, Karl, you took–"

  "Just let me finish, all right? When I got there, a couple of black-and-whites had already arrived. I could see that you were OK, and that a bunch of goblins weren't. I didn't figure you noticed me."

  "No, I didn't."

  "So, after a while," Karl said, "they take you away in a black-and-white, and Forensics does their thing, than a couple of ambulances cart off the dead goblins, then – nothing."

  "What do you mean, 'nothing'?"

  "I mean no cops stayed around to secure your house. Whoever sent those gobs could've come back and planted a fucking cobra under your welcome mat, and the first thing the department would know about it would be when somebody found your body. So I stayed in the yard and watched. Nothing happened, by the way."

  "Shit, man, I–"

  "I'm not done," Karl said. "McGuire finally got hold of the patrol commander, who agreed to send a couple of guys over to your place. When they got there, McGuire called me on my cell and said to get my ass back here. So here I am – with my ass intact, in case you didn't notice. Doesn't look like McGuire's too pissed at me, either. Maybe because he'd have done the same thing, if he'd thought of it."

  "Can I talk now?" I asked.

  "OK, as long as you don't make any fucking speeches."

  "No speeches. Just – thank you."

  He looked at me for a few seconds. "You're welcome."

  "So, are you gonna try to find that Chicago chick now?"

  "I'm on the case, Ace."

  "Somebody told me that Rachel Proctor is back from her conference. I'm gonna pay her a visit."

  "Maybe by the time you get back, I'll have some news from Chi-town."

  "Here's hoping."

  The office assigned to the department's Consulting Witch was on the floor below us. I took the stairs instead of the elevator. I'd been doing a lot of sitting tonight, with one thing and another. Of course, after those goblins had tried to kill me, sitting down had seemed like a real good idea.

  Rachel tends to work nights, for the same reason I do. Her door was open, but I knocked on the glass before walking in.

  Rachel's not a very big woman – five foot even and probably 105 soaking wet. Not that I've ever seen her soaking wet – I think she likes me, but not that way. She was wearing her thick auburn hair swept back in a ponytail, and she wore reading glasses that made her look like a schoolteacher – but the kind of schoolteacher who could turn you into a toad instead of giving you detention, if provoked.

  At my knock, she looked up from the thick old book she was reading and smiled. The smile seemed genuine – proof of her good nature, considering the kind of trouble I'd got her in some time back.

  "Hello, Stan," she said, pushing back her chair and standing.

  "Hey, Rachel. Welcome back from, uh…"

  "San Diego. The weather was beautiful." She looked at me more closely. "What's the matter, Stan? What happened?"

  "What makes you think anything special happened? I'm a cop – stuff happens around me all the time."

  "No, this is personal to you. Your aura's usually a strong turquoise, but there's some gray in it tonight. It's pulsing, which means a reaction to something recent."

  She sat down again. "I'm not trying to pry. If it's something you'd rather not talk about, that's up to you. But you can't hide your emotional state from me."

  Auras. Jeez. I sat down in one of her visitor's chairs. "I had a little trouble earlier tonight, is all. Some goblins tried to kill me."

  "My goddess, Stan! Are you all right? Physically, I mean."

  "They never laid a glove on me – or a knife, which is what they had in mind."

  Her brow furrowed. "Goblins aren't usually aggressive, unless attacked. I assume you weren't the one doing the attacking."

  "Not six of them, I wasn't. But you'd be surprised how aggressive goblins can get when they're pumped full of meth."

  "Meth." She tilted her chair back and studied me. "There was a problem with some meth-addicted goblins a couple of years ago, wasn't there? You asked me for a potion that would make them compliant."

  "Yup. Worked like a charm, too, if you'll pardon the expression."

  She looked at me some more. "That was the night Paul DiNapoli died."

  "Uh-huh."

  "You're still blaming yourself for that, aren't you?"

  "Who says I'm blaming myself?" I said that maybe a little louder than I'd intended.

  "You did. Just now. But it was already apparent."

  "Rachel, no offense, OK? But I didn't come here for psychotherapy, or whatever witches call it."

  She nodded calmly. "All right, Stan."

  "I'm actually here to warn you."

  "Warn me? About what?"

  "Somebody in the area has been abducting and burning witches," I said.

  "Yes, I know. The first one happened before I left. I read about the other one while I was away."

  "You checked out the Time-Tribune's online edition?"

  "No, the news was posted to a discussion board that I follow," she said.

  "Witches have discussion boards?"

  "Why not? Everyone else seems to. Sometimes technology is better than magic. But only sometimes."

  "Did you… know either of the victims?"

  A deep sigh escaped her. "Not personally, although I'm friends with the sister of one." She moved a small paperweight from one part of her desk to another. "And here we thought the burning times were over."

  "This isn't the state doing it this, time, Rachel. Or the Catholic Church. It's some lunatic, or a group of them."

  "I doubt that made the flames any less painful for the victims, but I take your point. If you don't mind me asking about police business – are you close to catching whoever's responsible?"

  "It's not that I mind telling you," I said. "But the answer is kind of complicated, and I've got to get back upstairs. The short answer is, we don't know who's been doing the actual murders, but we may be getting a handle on why it was done. And knowing why brings us one step closer to who."

  "I understand – I think. And I appreciate your candor."

  "So, if you already heard about the burnings, you know enough to take precautions until we nail these bastards."

  "Yes, I've got a spell prepared to defend myself. I can invoke it instantly by using a single word of power."

  "If you have to use it," I said, "try not to kill the perp. I need him alive and talking."

  "I can't kill anyone, Stan. White magic, remember?"

  "Just checking." I stood up. "Well, thanks for your time. Good to see you again."

  "Stan, before you go…"

  "What?"

  "Come here a second, will you?"

  "Mrs Robinson, are you trying to seduce me?"

  "You should live so long." When I stood in front of her desk she said, "Let me see your right hand."

  I held it out to her, saying, "You haven't added palmistry to your talents, have you?"

  "That stuff's bunk. Turn your hand over."

  She gently held my hand with her left, and with her right index finger she began to trace some kind of pattern on my palm.

  "That kinda tickles," I said.

  "Sssh." She bent over my palm and said a few words in a language I didn't recognize. Then she looked up at me. "Stan, do you remember that night in the liquor store? The night Paul died?"

  "Damn right I do." My throat felt tight as I spoke.

  "Good." She said a few more words in that unfamiliar language. "Now close your hand and squeeze it. Tightly! Tight as you can!"

  I did what she asked, feeling foolish.

  And then something loosened deep in my chest, like untying a knot I never knew I had in there. I felt like I could take a full breath for the first time in – well, in a year and a half.

  Rachel let go of my hand and sat back. "Thanks for indulging me, Stan."

  I stared at her. "What did you just do?"

  She gave me an enigmatic smile. "Nothing of consequence. Just helped you relax a little, that's all."

  I looked at her a little longer. The smile remained in place. "There's something I've been meaning to ask you, Rachel."

  "What's that?"

  "Why do you wear glasses for reading? Can't you magic up some twenty-twenty vision for yourself?"

  "Don't I wish," she said. "No – unlike the black variety, white magic cannot be used for the benefit of the practitioner – at least, not directly. It only allows us to serve others."

  "Oh. I was wondering. Well, I've gotta get going."

  She nodded. "Of course. Say hi to Karl for me."

  "Yeah, I will." I walked to the door, then stopped and turned around.

  "Rachel?"

  She gave me raised eyebrows. "Yes?"

  I wanted to say something about what she'd just done, but no words came out. After a moment I just said, "Goodnight, now."

  "Goodnight, Stan."

When I got back upstairs, Karl was talking to his computer – or that's what it looked like. I sat down at my desk and looked over at him.

  "So now they're all standing there," he said to his monitor. "Mom, Dad, the three kids, Grandma, the family dog, and a parakeet. They're all naked, dripping sweat and God knows what else. So the talent agent, who's looking a little stunned, says, 'That's quite an act you've got there. What do you folks call yourselves?' And Dad steps forward and says–"

  I figured it was time to clear my throat, so I did. Karl looked up, and I said, "What's going on?"

  "Oh, Stan, you're back – good. Hey, we're in luck. That lady I was telling you about? Not only does she still work for Chicago PD's Spook Squad, I caught her at her desk. Come on around – bring your chair."

  I rolled my desk chair around to where Karl was sitting. As I'd figured, he was using the Sky-Cape media spell that allows people to talk to each other face-to-face online.