Against a Brightening Sky (32 page)

Alina turned around, blinking too fast and flushed, Sam's photo album hugged to her chest. She was always at loose ends without Sam, but the truth was that she had little to occupy her time. “Do you need anything from me, Dora? I could fetch more tea if you like.”

“Thank you, dear heart, but we have plenty of tea.” Dora smiled fondly, her voice full of affection. “If you're hungry, the cook will gladly fix you something.”

Isadora was always tender with Alina, gentle in a way I'd not seen from her with anyone except Stella. I often wondered if she thought of Alina as the daughter she'd never had, or if she felt responsible for easing the way for a friend's child. Either way, it was a side of Dora I'd rarely seen.

Alina stared at the pile of books on the worktable, as if noticing them for the first time. She moved closer to stand next to Dora's chair. “I've seen books like these before. They're very old, aren't they?”

Dora's smile stayed firmly in place, but all her attention shifted to Alina. She leaned forward ever so slightly, her posture wary. “Yes, very old, and very rare. There aren't many like them left in the world. Do you remember where it was you saw them?”

The three princesses popped into view, their images floating on the tea in my cup. I ignored the ghosts as best I could, but I couldn't ignore the watcher filling my head. Whether the dragon meant to help Alina remember or keep her memories locked away, I couldn't say. But I'd never understood this creature's motives.

“I remember a room full of sunlight. One entire wall was full of windows, and all the drapes were pulled back. It was wintertime, but the room wasn't cold. I wanted to play in the snow.” She reached out a hand and brushed fingers across the creased blue leather of the top book, jerking her hand back abruptly. “The books were strewn across a white marble tabletop. A man was reading from one much like this. That's all I remember.”

Dora and the watcher sighed at precisely the same instant. I knew Isadora was disappointed Alina's memories were still fragmented images and nothing more.

As the dragon's eyes closed, I wouldn't wager against her being relieved.

Alina drew herself up straight and squared her shoulders, attempting to hide just how unsettled these moments left her. “I'll go to my room and leave you and Delia to your work. Maybe I can finish reading the book Sam left yesterday before he comes back for supper.”

Dora stood and gave Alina a quick hug before stepping back and peering at her anxiously. “I don't want you to feel that you must go away. You're welcome to stay if you like.”

“I know I could stay, but I want to finish the book. Then I can talk to Sam about it.” She opened the photo album, leafing through the book until she came to a picture of a barefoot Sam dressed in overalls. The photo appeared to have been taken by a traveling photographer. Sam was posed stiffly in front of a small farmhouse with a couple that must be his parents, a pair of lop-eared dogs on either side of him. He couldn't have been more than ten or eleven, but he was almost as tall as the man I assumed to be his father.

Alina pointed at the photo. “The boy in the book, Tom, must have looked just like this. Sam promised he'd explain anything about the story that I didn't understand.”

Dora's eyes sparkled with amusement and she laughed. “He has you reading
Tom Sawyer
? Yes, go finish the book. Listening to him explain over supper should be quite entertaining.”

Alina hurried away and Dora took her seat again, all traces of gaiety gone. She lit a cigarette, her expression pensive and brooding.

“Out with it, Dora.” I leaned forward, hands folded on the table. “What's wrong?”

She made a helpless sort of gesture, something very out of character for Isadora Bobet. “I worry about her. She starts to remember, to put together pieces and odd bits, and something shuts them off. What bothers me most is that I'm not sure if this is coming from her enemies or from this so-called guardian of hers. Regardless of where it's coming from, I worry about the damage it's causing.”

I sat back again, staring at my cold tea and the three princess ghosts. “I'd think not remembering her life would be more damaging.”

“Normally I'd agree, but I see what this is doing to her. And I can't help but think that part of this is my fault.” Dora took a long drag on her cigarette, blowing clouds of blue smoke toward the ceiling. “Before I began pushing her to remember, Alina didn't know what she'd lost. Now every instant of the past she remembers makes her hungry for more. That's taking a toll, and I can't help feeling guilty. I started her down this path.”

“But what happens when she does remember? None of us can protect her from the pain once she discovers her family is dead.”

“She already knows, Dee.” Dora scowled, her mood grim. “Alina may not remember the details of how they died or why they were killed, but she knows her family is gone. I can see it in her face.”

We left it there and went back to searching ancient texts for ways to stop this necromancer. Both of us knew we were running out of time. Neither of us could predict what would happen when the clock ran out.

Late that afternoon, we'd exhausted the resources to hand. Dora had set aside two slim volumes to study further, copies of personal narratives dating from the 1700s, and had started back through the first one. She left off staring at the crabbed handwriting filling a page and frowned. “These records cover more than five hundred years. Somehow it doesn't seem right that we can find only two small references to necromancers. I need a drink. Can I get you anything, Dee?”

“A glass of sherry would be nice.” I'd put the saucer on top of my teacup and turned my back to the glass on the bookcase. Each time I'd glanced up, three young ghostly faces had greeted me, hopeful that I'd found the solution at last. I found it both distracting and very sad. “I've had quite enough tea for the time being.”

Dora went to the black lacquer cabinet in the corner, pouring whiskey for herself and an inch of sherry for me. She set my glass in front of me and went back to her chair. “Let me know what you think of the sherry, it's not what I normally buy. My usual liquor merchant has closed up shop and gone into another business. He didn't want to be caught short when the temperance law takes effect in January. I had to make do with what the new man had.”

“It might be a little sweeter, but it's very good.” I set the glass aside, resolved to make it last. The occasional glass of sherry with Dora was a treat, one I'd miss when all the shops stopped selling liquor. “Is there anything we can use in those references?”

“As a weapon?” Dora cradled her whiskey glass in both hands. “I'm afraid not. Both of them speak of how a necromancer accumulates power and what uses they can put that power to. Most of what's recorded are things we already knew about illusion and making ghosts for his own purposes. Displays and manipulations such as the one he put on at the parade take a great deal of hoarded power. I imagine all the energy he'd accumulated from the killings in New York and Chicago were held in reserve for when he found Alina.”

“So we were wrong about that. He does kill for power.” I took another sip of sherry, thinking. “Changing his face to resemble someone else must tax his reserves as well. Does the book say anything about that?”

“Nothing clear cut, but what I found matches Jordan's story.” She leafed through the pages, coming back to a marked page. “There was a report from Finland late in the 1600s of a necromancer who evaded capture by wearing the faces of his victims. Church authorities searched for more than a year before finding him. That echoes Jordan's experience neatly. It's implied that for this kind of illusion to work, the person being mimicked must be dead. We can't take all the details of these accounts as being absolute truth, especially when they've been handed down from the seventeenth-century Church.”

“But we should be prepared for this killer to look like anyone, including Gabe and Randy. That coupled with not knowing whether he can mimic only the dead introduces a great deal of uncertainty.” I drained the last of my sherry, understanding fully what drove Dora to drink. Dulling the growing panic inside, even for a moment or two, had a definite appeal. “I may or may not be able to see through his illusions, or judge a real person from a doppelgänger. What if I'm wrong?”

She reached for my hands, holding them tight. I couldn't doubt the sincerity in her eyes. “You'll know, Dee, I have absolute faith in that. That may be a purpose for these dreams we hadn't considered, to teach you how to spot the difference between real and illusion.”

The dragon's eyes filled my head, radiating approval and confidence that I was up to the task. Panic faded under her regard. I wasn't the only one standing between this man and Alina, nor the only one with the ability to know true from false. The watcher, the sister ghosts, and even my tiny warrior cat all saw through illusion to the man beneath.

Time was short, the dreams meant to teach me so many things drawing to a close. I'd have to be ready.

I didn't have a choice.

 

CHAPTER 16

Gabe

Gabe and Jack were just finishing lunch when Sam and Jordan Lynch arrived.

“You're just in time, Butler.” Jack scraped the last bits of pie off his plate and licked them off his fork. “Another few minutes, and all the pie would be gone. You know how Gabe is. He has no control when apple pie is around.”

“Keep slandering my name, Jack, and you'll be buying your own lunch.” He took two wrapped plates, each holding a big piece of pie, off the top of the file cabinet and offered them to Sam and Jordan. “Everything quiet at Dora's?”

Sam spoke around a mouthful of apple pie. “I caused a bit of a stir bringing Jordan unannounced, but we sorted things out. Not a hint of trouble otherwise.”

“Good. Let's hope it stays that way.” Gabe gathered up discarded sandwich wrappings and tossed them in the wastebasket. He glanced at Jordan while stacking dirty plates and forks in the box lunch had come in. Dropping the dishes off at the café on his way out would take only a minute. “How did you and Dora get along?”

“We got on fine. I spent the morning working with Dora and your missus. They helped me figure out how this killer got away from me in Chicago. I'd never have understood without them.” Jordan set his pie aside and offered Gabe his hand. “I owe you an apology, Gabe, and I hope you'll accept it. Turns out, I'm not near so smart as I should be. This is your case. I never should have questioned how you were working it.”

“No harm done.” He smiled and shook Jordan's hand, knowing full well that the older cop would take offense if he didn't. The last thing he wanted to do was offend Jordan Lynch. “What Delia and Dora do takes some getting used to. You're not the first to question them working with me and Jack.”

Lon Rockwell knocked and pushed open the office door at almost the same instant. At times Gabe was tempted to think that some of the younger cops had adopted the worst of Jack's bad habits, but he'd never make that statement about Sergeant Rockwell. Something had happened.

The expression on Lon's face was all the confirmation he needed. Gabe stepped away from his desk and into the middle of the room. “What is it, Sergeant?”

Lon saw Jordan and hesitated, looking for Gabe's slight nod before continuing. “I'm sorry to interrupt your lunch, Captain. A report just came in that a body was found by a street sweeper in the Dogpatch neighborhood. The patrolman on the scene identified the man as Supervisor Devin.”

His heart caught between beats and moved on. Gabe didn't dare look at Jack; his calm façade would shatter if he did. “Has the coroner arrived on the scene yet?”

“No, sir. Not when I talked with Officer Dodson.”

Gabe did glance at Jack now, seeing the same speculation on his partner's face that ran through his own head. This soon after Eve Rigaux's murder, finding Devin dead wasn't a coincidence.

His gun was locked in the top drawer, but he'd gotten in the habit of wearing his holster in the office. What that said about the changes in his job didn't bear thinking about. Gabe unlocked the drawer and slipped the gun into the holster, settling the weight against his side. “Send three cars to back up Officer Dodson, Lon. If any of the men on patrol are armed, they have priority for going to the scene. Make sure Baker and his camera go out there too. Have a car pull up out front and wait for me. I won't be long.”

“Yes, sir.” Lon hesitated with his hand on the doorknob. “Should I issue a sidearm to your driver? I don't think Walken carries one of his own.”

A part of him flinched, haunted by visions of the dead rookies at the Saint Patrick's Day parade. Gabe gave the order anyway. “Make sure he knows how to use a gun first. I'll be out in a few minutes.”

Jordan added his plate and fork to the pasteboard box of dirty dishes. “Dogpatch is a strange name for a neighborhood. What is this place?”

“A long time ago, there were slaughterhouses on the nearby creek. Story was that packs of dogs used to live there and scavenge scraps from the refuse piles. People started calling it Dogpatch, and the name stuck.” Gabe rummaged through the piles on his desk, looking for the key to his desk drawer. He found it dangling from the bottom drawer lock. “There's a mix of factories and boardinghouses there now. More than half the people living there are Irish immigrants, but the rest are Russians, Slavs, and Italians. It's a lot like the neighborhood most of your Chicago murders happened in.”

“Do tell.” Jordan rubbed the back of his neck, his expression closed off and careful. “I don't suppose you'd like some company out there? Assuming Jack doesn't object.”

He blessed Jordan for thinking to ask. Jack shrugged, appearing unconcerned, and tried to make light of being left behind again. “Why would I object? Gabe needs someone to look out for him.”