“We’ve been here hours,” Blue Jay said darkly. “It will have taken them a bit of time to find a border crossing, but they’ll be in the city by now, scouring the place for us.”
Throwing back her hood, silken hair dancing in the December wind, Kitsune glanced up at Canada House and the rigid figure of the dragon on the roof. She nodded slowly and returned her attention to her companions, but only then did Oliver realize that Gong Gong was up there for a reason. He was standing sentinel, watching over them, in case the Hunters should come.
He had been so driven by adrenaline and grief and so pleased with what he had accomplished this morning that he had thought little of the Hunters. The danger of discovery by ordinary Londoners or the police had been far more on his mind.
“All right. Okay. We’ll go right now. But I still don’t understand. How did they find you in the first place? The Mazikeen had hidden that place with glamours and spells.”
Once again ice crackled and this time when the winter breeze blew it was colder than before. Frost opened his mouth, jagged features thrust out from the frozen fountain, and mist steamed off his eyes.
“Treachery,” he said. “Larch was there. He had betrayed us to the Kirata.”
“They must have followed our scent to his home and his fear did the rest,” Kitsune added. “He surrendered his honor, and our destination, and they forced him to come along to make certain he was not lying. That is my theory, at least.”
Blue Jay spit on the ground.
Oliver took a long breath and then shook his head. He had trusted Larch and the betrayal saddened him.
“All right,” he said. “Let’s get going.”
Kitsune glanced around, surveying Trafalgar Square for any sign of threat. “How do you propose we do that?”
“There are drawbacks to being a child of privilege, but the benefits are enormous. People are more than happy to bend over backward to help you. I went to the American Express Travel Office and told them my passport and Travelers Cheques were stolen.
“I now have plenty of cash, a mobile phone, Travelers Cheques, and an international driver’s license for ID while I wait for my new passport. I’m supposed to go apply for a new one, but since I’m not traveling home through any normal route, there’s really no point.”
American Express Travel had helped him get the international driver’s license, providing documentation supporting his assertion that he was indeed Oliver Bascombe, and helped him arrange for a car. The rental-car lot was only a few tube stops away. All that remained was for him to pick it up.
If the police were indeed searching for him, he might as well have sent up a flare to let them know where to look.
* * *
The law firm of Bascombe & Cox had offices in Augusta, Portland, and Boston. From what Ted Halliwell had learned, the future of the firm was in those offices. The junior partners, the young sharks who were bringing in high-stakes new clients, were in the places where they were most likely to find fresh meat. The original office in Kitteridge was still there, however, and that was where the senior partners still worked, controlling their growing power from afar, brokering politics in the state capital of Augusta from two counties away.
This morning the sheriff had ducked his head into Detective Halliwell’s office and rapped softly on the door frame, an odd expression on his face. Halliwell had the feeling that he would know a great deal more about his current situation if he had only been able to read Jackson Norris’s face.
Andrew Cox, most senior partner in the firm now that Max Bascombe was dead, had apparently called the sheriff to report that the firm had learned vital information about the whereabouts of Bascombe’s son. The news sent a ripple of unease through Halliwell that he didn’t quite understand. He wanted to find both of the dead man’s children, but thus far his pursuit of Oliver Bascombe had only led to more questions and to a disturbing pattern of child murders that twisted his stomach and fogged his mind.
It was all connected, of that he felt sure. The only possible explanation he could come up with was that there was some sort of new cult operating worldwide that had so far gone undiscovered. The detectives he’d spoken to in Paris and San Francisco shared this theory. The arrival of the Internet had begun to breed such groups. There had always been perverts and freaks and lunatics, but he imagined that a lot of them never acted on their most debased impulses. On the Net, they could search in secrecy for the depravities that fascinated them, and in doing so, come into contact with others who shared their particular bent. Halliwell had no idea what kind of madness could lead to the savage murder of children, what thoughts of sacrifice or malice, but he felt certain that links would be found.
His dreams were haunted by young girls and boys with ragged holes where their eyes ought to be. They all looked like Alice St. John, except the one who looked very much like his own daughter at the age of eight or nine. The truth was, Ted Halliwell didn’t want to think about the dead kids or the Bascombe family ever again. But he had no choice. Even had it not been his job, his investigation, there was no erasing the horror from his mind. From his nightmares.
All children, save Max Bascombe. So what was the link? Could Oliver have been part of that cult? Or his sister? Both of them? If he proceeded on any of those assumptions, how then to explain the still-lingering mystery of how brother and sister left the house without anyone noticing, how Oliver departed in the middle of a blizzard with no transportation? And what of Oliver’s strange appearance up in Cottingsley, the Asian woman seen with him, and the murder of Alice St. John?
Halliwell had let those questions stew for far too long, but there was little else he could do without more information.
And here it was.
“What’s their news?” he had asked the sheriff.
Jackson Norris had frowned deeply at him, as though the question itself offended his sensibilities. “Mr. Cox wants to see you. In fact, the firm’s partners want to meet with you this morning. The sooner the better. Whatever they know, you’ll find out when you get there. And whatever it is they want you to do with that information, that’s what you’ll do.”
Halliwell had stared at the sheriff. “You’re holding out on me, Jackson.”
“It’s your case, Ted. You want me to send someone else?”
It was an idle threat, Halliwell knew. This had been political for Sheriff Norris from the start. Bascombe & Cox had helped him get elected sheriff in the first place, and if he was to prove their money well spent, he had to make Max Bascombe’s murder his number-one priorty. Halliwell knew he was the best detective in the sheriff’s department. Maybe one of the best in the state, if he allowed himself that hubris. Whatever the firm wanted, Norris was going to do his best to see they got it.
But it had been gnawing at Halliwell, and regardless of his boss’s motivations, there was no way he was letting this case get away.
“No. I’ll follow up. Let’s see what they’ve got. It’s gotta be more than what we have. If there’s a lead that’ll help me find Oliver Bascombe, I want it. I don’t know if a conversation with the guy is going to solve my case, but it’s sure going to fill in some of the blanks. Maybe the firm can help.”
The conversation was still fresh in his mind three quarters of an hour later as he pulled his car into a spot outside a handsome brick building that had been a schoolhouse in the nineteenth century. A white sign had been affixed beside the massive doors, engraved with black letters that read BASCOMBE & COX, ATTORNEYS AT LAW.
Halliwell could practically smell the money.
The receptionist was an attractive fortyish woman who looked more than a little like she ought to have been handing out fines at the library. Her hair was tied back tightly and her glasses were so old-fashioned Halliwell was sure they must be back in style by now. When he gave his name she nodded gravely.
“Yes, Detective. Sheriff Norris phoned ahead. They’re in the conference room, expecting you.”
He waited for her to summon a secretary or paralegal to come and lead him into the back. Instead, the receptionist glanced at the door, hesitated a moment, and then rose to escort him herself. Halliwell followed her past the partition with the firm’s name in large block letters, and down a corridor that ran between cubicles and well-appointed offices. Some were empty, while others revealed lawyers staring at computer screens or piles of documents.
They went up a curving staircase and emerged in a second-floor foyer, surrounded by thriving potted plants and elegant woodwork. The maple floor was polished to a high sheen. On the opposite side of the foyer was a glass wall, and beyond the glass a large conference room. The table was not round, but seemed large enough for a gathering of Arthurian knights. Instead, it was surrounded by lawyers. With the traditionalist, Old World attitudes of Bascombe & Cox, Halliwell was surprised to see that several of the partners were women.
The receptionist strode to the door of the conference room, and as Halliwell followed her, every head turned to watch him approach.
“Ah, Angela, this is Detective Halliwell, I presume?” asked the man at the far end of the table. He had the whitest hair and the most expensive suit, so Halliwell pegged him as the boss.
“Yes, Mr. Cox.”
Cox smiled. “Thank you, Angela.”
The receptionist turned and strode away without a backward glance, returning to her post. Not one of the attorneys watched her go, all of them focused on Halliwell. Only then did the detective notice that to Cox’s right was a familiar face. Julianna Whitney nodded in recognition but did not smile. She was pale and there were tired circles under her eyes.
“Detective Halliwell, thank you for coming,” Cox said. “I’m Andrew Cox.”
The lawyer did not bother to get up. There would be no formal greeting, no shaking of hands. He introduced a couple of the others, obviously the most senior of the partners, but left most of them anonymous. Halliwell nodded and gave each a perfunctory hello. After a moment’s hesitation, Cox gestured to his right.
“And you know Attorney Whitney, of course.”
“I do. I knew that she worked for the firm, but wasn’t aware that she was a lawyer.”
Cox smiled. “Oh, yes. Quite an excellent attorney, our Julianna. Though she chooses to use her law degree in other pursuits.” He indicated the chair at the very end of the table, nearest the door. “Now then, if you’d like to have a seat?”
Halliwell frowned. He didn’t have a clue what the hell the old man was talking about. Also, he didn’t like the way the meeting was so entirely one-sided. To people as wealthy as Andrew Cox, officers of the law were always going to seem like errand boys, and men like Jackson Norris only made matters worse by confirming their presumptions. He decided to shift control of things somewhat.
“Mr. Cox, I don’t really know what I’m doing here. The sheriff was vague about the purpose of this visit. If you’ve got information that’s pertinent to my case, particularly the location of Oliver Bascombe, there isn’t any reason you couldn’t have simply passed that along to the sheriff and he to me.”
The old man’s cheeks reddened slightly and a bit of pique flickered across his face, but then he smiled. “You misunderstand, Detective. Sheriff Norris was fully apprised of the information we’ve recently acquired. If he did not share it with you, I’d say that’s a topic of further discussion between you and your employer. What I wished to discuss with you, what the firm of Bascombe and Cox wished to present to you, was on a related matter.”
Halliwell considered that a moment. He wanted to remain standing but it would only insult Cox and his partners. As frustrated as he was, not to mention curious, rudeness would only come back to haunt him later. He slid into the chair and kept his back straight, lacing his hands upon his lap.
“All right. But would you mind, first, telling me whatever it was that the sheriff couldn’t be bothered to mention?”
Cox nodded and a shroud of sincerity came over his features. He nodded toward a handsome, slick-looking man who sat only a couple of seats away from Halliwell.
“Steven. Would you be so kind?”
The lawyer reached down into the open briefcase beside his chair and withdrew a manila folder. He slid it across the table to Halliwell.
“We’ve located Oliver Bascombe.”
Halliwell blinked and glanced around the dozen or so faces, but they were expressionless, only watching him expectantly. With a shrug he opened the folder and began to examine the papers it contained. There were records of a sizable cash advance from Oliver’s American Express account as well as a car rental receipt and a copy of a brand-new international driver’s license. There were photographs of a rather rough-looking Oliver taken from a security camera. He had a scruffy growth of beard but it was unmistakably him.
His frown deepened, and then he glanced up at Julianna before turning his attention to Cox. “London? How the hell did he get to London?”
The old man shifted his gaze to Julianna and for the first time Halliwell thought there might be some heart to Andrew Cox, something beyond the arrogance of entitlement. He hesitated before answering.
