Hard Spell (16 page)

  I can't say that I paid real close attention to the lecture. The guy wasn't bad – at least he seemed to be talking to us, rather than just reading his damn paper. But I wasn't too interested in what witches and demons were doing back in the seventeenth century. The ones running around today give me enough problems.

  After Prescott finished his presentation, he took questions from the audience for about twenty minutes. The ones coming from students were usually polite and to the point. But you could always tell when professors were called on: they usually preceded the question with a mini-lecture designed to show off how much they already knew about the subject. And their questions seemed designed to trip Prescott up, although they didn't succeed, far as I could tell.

  I thought about sticking my hand up to ask something like "Professor, what's your opinion of the power of the spells contained in the
Opus Mago
?" But he'd probably just shut me down and move on to the next question. My cousin Tim used to be a stand-up comic. He once told me, "Never take on the guy who controls the microphone. You'll always lose."

  Better I should talk to Prescott one-on-one, in a situation he couldn't control. I hoped the reception would give me the chance I wanted.

  It did. Sort of.

• • • •

The post-lecture gathering was held in a big room with hardwood floors and lots of paintings on the walls depicting big deal Jesuits of the past. Karl and I stood in a corner at first, munching some pretty good hors d'ouevres while we watched people coming thougho pay homage to the great man. Finally, the traffic in Prescott's direction slowed down.

  "Come on," I said to Karl. "It's our turn to welcome our guest to the big city. Try not to look like a thug for the next five minutes."

  "Five whole minutes? Gonna be hard."

  We made our way over to Prescott, who was standing next to a table on which somebody had put a big bowl of iced shrimp. The professor was scarfing them down, one after another, as if seafood was going to be illegal tomorrow. I stopped in front of him, put a suck-up smile on my face, and stuck my hand out. "Professor, I just wanted to say how much I enjoyed your talk tonight." I was hoping he wouldn't recognize my voice from the phone.

  Apparently, he didn't. Prescott squeezed my hand for about a second before dropping it. "Thank you," he said with a little smile. "I'm pleased you enjoyed it, Mr…"

  I was tempted, for Karl's sake, to say "Bond – James Bond," but common sense prevailed.

  "My colleague and I," I said, gesturing at Karl, "were so impressed by the depth of your knowledge that we wondered if you could give us your opinion on something we've been working on." Ned had helped me work out some stuff I could say to impersonate a guy with too much education.

  Prescott's smile went out like a candle in a hurricane. "Well, I hardly think this is the appropriate place for me to read any–"

  "Oh, this isn't a paper, or anything like that," I said. "Just a few images that we'd been puzzling over. Can't make head or tail of them, to tell you the truth, and we figured that if
anyone
could help us out, it was you."

  The smile I had plastered on was starting to make my face hurt.

  Prescott grabbed another shrimp out of the bowl. "Well, if we can do this quickly, I suppose it might be–"

  "Hey, that's terrific," I said, and pulled from my pocket a sheet of paper where I had copied the three sets of symbols we'd found on the murder victims.

  Prescott popped the shrimp into his mouth and took the paper from me. I signaled Karl with my eyes, and he took a slow step to the side, blocking Prescott from a quick exit in case he tried to walk away once he realized we'd conned him.

  Prescott's eyes narrowed as he stared at the symbols on the paper. After a few seconds, I said quietly, "Those were found carved into the bodies of three recent murder victims. Rumor has it they were taken from a spell that's part of the
Opus Mago
. You remember the
Opus Mago
, don't you, Professor?"

  His eyes wide open now, Prescott looked up from the paper and stared at me in shock and anger. He drew in breath to speak, but I'll never know what he intended to say.

• • • •

Prescott's mouth was open, but instead of angry words, what came out were a series of hoarse grunts. His fleshy face began to turn a deep shade of red.

  "Christ, he's choking on the shrimp!" I said to Karl. "Your arms are longer – quick, Heimlich him!"

  Karl immediately slipped behind Prescott and threw his arms around the big man's midsection, clasping his hands together in front. He gave the quick, hard squeeze that was supposed to constrict Prescott's diaphragm with enough pressure to send the shrimp back out of his windpipe.

  Nothing happened. Other guests were starting to converge on us now, asking urgent questions that I paid no attention to. I whipped out my badge and held it up. "Police officer, get back!" I yelled. "Somebody call 911!"

  Karl shifted his grip a couple of inches and tried again. Still nothing.

  Karl moved his hands again, took a deep breath, and squeezed hard.

  Nothing came out. Prescott's knees were starting to sag now. There was no way Karl could keep him on his feet and work the Heimlich maneuver at the same time, so I moved in, directly in front of Prescott, so close that our chests were touching. I grabbed a handful of his belt on each side and braced my elbows against my hips, trying to hold up what was quickly becoming four hundred-some pounds of dead weight.

  "Go on!" I grunted. "Do it! Quick!"

  Karl adjusted his grip once more and I heard him grunt as he gave another desperate squeeze.

  And a piece of half-chewed shrimp popped out of Prescott's gaping mouth and hit me right in the face.

  A moment later, it was followed by the remains of his dinner.

  Must have been a hell of a big meal. Spicy, too.

Back at the squad, I took a long, hot shower, then put on the set of spare clothes I keep in my locker for times like this.

  I figured that some of the smell of Prescott's vomit must be still clinging to me, the way Lieutenant McGuire's nose kept wrinkling while Karl and I told him about our little adventure in academia.

  Or maybe he just thought it was our story that stank.

  "So, I assume after the professor stopped choking to death, he was in no mood to answer any of your questions," McGuire said sourly.

  "We never got the chance to find out," I told him. "He could breathe okay, but couldn't stand up or speak. Somebody called 911, and the EMTs showed up and took him to Mercy Hospital."

  "But he turned out to be okay, right?" The way McGuire said it, there was only one correct answer to that question.

  Too bad we couldn't give it to him.

  "Actually, uh, no," Karl said. "The docs think maybe he had a stroke."

  McGuire gave Karl a look that would've raised welts on some people. "A stroke."

  "They're not sure if it was brought on by the choking, or if something else caused it," I said.

  McGuire gave me some of the same look, and it's a wonder I didn't start bleeding right there.

  "So, I assume Professor Prescott is planning to sue the city over what you two morons did?" he said, finally.

  I took a deep breath and let it out. "We don't know," I said.

  McGuire blinked. "What – they wouldn't let you in to see him?"

  "No, we got into his room at the ICU for a couple of minutes," I said.

  "So what's he got to say for himself?" McGuire asked.

  "Not a lot," Karl said. "See, he's, uh, kind of in a, well–"

  "A coma," I said. "Prescott's in a coma."

  McGuire didn't say anything to that. He sat back in his chair and closed his eyes. Using the first two fingers of each hand, he began to rub his eyelids, very gently.

  "There's one thing more, boss," I said.

  "Of course there is," McGuire said dully, still massaging his eyeballs. "Who could possibly think that I've suffered enough already? What is it?"

  "You're going to be getting a couple of letters," I said. "Probably tomorrow, or the next day."

  "I don't suppose those would be your letters of resignation?" McGuire said. Without waiting for an answer he went on, "No, of course not, how silly of me. My luck never runs that good." He rubbed his eyesme more. "What letters?"

  "One's from the president of the U," Karl said. "Father, uh..."

  "Monroe," I finished for him. "Father Monroe. And the other one's from the mayor."

  McGuire still didn't take his hands away from his face. "The mayor was there," he said. "Of course, he would be. He likes that intellectual stuff, or pretends to. I assume these are letters of complaint, maybe even demands for your badges?"

  "No, sir, not exactly," I said. "They're letters of commendation."

  That got McGuire's eyes open. "
Commendation
?"

  "For Karl's and my, uh–"

  "Heroic efforts, they said," Karl said.

  "Right," I went on. "Our heroic efforts in saving the life of an honored guest of the University and the city, who, uh, tragically forgot to chew his food before swallowing it, and nearly died as a result. The mayor mentioned some kind of award, too. He said he'll call you tomorrow."

  McGuire looked at me, then at Karl. For a couple of seconds, I wasn't sure if he was going to kiss us right on the lips, or draw his weapon and shoot us.

  Finally, he said, "Get out of my office. And light an extra candle the next time you're in church, you stupid, lucky bastards, because somebody up there sure as shit likes you, for reasons that beat the shit out of me. Now get out."

  We got.

• • • •

The rest of our shift was spent at our desks, for which Karl and I were thankful. We'd both had enough excitement for one night.

  It wasn't until we'd signed out and headed for home that one of us almost died.

  Like everybody else in the precinct, we parked in the lot behind the building. It's surrounded by chainlink fence that's topped with razor wire, and there are surveillance cameras trained on it from a couple of different angles. A friendly wizard put a protective spell on it for good measure. Quite a few people (and some others who aren't, strictly speaking, people) don't care for cops. Our personal cars might make a tempting target for some slimeball out for a little cheap revenge.

  Karl and I each grunted "See ya later" and headed off to our cars. I drive a Toyota Lycan. It's old, a little beat up, and rusted in spots, but it still runs fine – kind of like me, give or take the rust.

  Getting behind the wheel of your car doesn't require much concentration, and I was thinking about the twists and turns of this case as I slid into the driver's seat. A small portion of my brain processed what I was seeing – magazines, fast-food wrappers, statue on the dashboard, an empty soda bottle–

  I don't keep a statue on my dashboard.

  My eyes were moving toward the strange object before my mind could scream out a warning. That's what I get for not staying alert.

  The statue was four inches high and made from some kind of gray stone. It depicted a woman wearing a robe, the kind they wore in that cable series about Rome. The finely detailed face was beautiful, but above that the hair was thick and ropy. After a moment, I realized it was supposed to be a bunch of snakes laying atop the woman's head, in place of hair. Then those stone reptiles started coiling and writhing and I knew what I was dealing with – but by then, it was too late. Far too late. I swear the evil little thing smiled at me, as I felt my whole body start to stiffen and harden.

  I had locked eyes with a Gorgon statue, modeled after the creature of Greek myth that could turn anybody who looked at her into stone. Charged with the proper spell, the statuette could duplicate the powers of the original, at short range. And I knew that whoever had cast the spell on this little charmer had done it right, because I was
turning into stone
– and there wasn't a goddamn thing I could do about it.

  The transformation hurt like a bastard, as my bones, muscles, and blood all began to take on the qualities of solid rock. But the pain in my body was nothing – I knew, with sick horror, that I was well on my way to becoming something that was going to be useful only in a public park. Or maybe as a lawn ornament.

  Then the windshield exploded.

I couldn't move, or even blink, so I was powerless to avoid the shower of safety glass that filled the car for an instant after the window's detonation. What was left of my brain was still processing the sensory overload when Karl Renfer's second bullet blew that Gorgon statue into a million harmless little pieces.

  With the ensorcelled object destroyed, the spell was broken. I could feel myself returning to flesh and blood and bone. That hurt some, too, but I wouldn't have traded the feeling for anything this side of Angelina Jolie.

  Karl stuck his head through the opening that had once contained my windshield. "Jeez, Stan, are you okay?"

  To my great joy, I managed a small nod.

  "Sorry I took so long," Karl said. "I was parked over the other side of the lot. Turns out, somebody left me one of these little prizes, too."

  I commanded my arm to move, and it did – a little slowly, a little stiffly, but it moved, allowing me to start brushing pieces of glass out of my hair.

  "I saw my statue through the rear window of my car," Karl said. "I knew it didn't belong there, but it took me a couple seconds to figure out what the fuckin' thing was.Then I figured I'd better haul ass over here and see if you'd got one, too."

  "One of the better ideas you've had lately," I said. My voice was husky and my lips felt numb, but I could talk. "Thanks for the rescue mission, kid," I said. "Perseus couldn't have done a better job himself."

  "He used a sword, haina?" Karl asked. "Saw the reflection in his shield, then just closed his eyes, and swung."

  "Something like that," I said. "Well, I'm glad you kept yours open. That was some damn fine shooting, Mr…" I let my voice trail off. The kid deserved it.