The Last American Wizard (16 page)

The tires squealed as the Mercedes slid to a stop. Steve jerked awake against the seatbelt and pulled out the smart
phone

“Mom?”

“Send says it’s a ghost,” Steve
reported.

Ace pointed out the front window. “I’d
agree.”

Waving at them from the front of a used-car lot on their right was a tall man with an extravagant mustache, dressed in a patched blue jacket and pants, with a bright red shirt and a small Civil War–era cap. As soon as they stopped, he ran toward the car.

Ace looked over at Steve. “What do you think? Should we talk to this
guy?”

“Why not?” Steve answered. “Send? Barnaby? Either of you guys have any
objections?”

The screen on the smartphone showed a cartoon of a cat chewing off his fingernails like a typewriter. “OK, I’ll take that as a negative. How about you, Barnaby? I mean, come on, you’ve been working with spooks your entire life. Don’t tell me that this guy bothers
you.”

“Very funny. ‘Spooks’ as a word for both spies and ghosts. Hilarious.” The computer program’s voice came out of the car speakers this time–sounding much more impressive and exceptionally sarcastic. He had evidently persuaded Hans to equalize the system for maximum
snark.

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to talk to him. However, in a world of magic, I suspect that ghosts who were once transitory and ineffectual shades will be neither transitory nor ineffectual. On the other hand, if he’s benign and useful, it wouldn’t hurt to have another
ally.”

“And, of course, if he’s malign and useless, we’ve got a problem.”

“Yes.”

“Well, since we haven’t met a ghost yet–” There was a vibration from the cell
phone.

“Yes, you are a ghost, aren’t you, Send? OK, that means that 100% of all currently known ghosts are nice folks; therefore, I vote we find out what the Ancient Mariner wants.” Steve opened the window.

As the man trotted over, Barnaby muttered, “How did I ever get invented if that’s an example of human
logic?”

Steve ignored the comment. When the old man arrived at the car, took off his cap, and bent down, he said, “What can we do for you,
sailor?”

A look of affront, almost rage, came over the man’s face. “Don’t
ever
call
me
a
‘sailor’
if
you
value
your
life.”
He
snapped upright and braced into a salute. “General Oliver Otis Howard. United States Marine
Corps.”

“Watch what you say about sailors, jarhead,” Ace said. “And even for a Marine, you sure don’t look much like a general, if you’ll pardon the
observation.”

“Oh, sorry ma’am, I didn’t see you there.” The man seemed to deflate. “Yes, well, I was demoted to private after my
demise.”

“You were demoted
after
your death?” Steve
asked.

“Yes, sir. I was a bit miffed at my wife and family when I passed away, so I drove them out of my house with the usual wails and banging.” He sighed. “That might have been understandable, but I found that I enjoyed the game and proceeded to evict the next dozen residents. The crime that led to my post-mortem court martial was moving the bed of a man and his wife into the middle of their
bedroom.”

“I have to say, General, that that doesn’t seem like the worst crime, even for a
paranormal.”

“Please, it’s not ‘General’ any longer. Just ‘Old Howard’ will do fine. That’s how they’ve been writing me up in the newspapers.”

“Real papers or ghostly
ones?”

“Well, mostly the
Washington Herald
and
The Star
, so you could take it either way, I
suppose.”

Barnaby’s voice, sounding a bit harried, boomed out of the speakers. “I hate to break up this chit-chat, but I would like to know the crime you
committed.”

The ghost bent over and peered carefully into the car–front
and back. “Have you already a ghoul resident on the
premises?”

“That’s Barnaby; he’s a computer program.” Steve spoke to the ceiling over Ace’s head where he assumed the microphone was placed. “Hey, I thought you were battling zombies or something. Are they gone
already?”

“No. I’m multitasking. Neither your conversation
nor
these hopped-up Atari sprites requires my complete
attention.”
The voice broke off. “Goddamn it! They’re coming in
through the
netsukuku
! I thought we had that damn breadboarded piece
of
crap nailed down!” There was a pause, and then Barnaby continued
in
a much calmer voice. “I am sorry. Private Howard, please
continue.”

Ace added, “You were detailing the nature of your crime, I believe.”

“Ah.” The ghost looked ashamed. “Well, the husband and wife were engaged in conjugal relations above the covers at the time and the neighbors were
watching.”

“I’d think that was the neighbors’ fault, not yours,” Steve said. “Bunch of peeping
Toms.”

Old Howard shook his head. “No, I’d opened the shutters and tipped the bed up a bit so Mr. De Neal could get a better look. The Bonehart family–that was their name–moved out the next day. Said they couldn’t bear to encounter Mr. De Neal on the sidewalk or at the market.” The apparition sighed deeply. “Then there were the incidents with the young ladies–undressing them while they were sleeping and all. I couldn’t argue with the verdict when all was said and
done.”

“It doesn’t sound like anything I wouldn’t do, given the chance. What do you think,
Ace?”

The scowl from the driver’s seat was so cold that Steve could feel his testicles heading for cover. He gulped and made a decision. “Well, I’m tired of being outnumbered. I say we give you a lift.”

Old Howard looked puzzled. “Outnumbered? But she’s only one woman–at worst, it’s an even
battle.”

Steve looked at him with frank disbelief. “What tombstone have you been under? The Master Chief could have taken the Halls of Montezuma all by herself. Get in; I need all the help I can get. Oh, wait. Is that OK with you,
Hans?”

Steve looked down at the
smartphone

Steve looked out at Old Howard’s worn but immaculate brown shoes and wrapped puttees. “At a guess, I’d say his are a lot cleaner than
mine.”

The engine made a sound that could only have
been transcribed as “Humph.” Steve said, “I’ll take that for a ‘yes.’ Climb in, old-timer. Where are you going,
anyway?”

“Jenkins Hill.” The ghost settled into the back seat. “Oh, I guess you’d know it as Capitol Hill. I’m on my way back from Bloody Run. The Commodore was out for his duel and I generally attend as his
third.”

Steve asked. “OK, I’ve heard of a second in a duel, but what does a third
do?”

“Well, it can go so far as to involve killing everyone on the opposing side, but usually I put the body in the undertaker’s carriage and then perform a bit of howling and wailing so onlookers know there’s been a manifestation.” Old Howard shrugged. “It’s not a great job, but after the demotion, I have to
take what I can get. Sadly, today, I was beaten out of even that lowly position by young Daniel
Key.”

Barnaby’s voice came through the stereo again. “The son of Francis Scott
Key?”

“Indeed, Mr. Barnaby. He defended his honor against another midshipman here over some childish wager and he never saw the sunrise on his twenty-first birthday.” Old Howard frowned. “This
is the fourth time the wee bastard has pinched my engagement with the Commodore. Is it any wonder my raiment has gone all rags and tatters?”

Ace asked. “The Commodore? You mean
Decatur?”

“Of course.” Old Howard nodded at the grassy area tucked behind the trees across the street. “That’s Bladensburg Dueling Grounds. More than fifty duels were fought right there. Place is bloody swimming in ghosts, I can tell
you.”

The blonde woman shook her head wistfully. “I’d love to meet Decatur. One of the greatest sea captains in the American Navy.”

“I am sorry to disappoint you, but you’re a bit late. A couple
of hundred years in one sense and about twenty minutes in another.”

“I guess I should go and deal with this slow and agonizing death issue before I can go all fangirl over the Commodore, in any case,” Ace said
wistfully.

The stereo exploded in the distinctive grating honk of a World War Two call to battle stations. The front doors of the BMW flew open, the seatbelts unlatched, and the pneumatic seats tilted, withdrew, and finally ejected Steve and Ace from the car. Steve
felt a wash of searing cold as he passed through Old Howard, and then he was in a sliding sprawl on the gravel verge. He looked back and watched, fascinated, as a full-armored carapace snapped into place about the BMW–not only the windows and wheel wells but every inch of the car was being quickly covered by a double layer of blued
steel.

“Oh, dear,” Barnaby said from the cell
phone.

Steve was a bit surprised to find that Send Money was still firmly clutched in his hand, even after the violent movements of the past seconds. As he climbed to his feet, he said, “That has an ominous ring to it. ‘Oh, dear’
what?”

“I’m afraid that I was using Hans’s cellular instead of Send Money’s,” Barnaby said. “We’ve been tracked again. I suggest you move away from the
car.”

“Incoming!” Ace yelled from the other side. “Move across the road and down the hill.” She immediately turned and raced across the road, jumping the Armco barrier, and sliding down the dirt slope. Steve surprised himself by managing to be only seconds behind her–he put it down to the motive power of sheer terror.

It was only when he slid down beside her that he noticed she was grimacing and holding her side where the makeshift bandage covered her earlier wound. “Is it worse?” he
asked.

She didn’t answer–but her look of pain and fury was enough. “Well, what do we do
now?”

Again, Ace was silent except for a muffled grunt, as she threw an arm around his neck and slammed him hard into the inch or so
of standing water and mud that had gathered at the bottom of the slope. This time, he was on his back and could see the flickering yellow light on the nearby trees and the blinding flare as the missile hit the car. The slope protected them from the concussion waves, but he could see the enormous trees in the park whipping back and forth under the pressure
wave.

When it all seemed over, he said, “Wow. That was close.” Turning to Ace, he continued, “I guess that’s two I owe you.”

Ace didn’t move. Steve prodded her shoulder to no effect and then put a palm just over her mouth. He could feel her breathing but she was clearly unconscious. It was a strange feeling; she had been a complete pain in the butt for most of this disconcerting day, but now that she was out of action, he realized how much he’d come to depend on
her.

“So. Swooned, has she?” Old Howard floated gently down the embankment.

“No, she’s unconscious,” Steve replied. “And you have no idea how lucky you are that she didn’t hear you say
‘swooned.’”

“What can she do to me? I am, after all,
incorporeal.”

“And you think that makes you safe from Ace?” Steve smiled. “She’d find a
way.”

“Resourceful, eh?” The ghost looked up. “I see that you’ve attracted the attention of most of the regulars. Strange. They don’t generally pay any attention to those we like to refer to as the ‘temporarily
embodied.’”

The small park was a close-cut grass space with a stand of large trees on the left and a small brook on the right. At the far end, he could make out a milling crowd of men who seemed to fade in and out like that picture on an old television with a rabbit-ears antenna. Many of them were pointing at the bank where Steve sat and were apparently arguing about something. Most were carrying antique pistols, but several had long guns ranging from flintlocks
to what looked like Napoleonic muskets with
bayonets.

“Shit. There’s
Weishaupt.”

“Who?” Old Howard asked. “Oh, you mean that one-handed fellow in the suit? I don’t know him. He’s not one of the regulars– we get to buy clothes but we can’t upgrade to anything like that Armani he’s got
on.”

“I don’t think he’s dead,” Steve
said.

“Well, that would explain it, then.” The ghost seemed
relieved. “I’d hate to think I’ve been wearing these rags all this time for
nothing.”

Dead or alive, Weishaupt was speaking forcefully to the
crowd of duelists, and from the way he angrily pointed towards them–with his left hand, Steve noted with a bit of pride–he was urging the apparitions to some form of
action.

“General Howard?” Steve asked. “Those gentlemen can’t actually touch the living, can
they?”

“Generally speaking, no,” the ghost said. “On the other hand, I’ve been feeling a good deal more corporeal today. Let me
see…”

Old Howard’s fist smacked into Steve’s temple with full force and Steve went flat in the mud next to Ace. Rubbing his head, he asked, “What the
hell?”

The ghost was hopping around in a circle, holding his right fist in his left, and howling in pain. After a moment, he calmed down, although still shaking his hand to ease the pain. “Well, that was a success.”

“You slugged me!” Steve said. “By what definition is that a success?”

“Yesterday, my fist would have passed right through you.” He reached into a pocket with his left hand. “Perhaps we should experiment with my pocket knife as
well.”

There was loud bang, a
thwup
sound, and something hard and fast smacked into the slope just over Steve’s head. Across the park, a
cloud
of
blue
smoke
was
drifting
from
one
of
the
rifles,
and Weishaupt was practically dancing with joy. Steve looked at the round half-inch hole in the dirt behind him. “Hold off on the pocketknife, General. I think they’ve just proven your point,” Steve said. “And quite dramatically,
too.”

“Well, then, aren’t you lucky I knocked you down?” Steve looked balefully at the ghost and didn’t
comment.

There was a pair of the loud bangs from the crowd and Steve could see Old Howard noticeably fade just before two more bullets whipped through him, and hit the grassy bank. The ghost turned to look at the new holes. “Luckily, it seems that I can control the terms of my
existence.”

“Well, I can’t,” Steve said bitterly. “I need to get behind something.”

He almost began to run towards the biggest of the old trees but stopped and turned back for Ace. With a sigh, he rolled her surprisingly light body over on her back, took a tight hold of both hands, blocked her feet with one of his, and leaned his weight back until she came upright. Releasing her hand, he leaned down and stuck his shoulder in her stomach, letting her limp torso slump down on his back.

When he tried to stand, he found her weight had suddenly increased. It was either that or he was a lot weaker than even he had imagined. He struggled but couldn’t get his knees locked. Sweating and grunting, he was about to fall ingloriously to the side when someone reached in from the side and pulled him upright. He looked over and saw a clean-shaven man with long sideburns and tangled hair dressed in a blue coat with every sort of frog, epaulet, and
embroidery.

Steve nodded his thanks and staggered over the tree, managing to get Ace to the ground behind the trunk by the simple but efficient
method
of
allowing
his
knees
to
collapse.
Luckily,
the young man managed to get a hand beneath her head before it smacked into a large root that poked above the grass. Steve rolled over and lay on his back, panting heavily. When he had the breath, he said, “Thanks. I don’t know if I could have done that without your
help.”

“It was my pleasure, sir.” The young man made an elaborate bow. Another bullet came whistling past and his body briefly faded as it
passed.

Steve said, “Ah, another
ghost?”

“Indeed, I am merely a shade. Allow me to introduce myself. Stephen Decatur, at your
service.”

“I’m Steve and this is Ace,” Steve said. “It’s too bad she’s out of it. You’re one of her
heroes.”

Decatur smiled. “Indeed? Due to the exaggerated tales of my amorous escapades, no
doubt?”

“I doubt it,” Steve replied. “More because she’s a Master Chief in the Navy, I
think.”

“Really?” Decatur seemed a bit disappointed. “The world has certainly changed while I wandered through my endless whirl of duel, death, and challenge–much as Odysseus was caught in the circling waters of Charybdis
.
” He shook himself and looked toward the other end of the field. “Happily, I appear to have been delivered from my dreary round today, and just in time, I think. Your foes, as I assume these men to be, are advancing.”

“Oh, shit,” Steve said as he scrambled to his feet and peered around the trunk. “This is usually Ace’s area of expertise. I’m not sure what to
do.”

Steve jumped violently as Old Howard spoke from behind him.
“Well,
as
an
old
Marine
of
the
Line,
I’d
advise
waiting
until they’ve fired their volley and then attacking. Isn’t that right, Commodore?”

“Certainly,” Decatur agreed. “I believe I’ve met you before, old fellow. Weeping or
something.”

“Yes, sir. I often serve as your third in the duel and I’m a right enthusiastic pallbearer. I suspect you remember me from those duties. I never was one of your fighting men–after your time, I’m afraid.”

Steve interrupted. “Could you continue these introductions at another time? Now, I’m all for avoiding the first volley–or all possible volleys, to be honest–but won’t they shoot us as we attack?”

“Hardly,” Decatur said. “Takes too damn long to reload. It
was the same at sea. One shot and then go for ’em with swords, pikes, marlinspikes, or whatever was at
hand.”

“That’s right, sir.” Old Howard agreed, “I can remember swinging a particularly well-balanced fish gaff in a battle off the Barbary
Coast…”

“OK, OK,” Steve said. “I hate to ask, but will you gentlemen join me in defending our poor, helpless shipmate?” Steve was once again grateful that Ace was unable to hear him–he’d have suffered for that “poor, helpless”
line.

“Most assuredly,” Decatur said as he pulled a curved saber from where it had been hidden under his coat. “Are you with us, Private
Howard?”

“Uh. Yes. I suppose I am,” Old Howard said with a great deal less enthusiasm. “I’ll stay back here and defend the
prize.”

Steve thought that Ace might well have disliked being a “prize” even more than “poor and
helpless.”

Decatur asked Steve, “Where is your sword,
sir?”

It seemed like a first-rate question, but Steve was damned if he had a first-rate answer. Then he remembered the thin needle he’d been able to create the last time he’d faced Weishaupt. Hopefully, if he only tried to modify it and not learn an entire new magical weapon, he wouldn’t end up lying like a agonized piece of cordwood next to Ace. He closed his eyes and cautiously repeated the steps he’d learned with so much pain in Bowie.

There!

Now make it shorter. Thicker. Sharpen one
edge.

Attach a handle. Perhaps a bit of engraving on that flange that protects the
hand–

“Very nice, sir, but I would hurry it along if at all possible,” Decatur broke into his concentration. Steve staggered a bit as he opened his eyes but, to no small surprise, he found that his right hand was firmly wrapped around a golden-colored
sword.

Old Howard had picked up a thick branch from somewhere and was looking at Steve’s creation with a decidedly skeptical eye. “I hope that’s not really gold, sir. Gold’s a very soft metal, you know. Looks quite nice but won’t hold an edge worth a damn.”

Steve held the weapon up and inspected it. “Well, this is all I have, so let’s just hope it’s just gold-colored or something. Now, could one of you go all misty and surveil the enemy?” Facing a
pair of blank looks, he said, “Yeah, I don’t think ‘surveil’ is a real word, either. Could one of you take a look and tell me how many are coming and how far away they
are?”

“Ah,” Decatur said, “Of
course.”

The slim man immediately stepped away from the tree. There was a little fusillade of gunfire and Decatur turned misty until the bullets had passed, then returned to the others. “I’d say that there are about twenty men, along with that one-handed fellow in the strange black clothing, and they are quite close–perhaps no more than ten
yards.”

Steve felt fear sweeping up from the pit of his stomach, threatening to freeze his thoughts, and turn his arms and legs to useless blocks. His own fear was worse than any enemy. “OK,
first, you two step out and draw fire, then protect Ace while I go after the
leader.”

Moving immediately before his fear could overpower his determination, Steve took two steps and made a diving leap as far from the tree as possible, tucking at the last moment, and turning what would have been a slide into a somersault. He heard what sounded like a number of pissed-off bees passing high over him and then shouts and more shots–this time aimed at the tree he’d
just
abandoned.

Ancient muscle memory from his high-school soccer days brought him to his feet right out of his forward roll and he kept moving at his best speed, curving around the line of elaborately- dressed duelists, and angling in towards Weishaupt, who was shouting orders and encouragement from a command position a few cautious paces behind his
troops.

To Steve’s dismay, two of the duelists spotted him and angled to cut him off. The first, a tall and elegant man in a red silk shirt (“I suppose it doesn’t show the blood,” Steve thought) pulled a thin sword from a walking stick and stepped forward in a fencer’s stance. Steve was already moving at his best speed and decided not to try and stop on the slick grass, so he rammed his sword down and beat the rapier out of the way, and then simply barreled into
the man with his chest, sending him
flying.

A short man with blazing red hair and extravagant sideburns flowing right into a red mustache cut at him with a much thicker weapon, but Steve dodged around the reach of the sword and ignored the outraged call of “Come bank and fight, coward!” that erupted after he
passed.

Now Weishaupt was directly ahead. Steve raised his sword over his head in a clumsy two-handed grip and—to his surprise— increased his speed. The Bavarian crossed his forearms–and one hand–over his head to block the attack. Steve was suddenly trying to do two things at once: slow himself from the mad gallop that had gotten him this far, and flail downward with the sword.

He wasn’t particularly surprised that he didn’t do either maneuver well. His loafers flew out from under him, and the sword, now clutched in his left hand, waved weakly at his opponent. As he fell on his back–sliding on the damp grass with his feet in the air–he heard a
hiss
and saw the tip of another sword pass over his head. He craned his neck to look back and saw the gentleman with the red muttonchops stumbling, thrown off-balance as his swing failed to meet any
resistance.