John Levitt - Unleashed

“I’m not sure that counts as a grand discovery, but it does sounds nice.”

“At a table in the back, there’s a practitioner watching me. He’s been shadowing me all day, but he’s been shielding and I could never get a good look at him-until now. He’s still shielding, but just hiding his talent, so I wouldn’t spot him as a practitioner.”

“You think he knows you’re hip to him?”

“I doubt it. He’s just reading the paper, pretending to be just another Mission hipster.”

“What does he look like?”

“Quite striking, actually. Medium height, youngish, with a mass of flaming curly red hair.”

“Like yours?”

“No, his hair is dyed.”

“And yours is natural?”

“Something you’ll never find out; that’s for sure. But his isn’t meant to look natural. It’s a fashion statement, bright scarlet, but with heavy black eyebrows.”

“Does not ring a bell at all,” I said. “Maybe Victor’s heard of him, or maybe he’s new in the city. What made you pick up on him?”

“He wasn’t shielding that well-I could hardly have missed him.”

“Maybe he wanted you to notice.”

“Maybe. Anyway, you live close. I thought you might want to drop by and then we could have a talk with him.”

“Give me five minutes,” I said.

“Hold on,” she said. “He’s leaving. Got to go.”

“Wait, wait,” I said quickly. “That might not be the best idea. If he’s letting you notice him, he probably wants you to follow. People have been dismembered, remember? If your idea about a practitioner is right, you don’t want to be confronting him alone.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“I’m sure you can, but it’s not worth the risk. Use your head. I’ll be down there in a few minutes.”

I got a reluctant agreement out of her, and by the time I got to the café she was drinking another latte, sitting at an outside table.

“I should have followed him,” she said.

“Not worth it. If you’re wrong, it doesn’t get you anywhere. If you’re right, it could be a big mistake.”

“I guess. But I don’t think I’m wrong about this.”

“So why do you think he was following you?”

“Well, if I’m right, and a practitioner is behind this, he’s got to be aware of me. I’ve been asking a lot of questions, poking my nose all over town. Maybe he wants to see what I’m up to, whether I’m a threat to him.”

“Or maybe he was trying to get up the nerve to hit on you.”

“Aren’t you sweet? No, there’s something going on with this guy.”

We tossed a few ideas around but didn’t get anywhere, and eventually Ruby finished up her latte and headed home. I got a cup of coffee and sat there with Lou for a while, watching the Mission denizens stroll by. The demograph ics of the Mission were changing-fewer Hispanics, more yuppies and faux hipsters. And it was a younger crowd these days, most of them younger than I was. Then I realized they were the same age as they’d always been. I was the changing demographic, growing older every day, imperceptibly but inexorably. After ten minutes or so, Lou nudged my knee, in that deliberate fashion he uses when he wants to alert me to something.

I scanned the area, and it didn’t take long to see what he had scoped out. Across the street, staring intently into the front display window of a bookstore, was the redheaded stranger. His back was toward me, and he was using the reflection of the street in the window to keep an eye on me-a trick he’d no doubt picked up from countless bad TV movies. But even though his back was turned, there was no mistaking him. He had a mop of curly red hair, dyed an entirely unnatural red. Not the ideal appearance for trailing someone on the q.t. Which meant that I was supposed to see him. Which meant… what?

Abruptly, he turned away from the window and walked away, moving at a good clip, but not fast enough to keep me from following if I wanted to. The advice I’d given Ruby was perfectly sound. There was no reason to follow him, except curiosity, since I didn’t see a practitioner being the answer to our murders. And if by chance I was wrong, the downside could be considerable. I pushed my chair back, beckoned to Lou, and took off after him.

He ambled casually down Valencia, to Sixteenth, then over to Mission. Without so much as a backward glance, he descended the stairs to the BART station. I always carry a ticket with some money left on it for just such situations, so I inserted my ticket and breezed through the turnstile, not far behind.

Lou scooted under, staying close to my feet. Dogs aren’t allowed on BART, and whenever I take the train I use a small backpack for him to ride in, layered over with a minor concealment spell to make him look like an old sweater on casual inspection.

That wasn’t an option, so I used some talent to cast an aversion spell over my feet and told him to stay close. It wouldn’t hide his presence, but it would keep people from glancing down to see him as long as he stayed close. Casting the aversion spell directly on him would have been better, but it would have taken time I didn’t have and a lot more energy. I could maintain the spell on my legs without much effort; if I had to make it a discrete spell and attach it to him as he moved along, it would have been a more difficult thing to maintain. Besides, except for the BART police, nobody cared.

The redheaded practitioner got aboard a southbound train, which was crowded as rush hour wound down. I squeezed in at the back end of the same car, Lou crowding close so he wouldn’t get his paws stepped on. One thing was now clear-this guy was playing a game with me. I had an impulse to push through he crowded car and confront him on the spot. That would throw a monkey wrench in his plans.

But that wouldn’t be the best idea, for the same reason a cop wouldn’t confront an armed suspect in the middle of a crowded subway car. A lot of things could go wrong and probably would, with serious consequences for innocent passengers. And bad guys seldom care about collateral damage.

The car was crowded, with that eclectic combination of passengers you get only in a big city. Neatly dressed Asians with briefcases. Teens with piercings, carrying skateboards. Rough-faced men with callused hands, on their way to work or on their way home. Stolid-faced women of indeterminate race. Each of them has a life, happy or sad, unknown to their fellow travelers. Eight million stories in the naked city. Or a few hundred thousand, in any case.

Right across from me sat a young Hispanic couple with a baby and a toddler. The man had one of those serious faces, with a faraway look, thinking his unknown thoughts of unknown places as the train moved along. The toddler noticed Lou and stared at him, fascinated. He looked up at me, and when I smiled at him he hid his face in the man’s lap, but he was unable to resist peeking out.

When the train reached the Glen Park station, the red-haired practitioner got off. I followed him up the escalator, not getting on until he had reached the top. I was staying well back in case he was preparing a surprise for me. I had no fear I’d lose him-he’d make sure of that.

He headed up Bosworth, away from the commercial area around the station. After a few blocks it was clear where he was headed: Glen Park itself. The park isn’t one of those manicured showplaces; it’s an urban wildlife area nestled right in the middle of a thoroughly developed neighborhood. Set in the bottom of a tiny canyon, it’s hardly a park at all-more an overgrown area choked with trees and brush, with a stream running through that provides a miniature riparian environment for frogs and snakes and small mammals and even a coyote or two.

I followed him into the park, letting him still keep a good lead, until eventually he came to the loop that runs along the far end. It was getting chilly, and apart from a few hardy dog walkers, the park was almost deserted. As he disappeared around a bend, I stopped to take stock of the situation.