Jim Butcher - Side Jobs

“I’m pretty sure this guy believes in faith through superior firepower.” I closed the file and passed it back to Forthill. “He tried to kill me. He abducted Alicia. As far as I’m concerned, he’s off the reservation.”

Forthill’s expression became distressed as he looked at me. He turned to Michael, beseeching.

Michael’s face was bleak and unyielding, and quiet heat smoldered in his eyes. “The son of a bitch hurt my little girl.”

I rocked a step backward at the profanity. So did Forthill. The room settled into an oppressive silence.

The old priest cleared his throat after a moment. He put the file back in the cabinet and closed the door. “I’ve told you what I know,” he said. “I’m only sorry I can’t do more.”

“You can find her, can’t you?” Michael asked me. “The way you found Molly?”

“Sure,” I said. “But he’s bound to be expecting that. Magic isn’t a cure-all.”

“But you can find her.”

I shrugged. “He can’t stop me from finding her, but he can damn well make sure that something happens to her if I do.”

Michael frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Maybe he stashes her in a box that’s being held fifty feet above the ground with an electromagnet, so that when I get close with an active spell up and running, it shorts out and she falls. The bastard is smart and creative.”

Michael’s knuckles popped as his hands closed into fists.

“Besides,” I said, “we don’t need to find him.”

“No?”

“No,” I said. “We’ve got the swords. He’s got the girl.” I turned to go. “He’s going to find us.”

FATHER DOUGLAS CALLED Michael’s house later that night, and asked for me. I took the call in Michael’s office.

“You know what I want,” he said, without preamble.

“Obviously,” I said. “What do you have in mind?”

“Bring the swords,” he said. “Give them to me. If you do so without attempting any tricks or deceptions, I will release the girl to you unharmed. If you involve the police or attempt anything foolish, she will die.”

“How do I know you haven’t killed her already?”

The phone rustled, and then Alicia said, “H-Harry? I’m okay. H-he hasn’t hurt me.”

“Nor do I want to,” Father Douglas said, taking the phone back. “Satisfied?”

“Can I ask you something?” I said. “Why are you doing this?”

“I am doing God’s work.”

“Okay, that doesn’t sound too crazy or anything,” I said. “If you’re so tight with God, can you really expect me to believe that you’ll be willing to murder a teenage girl?”

“The world needs the swords,” he replied in a level, calm voice. “They are more important than any one person. And while I would never forgive myself, yes. I will kill her.”

“I’m just trying to get you to see the fallacious logic you’re using here,” I said. “See, if I’m such a bad guy to have stolen the swords, then why would I give a damn whether or not you murder some kid?”

“You don’t have to be evil to be ambitious—or wrong. You don’t want to see the girl harmed. Give me the swords and she won’t be.”

There clearly wasn’t going to be any profitable discussion of the situation here. Father Douglas was going to have his way, regardless of the impediments of trivial things like rationality.

“Where?” I asked.

He gave me an address. “The roof. You come to the east side of the building. You show me the swords. Then you come up and make the exchange. No staff, no rod. Just you.”

“When?”

“One hour,” he said, and hung up.

I put the phone down, looked at Michael, and said, “We don’t have much time.”

THE BUILDING IN question stood at the corner of Monroe and Michigan, overlooking Millennium Park. I had to park a couple of blocks away and walk in, with both swords stowed in a big gym bag. Father Douglas hadn’t specified where I was supposed to stand and show him the swords, but the streetlights adjacent to the building were all inexplicably dark except for one. I ambled over to the pool of light it cast down onto the sidewalk, opened the bag, and held out both swords.

It was hard to see past the light, but I thought I saw a gleam on the roof. Binoculars?

A few seconds later, a red light flashed twice from the same spot where I’d thought I had seen something.

This would be the place, then.

I’d brought my extremely illegal picklocks with me, but as it turned out, I didn’t need to use them. Father Douglas had already circumvented the locks and, presumably, the security system. The front door was open, as was the door to the stairwell. From there, it was just one long, thigh-burning hike up to the roof.

I emerged into cold, strong wind. You get up twenty stories or so and you run into that a lot. It ripped at my duster, and set it to flapping like a flag.

I peered around the roof, at spinning heat pumps and AC units and various antennae, but saw no one.

The beam of a handheld floodlight hit me, and I whirled in place. The light was coming from the roof of the building next to mine. Father Douglas flipped it off, and after blinking a few times, I could see him clearly, standing in the wind in priestly black, his white collar almost luminous in the ambient light of the city. His grey eyes were shadowed, and he was maybe a day and a half past time to shave. At his feet on the rooftop lay a long plank, which he must have used to cross from this rooftop to the next.

Alicia, blindfolded and with a gag in her mouth, sat in a chair next to him, her wrists bound to its arms.

Father Douglas lifted a megaphone. “That’s far enough,” he said. I could hear him over the heavy wind. “That’s detcord she’s tied up with. Do you know what that is?”

“Yeah.”

He held up his other hand. “This is the detonator. As long as it’s sending a signal, she’s fine. It’s a dead-man switch. If I drop it or let it go, the signal stops and the cord goes off. If the receiver gets damaged and stops receiving the signal, the cord goes off. If you start using magic and destroy one of the devices, it goes off.”

“That’s way better than the electromagnet thing,” I muttered to myself. I raised my voice and bellowed, “So how do you want to do this?”

“Throw them.”

“Disarm the explosives first.”

“No. The girl stays where she is. Once I’m gone, I’ll send the code to disarm the device.”

I considered the distance. It was a good fifteen-foot jump to get from one rooftop to the other—an easy throw.

“Douglas,” I shouted, “think about this for a minute. The swords aren’t just sharp and shiny. They’re symbols. If you take one up for the wrong reasons, you could destroy it. Believe me, I know.”

“The swords are meant for better things than to molder in a dingy basement,” he replied. He held up the detonator. “Surrender them now.”

I stared at him for a long second. Then I tossed the entire bag over. It landed at his feet with a clatter. He bent down to open it.

I steeled myself. This was about to get dicey. I hadn’t counted on the dead-man switch or a fifteen-foot-long jump.

Father Douglas opened the bag. The smoke grenade Michael had rigged inside it in his workshop went off with a heavy thud. White smoke billowed back into his face. I took three quick steps and hurled myself into the air. For an awful portion of a second, twenty stories of open gravity yawned beneath me, and then I hit the edge of the other roof and collided with Father Douglas. We went down together.

I couldn’t think about anything but the detonator, and I clamped down on that with my left hand, crushing his fingers beneath mine so that he couldn’t release it. He jabbed his thumb at my right eye, but I ducked my head and he got nothing but bone. He slammed his head against my nose— again with the nose, Hell’s bells that hurt—and drove a knee into my groin.