Harry Turtledove - The Case of the Toxic Spell Dump

Earthquake, I thought, and then, more sensibly, burglars.

I ran into the bedroom, calling Judy’s name as I went.

Nobody answered. On me bed, lying exactly parallel to each other, just the way Judy would have set them there, were a green silk blouse and a pair of linen pants: the right land of outfit to wear to the opening of a nice new restaurant. The bedspread was white. I am, you will have gathered, familiar with Judy’s bed and its bedclothes. The red stain next to the blouse was new. It wasn’t a big stain, but seeing even a little blood is plenty to make your own blood run cold.

“Judy?” My voice came out as a frightened croak. No answer again. I hadn’t really expected one.

The bathroom door was open. The air in there felt humid, as if she’d taken a shower not long before. She wasn’t in there now, though, not anywhere—I yanked back the curtain to be sure.

Burglars faded from my mind. I wished the word would have stayed; stuff, after all, is only stuff. You can always get more. But an uglier, more frightening word took its place: kidnappers.

I didn’t want to dunk if let alone believe it. After what had happened to me on The Second, though, what choice did I have? I ran back to the bedroom, where the phone was.

I snatched up the handset.

Nothing happened. The phone was dead. Ichor dripped from the little cages that held the ear and mouth imps. The front mesh on both cages was pushed in. Whoever had snatched Judy had taken the time to implode the phone before he left with her.

I hurried out to the walkway, went to the flat next door. I knocked, hard. “I need to use your phone to call the constabulary,” I said loudly. Someone was home; St. Elmo’s fire glowed through the curtains and I could hear little noises inside. But nobody came to the door.

Cursing the faintheart to a warmer climate than Angels City’s, I ran downstairs and pounded on the manager’s door.

He answered; opening the door was part of his job. He’d seen me going in and out often enough to recognize me. As soon as he got a good look at my face, he said, “What’s the matter, son?”

I didn’t take offense; that’s how he talks. Besides, he’s old enough to have fought in the Second Sorcerous War (and he has a bad limp, so maybe he did), so he’s old enough and then some to be my father. I said, “May I use your phone, please? I think Judy’s been kidnapped.” As with any magic, saying the word made it real.

“Judy? Judy Ather in 272?” He gaped at me, and men at the door I’d left open, I suppose to confirm that that was the flat I was talking about He stood aside. “You’d better come in.”

His flat could have been furnished from the St Ferdinand’s Valley swap meet; the operative phrase was essence of bad taste. From the couch, his wife gave me a fishy stare.

That was the least of my worries. But he took me to the phone and let me use it, so his carp-eyed wife could stare all she liked.

Even through two phone imps, the Long Beach constabulary decurion sounded bored when he answered my call.

Kidnapping, though, is a word to conjure with when you’re talking to constables.

“Don’t go back into the flat,” he told me. “Stand out in front of the building and wait for our units. It won’t be long, Mr., uh. Fisher.”

I stood out in front of the building. It wasn’t long. Two black-and-whites pulled up, red and blue lanterns flashing.

Right behind them were a couple of plainweave carpets that carded plainclothes constables.

Everybody swept up to Judy’s flat and started doing constabulary-type things: physical searches, spells, what have you. One of the plainclothesmen grunted when he saw the imploded phone. “Looks like a professional job,” he said.

“We aren’t likely to come up with anything much.”

They hadn’t bothered asking me for a statement yet. I said, “This isn’t just an isolated case. I can guarantee you that.”

“Oh? How?” The plainclothesman sounded-skeptical is the politest way I can put it.

As with the bored decurion at the phone desk, I had the words to rock him. I spoke them, one by one: attempted murder, Thomas Brothers fire. Central Intelligence. “You’d better get hold of Legate Shiro Kawaguchi, up in St. Ferdinand’s Valley,” I added. “He can fill you in on the details.”

“All right, sir, we’ll do that,” the plainclothesman said—he was a tall black fellow named Johnson. “Jesus, what kind of mess are we walking into the middle of?”

“A bad one,” I said. “But you’re not in the middle of it; you’re just on the edge. I’m in the middle—and so is my fiancee.”

A fellow wearing forensics crystal balls on his collar tabs came up to Johnson and said, “I ran a similarity check between the blood on the bedspread and the razor I found in a bathroom drawer. They match, so that’s probably Ather’s blood.”

I moaned. That’s a word you hear every so often, but you hardly ever use it, let alone do it This was one of those times. I felt as if I’d been kicked in the belly. Judy, bleeding?

Judy, maybe dead?

I must have said that out loud (though I don’t remember doing it), because the forensics man put a hand on my shoulder and said, “I don’t think she’s dead, sir. There’s evidence of some funny kind of fast-dissipating sleep spell in the flat.

My best guess is, she put up a fight, they slugged her, she kept fighting, and they knocked her out so they could get her away from here.”

I liked him, and believed him, too. He didn’t try sounding like somebody who knew everything there was to know; no pseudo-learned drivel about analyses and reconstructions.

His best guess was what he had, and that’s what he gave me.

I thought it seemed likely, too. The constables in uniform had been knocking on doors through the block of flats. People opened doors for them—even the louse who lived next to Judy and had pretended I didn’t exist. But there’s a difference between getting doors to open and learning anything once they have. The constables came back to Judy’s flat empty-handed: nobody had seen anything, nobody had heard anything.

“That’s insane,” I exploded. “They take an unconscious woman downstairs and out of a block of flats at a busy time of the evening and nobody noticed?”

“Must have been magic,” Johnson said. “If they used it to knock Mistress Ather out, they probably used it to aid the getaway, too.”

“I’ll check that,” the forensics man said, and he bustled out onto the walkway.

“What do I do now?” I said, as much to myself as to anyone else. Half of me wanted to make like a light-and-magic show mercenary and go out slaughtering all the bad guys.

The other half, unfortunately, reminded me that not only did I not know how to get my hands on the bad guys, but that if I went after them—whoever they were— alone, they’d dispose of me instead of the other way round.

Johnson’s answer showed that, as suited a constable, he had a thoroughly practical mind: “What you do now, Mr. Fisher, is come down to the station with us so we can get a sworn statement from you.”

I didn’t know where the Long Beach constabulary station was; I had to follow one of the plainweave carpets back there.

It turned out to be almost on the ocean, in a fancy new building. Legate Kawaguchi would have killed for Johnson’s large, bright, efficient office. Come to that, I wouldn’t have minded having it myself.

Like constables anywhere in the Barony of Angels, the Long Beach crew had a regular library of scriptures on which the people with whom they dealt could swear truthfulness: everything from the Analects to the ZendrAvesta. They pulled out a Torah for me; I rested my hand on the satin cover while I repeated the oath Johnson gave me.