Glen Cook - Red Iron Nights

"Look, what I really need to know is whatever you know about the girl called Candy. At Hullar's. I have to come up with a way to make her stay away tomorrow night."

"I didn't work with her. I barely knew her to say hi."

"Damn. Somehow I had the idea all you girls should know each other. I'm getting really tired of this whole thing. You can't give me anything?"

Dean scowled, though even he realized I'd intended no double meaning. Belinda caught his scowl, raised an eyebrow—I fell in love all over again, because that's one of my own great talents—then winked when Dean wouldn't see her. "No."

I went away wondering.

"Look," I snapped when the Dead Man started in on me during my report, "I did my best. I let Barking Dog drive me crazy telling me about his day so I'd have something to tell Hullar. Then I spent two hours trying to get somewhere with a dame so dizzy she thought me trying to save her life was a new pickup routine. She finally told me to screw off and die. Not exactly a boost for the ego. But I did find out that she won't be working tomorrow night. She has family obligations."

Excellent. If we fail tomorrow, we will have her as bait next time.

"How come you're so sure we'll have more trouble with this killer?"

I am not sure. I am taking a page from your philosophy, looking on the dark side, expecting the worst. If nothing happens, I will have had a wonderfully pleasant surprise.

"Yeah? I hope you get your wonderfully pleasant surprise. I'm going to bed. It was a bitch of a day."

All that beer, in the line of duty.

"There are limits. Stand watch. If that woman finds she can't control her urges—"

Ha. She is sound asleep, without a thought of anyone named Garrett anywhere in her mind.

"What is she, then? A nun? Never mind. I don't want to know. I want to sleep. Good night. Tight. Bedbugs. Bite. All that stuff."

I made it upstairs before the summons came. Garrett! Come down here.

Rather than prolong the pain by fighting, I went. "What?" This would have to be good.

You did not tell me about the other woman. Dixie. At Mama Sam's. Remember?

"I remember. She didn't show up for work. She was expected in but she didn't make it. Nobody was surprised. That was the way she was. All right? She was time wasted. But she's supposed to be there tomorrow for sure. She'll be our bait. Good night."

Whatever questions he had, he took answers directly, without forcing me to spend more time on one of our famous exchanges. I climbed the stairs again. This time I made it all the way to my room before he prodded me. Garrett! There is someone at the door.

Hell with them. Let them come back at a civilized hour. I settled onto the edge of my bed, leaned forward to untie my shoes.

Garrett, Captain Block is at the door. I believe he has brought bad news but he is too excited to read reliably.

Great. For Block I'd make special arrangements. He could come back next week.

Nevertheless, I pried my carcass off my bed and trudged down the hall, downstairs, up the ground-floor hall to the door, peeped through the peephole. The Dead Man was right. That was Captain Block out there. I held another brief debate about whether or not to admit him. I finally gave in and unlocked the door.

I was a tad more frank than usual. "You look like death on a stick."

"I'm considering suicide."

"And you came here for help? That's not one of our services."

"Ha. Ha. He grabbed a march on us, Garrett."

Bring him in here, Garrett.

"Say what? You can't go talking around things tonight. I'm so tired I'm wasted."

"Winchell. He snatched the Candy woman. Tonight. Because he knew we'd be set for him tomorrow night. Ripley was with him."

"How do you know?"

"I saw them. I was down there scouting out how I wanted to do cover tomorrow night. I saw them snatch her when she left work. I chased them till I collapsed. They saw me too. They laughed at me."

"You lost them?"

"I lost them. I'm going to kill myself."

I told the Dead Man, "You want to let him do that now so I can get some sleep? I'll get rid of the body tomorrow."

Nonsense. Captain Block, you must return to your barracks and turn out every man who knew Corporal Winchell or Private Ripley. Determine if any knows where either man might hide. Send squads to check those. Worry more about saving the girl than capturing the villains. A success there will endear you to the public and your superiors alike. I suggest you begin moving now. If, in fact, you do manage to overhaul the villains, do capture rather than kill them. The curse will be easier to control with its carrier still alive.

"I tried that last time. The clown made us kill him."

I suspect that, too, is part of the curse. Whoever cast it originally, for whatever reason — you seem to be taking an inordinately long time examining the official records — was a genius. He did not just toss off a spell that compelled someone to go forth and slaughter a certain sort of woman. He created a curse that interacts with its environment, that learns when it fails, that goes on and gets harder to overcome with time.

Block had grown pale. "There's no way to beat it? If I do stop it today, it gets harder to stop tomorrow?"

I can think of several ways to stop it. None are especially appealing. You can make certain the current curse-bearer dies in the presence of someone so handicapped that he cannot manage a killing. Or with a prisoner who will never be released. I am now convinced that the accursed must be kept alive while the appropriate experts study him and determine how to deactivate the curse, cantrip by cantrip.

Alternatively, inasmuch as each transfer has been from a dead man to a living one through direct association, we might experiment with a live burial. Even better might be a live burial at sea. Perhaps entombment if we could be certain the tomb would remain unopened forever.

"You saying the curse itself can't be stopped, only the guy wearing it?" I asked.

That has been the situation to date. In reality, burial has just been a means of passing the problem to a subsequent generation.

"I smell legwork."

Indeed. Much of it legwork that should have been done already. I suspect actual dismemberment of the curse will require identification of the sorcerer who cast it and a clear picture of circumstances surrounding the casting. Motive may be as important as means. Knowing why the curse was created could provide a clue as to how to get at it, where to start unraveling it.

I told Block, "I'll bet he's been thinking this way since the first time you came around. And you've been sloughing off the research on account of it seemed like too much trouble."

He didn't argue and neither did the Dead Man.

I said, "Whatever's happening now, I'm not involved. I've got sleep to catch up on."

Block opened his mouth.

"Don't start on me, Captain. How many times do I have to drag your ass out of the fire before you're satisfied? You have the same equipment I have. Old Bones here told you what to do. Go do it. Save a life. Get famous. Where's Dean? Can't he let Block out? Gone to bed? Come on." I grabbed Block by the elbow. "Do what he says. Get that research when you can. Good night." Out the door he went, sputtering.

I got me a few hours of horizontal, but not hardly enough. A big racket awakened me. I smelled food cooking, so it must've been around the solar dawn, though still a long way from any time when a rational being would be awake.

For whatever irrational reason, I pulled on my pants and stumbled downstairs. I rambled into the kitchen, dropped into my customary chair. "I thought those little shit morCartha were all taken by the army for aerial scouts in the Cantard." MorCartha are a flying race, knee- to hip-high, resembling old-fashioned red devils with bat-style wings, only they're more brown than red. They're a contentious, loud, and obnoxious species possessed of no consideration whatsoever. They came from the north, fleeing thunder-lizards. TunFaire had been plagued by them till somebody suffered a seizure of smarts and hired them as auxiliaries. If they did what they were paid for, they could have a dramatic impact.