Glen Cook - Old Tin Sorrows

"Your choice." I didn't move.

He stopped throwing things into bags and looked at me. "What?"

"The General didn't just hire me to find out who was kyping the family trophies. He also wanted me to find out who's trying to kill him."

He sneered. "Kill him? Nobody's trying to kill him. That's just his imagination at work."

"So was theft when I arrived. Except to you. He was right about that and I think he's right about this."

"Bull. Who'd profit?"

"Good question. I don't think the estate has anything to do with it. I can't supply another motive, though. Yet." I looked at him expectantly. He didn't say anything.

"Any friction with anybody? Any time, ever?"

"I can't give you what you want, Mr. Garrett. We've all had our troubles with the General—none of them the kind you kill over. Matters of discipline, that's all."

"None of these people are inclined to hold grudges?"

"Chain. He's a big, stupid farm boy gone to fat at the hips and between the ears. He can hold a grudge forever, but he's never had one against the General. If you'll excuse me, sir?"

"Not yet. You've known this moment was coming since I got here, haven't you?"

"I wasn't surprised you found me out. I was startled that you found the man who bought from me. Will that be all?"

"No. Who killed Hawkes and Snake?"

"I wouldn't know. I expect you'll find out. You're a first-class finder-outer."

"It's what I do. You didn't perchance try to discourage me when you decided I could cause you trouble, did you?"

"Sir?"

"There have been three attempts on my life since I arrived. I wondered if you'd thought you could cover your tracks—"

"That's not my way. I made it through a Marine career without killing anyone. I have no intention of starting now. I told you, I have nothing to lose here."

Maybe. And maybe he was just a convincing liar.

I shrugged. "For what it's worth, I don't think you did wrong and I don't feel that proud of rooting you out."

"I bear you no ill will. You were only the agency by which the inevitable arrived. But I would like to get on the road before dark."

"You won't reconsider? I don't think the old man will last without you."

"Kaid can handle him. He should've been all along, anyway."

"Do you know who the blonde woman is?" He had nothing to lose by telling me now.

"A figment of your imagination, I suspect. There's no blonde woman here. No one but you has seen her."

"Bradon did. He painted her portrait."

That stopped him cold. "He did?"

"He did."

He believed me. He didn't get much push behind his "Snake was crazy."

I was pretty sure he knew nothing about any blonde. Which made her that much more interesting an enigma.

I moved out of the doorway, indicating he was free to go. I said, "You can't tell me anything that might keep somebody else from getting killed?"

"No. I'd tell you if I could."

He picked up his bags. I suggested, "Catch a ride with my associates when they go."

He wanted to tell me to go to hell. He didn't. "Thank you." It was raining and those bags were heavy.

I asked, "One more thing. What happened to Tyler and the draug from out front?"

"Ask Peters. I don't know. My duties confined me to the house."

"The draug that tried to get in the back isn't accounted for. It didn't go back to the swamp. Where could it hide out during the day?" Assuming, like story draugs, that it didn't dare hazard daylight.

"In the outbuildings. I really must go, Mr. Garrett."

"All right. Thanks for talking to me."

He headed out, back stick-straight, unapologetic. He'd done what had to be done. He wasn't ashamed. He wasn't going to be talked out of leaving, either.

Another one down, I reflected.

Now there were six heirs. The cut for the minority people was up near a half million apiece.

Morley, Saucerhead, and the doctor awaited me beside the fountain. I didn't approach in any hurry. I was trying to figure out how to launch a draug hunt.

Cook came out as Dellwood headed for the front door. They went into the entry hall arguing. She didn't want him to go, either.

I joined Morley and the others. "What's the verdict?"

Morley shrugged. "He didn't shake enough or have trouble enough talking for it to be what I thought. He show any of those symptoms earlier?"

"Some shaking. No real trouble talking. What about the fit?"

"I don't know. Ask the doc."

I did. He said, "I don't quite know. I should've had a closer look and a chance to interview the patient. But from where I stood it looked like you need an exorcist more than a doctor."

"A what?"

Morley was as startled as I was. I'd never seen his eyes bug before. The remark had caught him from the blind side.

"An exorcist. A demonologist. Maybe a necromancer. Possibly all three. Though the first step should be a physical exam to make sure I'm not imagining things."

"Start over. You've got me all turned around."

"Between us, Mr. Dotes and I have a comprehensive knowledge of poisons. We know of none that produce the combination of symptoms the man shows. Not without affecting him more dramatically, physically, leaving him unable to control his speech and extremities—if he stayed alive at all. Disease is more probable than poison. Who knows what he brought home? I spent eight years down there. I saw a lot of strange diseases, though nothing quite like this. Is he taking any medication?"

"Are you kidding? He'd die first." I had a thought. "How about malaria?" I'd been one lucky Marine. I'd never contracted malaria. "Or some kind of yellow fever?"

"I thought of that. A virulent strain of malaria, with massive quinine treatments, might produce most of the symptoms he shows. Tainted medication might account for the rest. But you said he'd die before accepting medication. I really must know his medical history before I hazard a guess."

"Why that business about an exorcist?"

"My chief suspicion lies in the supernatural realm. Several varieties of malign spirit could produce the symptoms we see. My advice would be to examine his past. You might find something there to explain what's happening. You might also look for an origin in unfriendly witchcraft. An enemy may have sent a spirit against him."

Black Pete showed up in time to catch most of the discussion. I asked, "You make anything of that? The General have enemies who'd off him that way?"

He shook his head. "The answer is here, Garrett. I'm sure. He doesn't have enemies who'd want to kill him. The worst ones he does have are the kind who'd send somebody like your friend." He twitched a hand toward Morley.

"There's no sorcerer around here. Unless you count Bradon, who's gone. Doctor, could an amateur necromancer have sicked something on him, say accidentally, that would stick after the spirit-master died?"

"An amateur? I doubt it. Somebody really potent, maybe. If they stuck around themselves, as a ghost. Hatred is the usual force animating spirits that devour a man from within. And I mean hatred strong enough to bend the laws of nature. Hatred that wants its object to suffer for all eternity. But I'm no expert. Which is why I suggested a demonologist, an exorcist, a necromancer. You must discover the nature of the spirit, then banish it. Or raise it up, find out what animates its hatred and appease it."

Peters said, "This is crazy, Garrett. The General never made that kind of enemy."

"We're talking possibilities. The doc says the whole thing could be physical. He needs to do a hands-on physical exam. And he needs a detailed medical history. What're the chances?"

He looked at me, at the doctor, glanced at Morley and Saucerhead. "Better than you think." His voice turned hard. "The old bastard can only threaten so much. We don't have to give him a choice. I'll be back in five minutes." He strode toward the kitchen.