Ilona Andrews - Wildfire

“What do you think?” I asked as we pulled the car out of the parking lot.

“I thought he was being truthful.”

“He was. For the most part. He didn’t kidnap his brother, and he has no idea where Brian went. He’s in love with his brother’s wife.”

Cornelius nodded. “She married the wrong brother.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Do you recall the tree I stopped by? The one with yellow mushrooms?”

I nodded.

“It’s called honey mushroom, and prepared the right way it can be delicious. If you prepare it the wrong way, it’s poisonous. It’s a facultative saprophyte. It kills the tree on which it grows and then feeds on its rotting wood.” Cornelius paused. “It’s growing on an apple tree.”

Brian Sherwood could’ve chosen any kind of tree to grow his mushrooms on. Instead he chose a fruit tree. And he chose to put it right at the entrance to the atrium where it couldn’t be avoided.

“Every day Edward Sherwood has to walk past that tree,” Cornelius said. “He feels it slowly dying, choked to death by the mushroom, and he can’t do anything about it.”

“Thank you. I would’ve missed that.”

“I’m glad I was useful.” Cornelius smiled.

“Brian seems to be passive-aggressive in his cruelty,” I said. “And he’s a coward. He tends to run away any time things get tough and trusts that his wife or his brother will sort it out.”

“Why are we driving so slowly?”

“Because Edward Sherwood told the truth. He did see his brother leave the parking lot in his vehicle, which means that if something happened, it happened in the three-mile stretch along this road. I don’t want to miss it.”

“What are we looking for?”

“Anything out of the ordinary. Broken glass. Chunks of a blown tire.”

“What was he driving?”

“Mercedes-Benz, S550, iridium silver metallic finish, which basically means the color of stainless steel.”

Cornelius grimaced. “I probably should’ve known that. I’ll do better next time.”

I smiled back. “It’s my fault. All of the details are in your email. At the beginning of the case, we make a basic info packet, which includes all the relevant information known to us, and Bern drops it in our email so we can access it on our phone. I should’ve told you this, but we’ve operated as a family business for so long and I’ve never hired anyone for a permanent position.”

“Do you think Brian was kidnapped?” Cornelius asked.

“Right now I’m leaning toward him abandoning everything and escaping somewhere calm for a few days. His company is on the brink of a financial disaster, his son still failed to manifest magic, and his wife, who was supposed to open the doors to the House elite, is viewed as unclean. He seems to have fooled everyone into thinking that he is sensitive and easily overwhelmed, but the tree makes me think there is some calculation in his responses . . .”

We crossed a bridge spanning a drop. Ahead the guardrail bent slightly, as if hit. I pulled over and got out of the car. A smudge of silver paint marked the bend in the guardrail. I crouched and took a picture of it with my phone. Nothing else was out of the ordinary.

“What now?” Cornelius asked.

I pivoted on my feet. Across the street a brand-new gas station was doing brisk business.

“Now we go and ask them for their security recording.”

Three minutes later, we were in the gas station. One of their security cameras did point toward that stretch of the street to cover the exit from their parking lot, and all recordings were uploaded to a server and kept for ninety days. The manager and I bargained. He asked for ten thousand dollars. I asked him if he really wanted me to come back with a cop and a warrant, which would result in him getting no money at all. He told me warrants took time. I told him to Google my name. Then he and his clerk watched Mad Rogan tear downtown apart like he was a demon from hell. We settled on two hundred bucks plus the $19.99 USB stick. Which was highway robbery for 8GB, but I decided to pick my battles.

I plugged the USB into my laptop and fast-forwarded the video.

5:00 p.m.

5:30 p.m.

5:45 p.m.

I let it run at normal speed. At 5:51 p.m., a silver Mercedes slid into view. A black SUV, maybe a GMC Yukon, rear-ended it, forcing it off the road and into the guardrail. A man got out of the Mercedes, presumably Brian Sherwood, although I’d have to ask Bug to enhance the footage to be sure.

Two men stepped out of the Yukon. The driver raised his hand. Brian crumpled to the ground. Taser. The driver scooped him up like Brian was a child and carried him into the Yukon. The passenger got into the Mercedes. At 5:52 p.m. the two vehicles pulled onto the road.

Cornelius raised his eyebrows.

I took out my phone and called Rynda.

“Yes?” She sounded on the verge of tears.

“You were right. Brian was kidnapped,” I said.

“I know!” Her voice reached hysterical pitch. “They just called the house!”

Brian and Rynda Sherwood lived in Hunters Creek Village, in what the real estate listing called a “lovely family home designed for an active lifestyle.” They bought the house four years ago, and real estate sites kept archived listings forever. The house sat on an acre. It had six bedrooms and five bathrooms, eighty-five hundred square feet of living space, a pool, a “party cabana,” and a wine grotto, which I had trouble picturing. My mind kept serving up something out of a Disney movie, but filled with wine instead of ocean water.

The house also sold for three and a half million, about average for the neighborhood. Driving to it, I could see why. We were surrounded by woods. Birds sang. Squirrels dashed up an occasional palm growing among the oaks. You’d never know Houston was just a two-minute car ride away.

We pulled up to the house. I parked next to a familiar gunmetal-grey Range Rover. Rogan got there before us. Rynda or someone on her security team must’ve called him. Good. She seemed to listen to him better than she did to me.

“Is that Rogan’s car?” Cornelius asked.

“Yes.”

“Does it bother you?”

“It does a little.” I would have to be a robot for it not to bother me. “But I try to keep things in perspective.”

He tilted his head, waiting for me to elaborate.

“Rynda just lost her mother and all of her friends. I have a feeling she must’ve relied on her husband a great deal, and now he’s missing too. She’s a mother, and she’s laser-focused on surviving and keeping her children safe. She’s known Rogan since she was a toddler. He’s practically family, and he has the magic and resources to keep her and the kids alive through this. It’s natural for her to reach out to him.”

“I don’t believe she sees him as family,” Cornelius said.

“She can see him however she wants. I only care how Rogan sees me.”

He told me he loved me, and he wasn’t lying. I would’ve trusted him even without my talent. Rogan was dangerous, at times unpredictable, and always stubborn. Given a chance, he would roll over people like a bulldozer to accomplish his goals. But I could never see him cheating. He was too direct for that. It wasn’t in his nature.

The two of us walked to the door. An armed guard blocked our way. Not one of Rogan’s ex-military hard asses; this guy looked like a cross between a bodybuilder and a park ranger, his olive-drab cargo pants tucked into desert-tan boots, and his khaki polo shirt stretched tight across his broad shoulders and thick chest. It was obviously custom tailored to accommodate his overdeveloped physique. Around a surprisingly narrow waist hung a thick nylon tactical belt with a pistol in a plain holster, handcuffs, and a handheld radio. Completing the ensemble was a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses and a ball cap with “Sherwood Security” embroidered above the House crest. High-priced hired muscle.