Harry

There was a heated argument with the kid. Daniel was positively indignant that he was being left behind while the rest of us sought answers.

Karrin rightly pointed out that his involvement had been ill-advised from the start and that his presence at the crime scene had nearly gotten him killed. The argument had been promptly concluded when Charity quite literally dragged her son out the door by the ear, tackled the hospital forms like a paperwork ninja, and marched us out into the parking lot.

Karrin was called away from the hospital by Detective Dobbs, who had gotten a new lead on the case. She promised to call when she could and to join us wherever we ended up. Michael dutifully climbed into the passenger seat of the van and I was shoved into the back with Daniel. It was more spacious than it might have otherwise been, with a half-dozen Carpenter kids stuffed into the back like wiggling, giggling sardines.

Charity kept a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, coming down with a mild case of road rage when we were cut off in traffic several times on the way to the Carpenter house. By the time we reached the driveway of their home, I thought smoke might start curling from her ears.

There was another argument, though shorter and more civil than the one at the hospital when it came time to decide who was coming with me. Charity wanted to suit up right alongside Michael and call Father Forthill in to watch the kids. Michael argued that without one of them home, Daniel might take decisive action. And if the Wardens came for him, who better to protect him?

It was the last point, I think, that convinced her to stay. She still looked cheesed off when Michael went upstairs to change. We were facing a purely human foe, so far as we knew, but that didn't mean he had to take chances. When he emerged, he wasn't wearing his usual surcoat or welding the five-foot-long, heavy broadsword, Amoracchius.

I could spy a kevlar vest beneath the plaid work shirt he was wearing. To an untrained eye, it would look like a dark undershirt, but I knew better. There was probably more body armor underneath. The jacket he wore was going to be stifling in the summer heat, but it effectively hid the M9 in its shoulder holster. It was a little surreal to see him looking more like a muscled Marine than a knight.

It made sense, I supposed. Using the swords the wrong way could unmake them. Michael wouldn't risk that. He could assist me as a backup, though. Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends and all that jazz. I'd make sure it didn't come to that last part. I was bringing Michael home safe, even if I had to give up what mobility I had left to do it.

It took a few minutes to construct the tracking spell. Murphy had been able to find a spear-shaped leaf our shooter had been kind enough to bleed all over during his retreat. I balanced it in my palm and when I broke the circle, the thing spun like a compass in my hand, pointing our way. I smiled grimly. Game time.

We clambered back into the minivan, neither of us speaking to each other. Michael's head was a million miles away. My world had tilted slightly off its axis this morning and kept spinning faster and more crookedly with every new revelation. I could only imagine how much worse it was for Michael. Reality had come slamming down hard to quash whatever hope he'd clung to where Molly was concerned. She was almost certainly dead.

Worse, his second eldest was about to face the wrath of the White Council, who's reputation for mercy was pretty much non-existent.

"We're going to get justice," I muttered to him. "For both of them."

Michael's eyes finally came back into focus. "I know."

"God tell you everything's going to be okay?"

I tried to keep a note of scorn out of my voice. Michael and I didn't see eye-to-eye on the whole God thing. He puts a lot of stock in the guy, and nothing I say is going to ruin it for him. But there'd been enough strife today, and I didn't want to make his day worse by provoking a theological discussion.

"Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not on your own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths."

"In other words, buck up and have a little faith?"

Michael's mouth contemplated the idea of a smile. "Something like that."

The leaf took us past River North and toward the West Loop. The trip should have only taken about eight minutes by car, but Chicago traffic was dismal, and it took easily double that.

The spell snapped taut and came to a shivering halt as we passed a swanky eatery. I examined the building critically. It reeked of wealth and good taste. Definitely a place that a grubby, half-crippled, down-on-his-luck wizard would not be welcomed. It did make me feel a little better when I realized Michael would hardly be better received. He looked like a rugged outdoorsman, off to fell redwoods on the west coast.

"Darn it all to heck, I left my tuxedo in the Beetle."

Michael's amusement was a dry, brittle thing. I was shocked he could manage it at all. I couldn't imagine what it would be like to contemplate the loss of not one but two children.

"The Oriole," he mused. "A five-star restaurant seems a strange place to find our gunman."

"I've seen stranger. Let's go."

We found a parking spot a little way up the road, paid the meter, and made our way slowly toward the doors of the Oriole. Michael kept near my side, tolerating the slower pace. After my therapy exercises, I was moving faster. I might even be able to jog. But Michael would be able to outdistance me if it came down to that.

The door to the Orile claimed it wasn't due to open until five-thirty, but when we tried the door, we found it unlocked. There was someone waiting on the other side. A man, built along the same lines as Michael with significantly less neck, stepped directly into our path.

"Stop right there. I'm going to need you to identify yourselves."

Michael and I exchanged a glance. Whoever had been able to coax the doors of this place open early had money. More distressingly, he had the need for bodyguards.

"Well, I'm Moe, and this here is Curly. Larry and Shemp couldn't make it on account of traffic."

Michael breathed out an almost inaudible sigh through his nose and closed his eyes. No doubt praying the guard didn't plug me.

The guard blinked slowly, incomprehension clear on his big, dumb face. Some people have no appreciation for comedy.

"Let them past, Jensen," a familiar, cultured voice said calmly from the interior of the room. "Mr. Dresden is an old associate of mine."

I'd freaking known he'd been involved. But now wasn't the time to call Murphy up and say I told you so.

Jenson moved to the side and let us pass, though he didn't seem happy about it. He kept his hand on the butt of the gun tucked into a holster at his waist.

The Oriole was composed of muted browns. The stones were sienna, the hardwood floors a lacquered oak. The whole thing was accented with one blue wall, like a backsplash of color against all the earth tones. Lights dangled from the bare rafters, covered Chinese lantern style. Only one table near the back was occupied. One man eating alone, flanked by three more guards, two men, one woman. The first had red hair, buzzed short. He had narrow little blue eyes, heavy brows, a beefy neck, and a face smashed flat like a pug's.

Cujo Hendricks.

The woman was built like an Amazon. Six feet tall, blonde, beautiful, with a sharply cut face. Her icy eyes tracked me suspiciously as we approached. Her gray suit clung to an impeccable figure. She'd be hiding a weapon somewhere on her person.

The third man was an unknown quantity. Shrimpier than either of the other guards, but still well-built, shifty-eyed, and armed.

And then, of course, there was the man seated at the table. An attractive man in a tailored suit. His hair was getting to be a little more salt than pepper these days. His eyes, the color of worn dollar bills, were still sharp, still fixed as intently on me as ever.

"Hendricks, Gard," I said, nodding to both. I squinted at the new guy. "And what's your name, huh?"

"Williams," the man said, jerking his chin up defiantly. I was careful not to look him right in the eye. He adjusted, and in doing so, drew attention to the fact he was walking with a slight limp.

The leaf in my palm twitched, adjusting to point at Williams. I smiled unpleasantly at him. Gotcha, you son of a bitch.

"Mr. Dresden," Gentleman Johnny Marcone drawled. "To what do I owe the dubious pleasure?"

"Not here for you, actually," I said, forcing some joviality into my tone. "I need to talk to your boy Williams here."

Marcone shifted in his hair a fraction so he could regard Williams. "And what business do you have with him?"

"None," the young man said, tone rigid with dislike.

I held the leaf up for inspection. "The blood on this begs to differ, Will. It belongs to the man that shot at a group of cops in the Fulton River District. You also hit a fifteen-year-old kid while you were at it. The funny thing about the spray and pray method is that people tend to get caught in the crossfire."

Marcone's demeanor became even more frigid as he turned those pitiless green eyes on Williams. He said one word. One word was all he needed.

"Hendricks."

Cujo leaped into action like the good little guard dog he was. Williams didn't stand a chance. He barely made it three steps before Hendricks was on him, yanking him back so forcefully that his arm popped out of its socket. He gave a breathless shriek of agony and Hendricks rode him to the floor, mashing his face into the hardwood.

"Now," Marcone said in a thoroughly businesslike tone. "I will ask again. What business brings you here, Mr. Dresden? I hardly believe that Chicago PD brought you in simply to catch a rogue gunman."

"Right you are Johnny," I said, obnoxiously drawing out his name in imitation of Jack Nicholson. "Murph brought me in on a serial case. This little bastard has been killing girls. Ten of them, to date."

"I didn't!" Williams exclaimed. "I swear to God, I didn't kill no girls. I just did what I was paid for, honest."

"Paid for?" Hendricks asked, tugging the young man's arm forcefully. He let out a squeal reminiscent of a pig's. Williams was panting by the time Hendricks eased up.

"I just took it for extra money. One of our guys, Huber, he just wanted a few of us to keep an eye on that lot. Told us to scare people off from searching his unit. I didn't know he was killing anyone!"

Surprise crept across Marcone's face.

I raised a brow at him. "You know the guy?"

The lines around his mouth creased, like admitting anything to me left a sour taste in his mouth. "Yes. Wayne Huber is a mid-level member of my organization. Planted in Chicago PD as a member of the forensics team."

"Did you know?" I asked, voice shaking. I wanted somewhere to lob the fury, the helplessness this case made me feel. Marcone was just the target I needed. "Did you know what that sick son of a bitch was doing?"

Marcone's eyes were like flecks of green ice in his face. "Do you think he'd be living if I did?"

Point. I'd be damned if I'd admit it though.

"Where do we find Huber?"

Marcone flicked a finger and Gard moved to his side, ready and compliant muscle.

"Miss Gard will direct you."

He speared a bite of food and lifted it to his mouth, a clear dismissal. We turned to leave. I thought that was all she wrote until he called after us. We all paused, Michael with one hand on the door.

"And Miss Gard?"

"Yes?"

"Dispatch Huber in any way you see fit."

Gard's smile was as predatory as a shark's.

"Yes, sir."