The spot on the door started to smolder, then char; then under the onslaught of concentrated heat, a section just dissolved away, leaving a gaping hole with flickers of flame licking around the edges. At the same time, I poured the rest of my energy into the sparks so that it now spilled over, the sparks being unable to contain the extra power. The wards around the door sensed this as a severe magical threat and attached their own energy to combat the threat.
“Push it through,” I said to Sherwood. “I’ve got to concentrate on holding it all together.”
She directed a rush of air toward the hole in the door and the energized points of light streamed through, taking the wards with them. Five seconds after, there wasn’t a single speck of light left in the room, and the wards around the door were gone as well.
I reached through the hole in the door, felt around, and slid back the dead bolt. We moved cautiously out of the room and back up the stairs, watching for Cassandra, but she was nowhere to be seen. I wanted to look around the place, but Sherwood pulled me along.
“Let’s get out of here,” she said. “She might be back at any time, and we’re both drained.”
“Hold on a sec. I need to do something first.”
I signaled Lou to keep watch at the front door, scanned the front room, and grabbed a couple of dog-eared paperback books and a half-eaten chocolate bar from a table. As soon as we got outside I picked up a smooth twig and put all the items together on the plank leading to the front door. I put out some more energy and diffused it through the objects there, then another, weaker pulse into the plank itself. I ran back in and put the books and the candy bar back where I’d found them. No point in alerting her.
The twig went into my pocket. I now had an efficient alarm system; the twig was keyed to both Cassandra and the wooden plank, and if she returned, it would glow the minute she set foot on it.
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s go.” Lou took the lead, still keeping watch.
Before we even reached the car, the cell clipped to Sherwood’s belt went off. She made a face as she put it up to her ear. Then she made another face, this one directed at me, with sudden interest and raised eyebrows.
“What?” I mouthed. She waved her hand at me for quiet.
“Yes,” she said. “This is Sherwood.” A pause. “Melissa? Yes, I’m looking for a keyboard player.” Another pause. “Bass.” A longer pause. “Mostly originals, a few standards. I’m pretty open to different styles, though.”
“Set up a meet,” I mouthed frantically. Sherwood waved me off impatiently and turned her back, but I waved my hands in her face until she said, “Hold on a moment, will you?” and put her hand over the phone.
“What?” she said.
“Try and set up a meet right away. The next time she talks to Cassandra, we’ll be toast.” She nodded, and went back to her conversation.
“Sure,” I heard her say. “I’m out and about right now, but I could meet you somewhere and we could talk it over. Where? How about Potrero Hill; that’s up where I live. Do you know the Thinker’s Café on Connecticut? ... Good. About an hour, then.” I tapped her on the shoulder and pointed to Lou, and she nodded. “You’ll know me because I’ll have my dog along—he goes everywhere with me. A little black-and-tan guy, like a mini Pinscher ... Okay, see you then.”
“So we’re on?” I asked as she snapped her cell shut.
“Apparently. She sounds nice. I’m still feeling a little creepy about this. I don’t like lying to people much, even if it’s for a good cause.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Why all this elaborate make-believe, anyway? Why don’t you just grab her if that’s what you’re going to do?”
“I don’t want to grab her. I want to find out where she lives and what she’s been up to and maybe who she’s hanging with. And if she stole something, and if not, why Jessica’s really looking for her. Grabbing her, as you put it, isn’t going to do a thing for me.”
We walked the last little bit back to the van, Lou keeping an eye out for Cassandra, but she was making herself scarce. Just as well—right now I didn’t want any trouble. The important thing was to get over to the café before Jackie did.
Only one of the outside tables was open when we got there, but that was fine. I parked the van a block away where I could see but not be too close. I didn’t want to take any chance of spooking her. I grabbed Lou by his harness to get his attention. Once he got a good look at Jackie, he’d be able to use his talent to track her down like a bloodhound. Locating her again and finding out where she lived would be simple for him.
“Lou. Go with Sherwood. She’s meeting someone, and pay attention to who it is. And you’re a dog, remember? No tricks; you’ve got to be a dog or she’ll know something’s wrong. Got it?”
He yawned in my face, his way of saying,
Of course I’ve got it.
He can’t completely understand sentences, though he’s pretty good with words, but I’ve managed to get some complicated ideas across to him in the past. This time it was pretty straightforward.
I wasn’t worried about Jackie tumbling to what he really was, even though she’d obviously know all about Ifrits. But magically speaking they’re amazingly neutral, and most spells slide right off them. Even a practitioner sometimes can’t tell an Ifrit for sure, especially if the Ifrit wants to stay unrecognized.
Sherwood’s persona was more of a worry, but she was good at shielding. If Jackie suspected her and really probed, she’d be able to tell Sherwood was a practitioner, but why would she? There was no reason to do that. It takes some energy, and it’s not practical to examine everyone you meet on the off chance they might be the odd practitioner, even if you’re hiding out and super paranoid.
Sherwood walked down to the café, Lou dutifully trotting beside her like a faithful dog, and went inside. She reappeared a minute later with a cup of coffee and sat down at the open outdoor table. Lou hopped up onto the chair beside her and scanned the area carefully, looking for any leftover scraps of sandwich that might have fallen on the ground around the tables.
Twenty minutes later Jackie showed up, wearing a bright red sweatshirt. I recognized her instantly from her picture, though she was shorter than I had expected, no more than five-two or so. She paused in front of Sherwood before sitting down across from her. She reached over a hand for Lou to sniff. He did so, playing his part, and then sat up in his all-purpose begging position, the one guaranteed to melt the heart of dog lovers and even coax a smile out of dog cynics. She was clearly the former, and she made a big fuss over him, ruffling his ears and thumping him gently on his side.
I was too far away to hear what they were saying but it seemed to be going well. Sherwood laughed a couple of times, and so did Jackie. After a while Jackie looked at her wrist and stood up. Sherwood stood up as well, they hugged briefly, and Jackie walked away with a little good-bye wave. Sherwood stayed on her feet, looking after her. I could see she was now even less comfortable with her Mata Hari role.
I waited a couple of minutes before joining her, just in case Jackie made an unexpected return. When I finally walked over and sat down at the table, Sherwood gave me a sour look.
“Okay, I did my part. Now what?”
“What did you think of her?” I asked.
Ever since Sherwood had “returned” to us after a year’s absence, her natural empathetic abilities have increased considerably. She could get a pretty good reading on people almost instantly. Practitioners were harder to read for her, and some people were naturally closed off to that particular ability, so she wasn’t always right. But her take on people was not to be dismissed lightly.
“I like her,” she said. “We talked about music, naturally, and she’s serious about it. Sort of like you, actually. Made me wish I really could play instead of just faking it.”
“Anything else?”
“She’s passionate.
“Really?”
“Not like that, you idiot.” She shook her head in resignation. “Men. No, passionate about life. Passionate about music. Passionate about things she believes in, the all-or-nothing type. You can see it burning in her. Maybe she could be a bit obsessive, but there’s nothing at all nasty about her.”
Interesting. Not that it meant that much, though. Thieves aren’t necessarily bad people in other ways. And even a person who is honest, loyal, and trustworthy can be dangerous, if their values and worldviews are opposed to your own.
“Did she tell you where she lived?”
“No, but she gave me her cell number. And she did say she was temporarily living downtown somewhere. We’re going to set up a session later, supposedly.”
“Good enough. Lou will be able to find her. And we’ll see where she lives, and maybe who she’s hanging out with. After that ... well, we’ll see.”
“Count me out,” she said. “I don’t want any more to do with this. I’m not sure helping to track her down for Jessie is such a good idea, anyway.”
“You could well be right. But I won’t know until I find out a little more about her.”
AFTER I DROPPED SHERWOOD OFF BACK AT HER house, I continued on downtown. San Francisco is a small city, geographically speaking, but the downtown area covers quite a bit of space. However, when someone says they live downtown, that’s more specific than it sounds. Usually they’ll use a more exact description for wherever they live—I live in SOMA, I live in North Beach, or the Financial District. Only places that don’t fit neatly into those specific areas become the amorphous “downtown,” which doesn’t cover that much territory. Maybe she lived in one of those elegant high-rises that dot the downtown area like the one Jo and Rolando had been staying in last year.
I parked on Mission Street and Tenth, right outside where “downtown” starts. Lou could direct me from the car, using body language and the occasional bark; he’s done it before. But driving around at random and interpreting his barks at every intersection is not the most efficient method. Traveling on foot usually works better.
Lou hopped out and looked up at me expectantly.
“Time to do your stuff,” I told him. “That woman? The one with Sherwood? I need to find her. Find, okay?”
He started off down Mission without a pause, which meant Jackie was fairly close. If she’d been farther away, he’d have cast around for a while until he got a whiff of her, or however he does it.
There weren’t a lot of places to live close by, though. Maybe she was shopping at a store, or on her way somewhere. When we got to Sixth and Mission, Lou took a right, sliding through the street denizens clustered on the sidewalk.
Sixth and Mission is street person central, not as rough as the Tenderloin, but filled with citizens on the fringe: men pushing shopping carts that hold their life’s possessions, drug addicts, alcoholics, desperate women who are thirty and look sixty. Scattered throughout are the rundown resident hotels where you can get a cheap room for a day or week or month.
Halfway down the block Lou stopped in front of one of those hotels. A surprisingly elegant sign proclaimed it to be the Hotel Carlyle but the dingy lobby with an iron grate across the door showed its true colors. Lou stopped in front of the door and looked over at me, ducking out of the way of a friendly drunk who had stopped and was clumsily trying to paw at him. I stood on the sidewalk, hesitant. This was odd. The Carlyle was one step up from a crack house, not the sort of place Jackie would choose. Even if she was trying to keep a low profile and hide out, it made little sense. With her fashion model looks, she’d stand out in a place like this like a delicate warbler amid a flock of city sparrows. People would notice, people would talk, and talk like that has a way of making its way up to unintended ears.
But she was in there. Lou’s never wrong, not about stuff like this. Maybe she was visiting someone. I stood in front of the entrance for a few moments; then, as a resident came out of the hotel and opened the iron grate, I squeezed past him into the lobby.
The guy manning the lobby desk was reading a paperback book and didn’t even look up. I followed Lou up a flight of stairs that angled off to the left and then down the hallway that ran the length of the building. The walls were covered with patterned wallpaper so old it was almost one dull color, plaster showing through in places where it was ripped. Sounds of rap music leaked through closed doors, harsh and tinny over the booming bass. I walked past one door that was propped open, and the two guys sitting inside the cramped room looked at me with a mixture of wary suspicion and passive indifference.
Lou ignored them and continued on until he reached the next-to-last door on the right. He sat down in front of it, then got up and sniffed at the door. He seemed oddly unsure of himself, but finally gave a little shake and sat back down. I came up close to the door and listened for the sound of voices. Silence.
After standing there for a while I knocked. No sounds from inside, and after a short pause I knocked again. Still nothing. I tried the doorknob, just in case, and it turned easily. A slight pressure and the door swung inward. This was all too easy, so I stood in the doorway a moment, scanning the room from outside. But only for a moment. In the middle of the floor, surrounded by clutter, lay a figure, dressed in a bright red sweatshirt. Even from the doorway I could see dark red blood pooled around the figure’s head, lots of it.