And if I didn't get moving, they'd find me too. I couldn't afford to spend a night in the pokey while I was interrogated, charged and awaiting bail, but what else was new. I'd get in touch with Murphy as soon as I could.

I folded my arms against the growing cold, hugging the memo pad and cell phone to my chest, and slogged out of the bloody water of the Etranger's cabin and onto the deck. I had to make a short jump up to the dock. A couple of people were on the sidewalk above the little harbor, staring down, and I saw a couple of folks out on the decks of their ships, also staring.

I ducked my head, thought inconspicuous thoughts, and hurried away before my morning could get any worse.

Chapter Fourteen

I've been clouted in the head a few times in my day. The bump Anna Valmont had given me was smaller than some, but my head pounded all the way home. At least my stomach settled down before I started throwing up all over myself. I shambled in, washed down a couple of Tylenol with a can of Coke, and folded some ice into a towel. I sat down by the phone, put the ice pack against the back of my head, and called Father Vincent.

The phone rang once. "Yes?"

"It's in town," I said. "The two Churchmice had it on a boat in Burnham Harbor."

Vincent's voice gained an edge of tension. "You have it?"

"Uh," I said. "Not strictly speaking, no. Something went wrong."

"What happened?" he demanded, his voice growing more frustrated, angrier. "Why didn't you call me?"

"A third party made a grab for it, and what do you think I'm doing right now? I had a shot to recover the thing. I took it. I missed."

"And the Shroud was taken from the thieves?"

"Thief, singular. Chicago PD is probably recovering the body of her partner right now."

"They turned on each other?"

"Not even. A new player killed Garcia. Valmont duped the third party into taking a decoy. Then she grabbed the real McCoy and ran."

"And you didn't see fit to follow her?"

My head pounded steadily. "She ran really fast."

Vincent was silent for a moment before he said, "So the Shroud is lost to us once more."

"For now," I said. "I might have another lead."

"You know where it has gone?"

I took in a deep breath and tried to sound patient. "Not yet. That's why it's called a lead and not a solution. I need that sample of the Shroud."

"To be frank, Mister Dresden, I did bring a few threads with me from the Vatican, but -"

"Great. Get one of them to my office and drop it off with security downstairs. They'll hold it for me until I can pick it up. I'll call you as soon as I have anything more definite."

"But- "

I hung up on Vincent, and felt a twinge of vindictive satisfaction. "'You didn't see fit to follow her,'" I muttered to Mister, doing my best to imitate Vincent's accent. "I gotcher didn't see fit to follow her. White-collar jerk. How about I ring your bell a few times, and then you can go say Mass or something."

Mister gave me a look as if to say that I shouldn't say such things about paying clients. I glared at him to let him know that I was well aware of it, got up, went into my bedroom, and rummaged in my closet until I found a stick of charcoal and a clipboard. Then I lit several candles on the end table next to my big comfy chair and settled down with the memo pad I'd taken from the Etranger. I brushed the stick of charcoal over it as carefully as I could, and hoped that Francisca Garcia hadn't been using a felt tip.

She hadn't. Faint white letters began to appear amidst the charcoal on the paper. It read Marriott on the first line and 2345 on the second.

I frowned down at the pad. Marriott. One of the hotels? It could have been someone's last name, too. Or maybe some kind of French word. No, don't make it more complicated than it has to be, Harry. It probably meant the hotel. The number appeared to be military time for a quarter to midnight. Maybe even a room number.

I glared at the note. It didn't tell me enough. Even though I may have had the time and place, I didn't know where and when.

I looked at the cell phone I'd taken. I knew as much about cell phones as I did about gastrointestinal surgery. There were no markings on the case, not even a brand name. The phone was off, but I didn't dare turn it on. It would probably stop working. Hell, it would probably explode. I would need to ask Murphy to see what she could find out when I talked to her.

My head kept pounding and my eyes itched with weariness. I needed rest. The lack of sleep was making me sloppy. I shouldn't have chanced going onto the ship in the first place, and I should have been more careful about watching my back. I'd had a gut instinct someone was watching me, but I had been too tired, too impatient, and I'd nearly gotten myself shot, impaled, concussed, and drowned as a result.

I headed into the bedroom, set my alarm clock for a couple hours after noon, and flopped down on my bed. It felt obscenely good.

Naturally it didn't last.

The phone rang and I gave serious thought to blasting it into orbit, where it could hang around with Asteroid Dresden. I stomped back into the living room, picked up the phone, and snarled, "What."

"Oh, uh," said a somewhat nervous voice on the other end. "This is Waldo Butters. I was calling to speak to Harry Dresden."

I moderated my voice to a mere snarl. "Oh. Hey."

"I woke you up, huh?"

"Some."

"Yeah, late nights suck. Look, there's something odd going on and I thought maybe I could ask you something."

"Sure."

"Sullen monosyllabism, a sure sign of sleep deprivation."

"Eh."

"Now descending into formless vocalization. My time is short." Butters cleared his throat and said, "The germs are gone."

"Germs?" I asked.

"In the samples I took from that body. I ran all the checks again just to be sure, and better than half of them turned up negative. Nothing. Zip, zero."

"Ungh," I said.

"Okay, then, Caveman Og. Where germs go?"

"Sunrise," I said. "Poof."

Butter's voice sounded bewildered. "Vampire germs?"

"The tiny capes are a dead giveaway," I said. I started pulling my train of thought into motion at last. "Not vampire germs. Constructs. See, at sunrise it's like the whole magical world gets reset to zero. New beginnings. Most spells don't hold together through even one sunrise. And it takes a lot to make them last through two or three."

"Magic germs?" Butters asked. "Are you telling me I've got magic germs?"

"Magic germs," I confirmed. "Someone called them up with magic."

"Like an actual magic spell?"

"Usually you call nasty hurtful spells a curse. But by tomorrow or the next day, those other samples will probably have zeroed out too."

"Are they still infectious?"

"Assume they are. They're good as real until the energy that holds them together falls apart."

"Christ. You're serious. It's for real."

"Well, yeah."

"Is there a book or a Cliff's Notes or something on this stuff?"

I actually smiled that time. "Just me. Anything else?"

"Not much. I swept the body for genetic remains but got nothing. The cuts on the corpse were made with either a surgical scalpel or some other kind of small, fine blade. Maybe a utility knife."

"I've seen cuts like that before, yeah."

"Here's the best part. The same blade evidently took off the hands and head. The cuts are cleaner than a surgeon could manage on an operating table. Three single cuts. The heat from it half cauterized parts of the wounds. So what kind of tool can cut fine, precise lines and cleave through bones too?"

"Sword?"

"Have to be one hell of a sharp sword."

"There's a few around like that. Any luck identifying the victim?"