“The magic underwear worked,” I said. “You’re fine.”

“Then why does my back hurt so much?”

“Somebody just hit it twice with a hammer moving about twelve hundred feet per second,” I said.

“Oh,” he said. He turned to look at Molly, who nodded at him and gave him an encouraging smile. Then he shuddered and closed his eyes in relief. “I don’t think I’m temperamentally suited for the action thing.”

“Yeah. Since when are you the guy in the bulletproof vest?” I asked him.

Butters nodded at Molly. “I put it on about ten seconds after she called me and said you needed help,” he said. He fumbled a small case from his pocket and opened it. “See? I got chalk, and holy water, and garlic, too.”

I smiled at him, but felt a little bit sick. The gunman had put Butters down for the simple reason that he had been blocking the shooter’s line of sight to the room. If he’d been trying for Butters, the two shots to clear his sight line would have included a third shot to the back of Butters’s head. Of course, if Butters hadn’t been in the way, my head wouldn’t have fared any better than his.

We’re all so damned fragile.

Footsteps sounded outside the door, and I raised the gun to cover it, taking a grip with both hands, my feet centered. I was lining up the little green targeting dots when Sanya came through the door carrying a platter of sandwiches. He stopped abruptly and lifted both eyebrows, then beamed broadly. “Dresden! You are all right.” He looked around the room for a moment, frowning, and said, “Did I miss something? Who is that?”

“I don’t think there’s anything broken,” Butters told Forthill, “but you’d better get an X-ray, just to be sure. Mandibular fracture isn’t anything to play around with.”

The old priest nodded from his chair in the living quarters of the church’s residents, and wrote something down on a little pad of paper. He showed it to Butters.

The little guy grinned. “You’re welcome, Father.”

Molly frowned and asked, “Should we take him to the emergency room?”

Forthill shook his head and wrote on his notepad: Things to tell you first.

Now I had a pair of guns I’d swiped from bad guys: the security guard’s .40-caliber and the gunman’s nine-millimeter. I was inspecting them both on the coffee table, familiarizing myself with their function, and wondering if I should be planning to file off the serial numbers or something. Mouse sat next to me, his flank against my leg and his serious brown eyes watching me handle the weapons.

“You found out something?” I asked Forthill.

In a way, he wrote back. There are major movements afoot throughout South and Central America. The Red Court’s upper echelon uses human servitors to interface with mortals. Many of these individuals have been sighted at airports in the past three days. All of them are bound for Mexico. Does Chichén Itzá have any significance to you?

I grunted. Donar Vadderung’s information seemed to have been solid, then. “Yeah, it does.”

Forthill nodded and continued writing. There is a priest in that area. He cannot help you with your fight, but he says he can offer you and your people sanctuary, care, and secure transportation from the area when you are finished.

“It seems like begging for trouble to plan for our victorious departure before we know if we can get there in the first place,” I said. “I can get us to the general area, but not into the ruins themselves. I need to know anything he can find out about the security the Red Court will be setting up in the area.”

Forthill frowned at me for a moment. Then he wrote, I’ll ask him. But I’ll need someone to talk for me.

I nodded. “Molly, you’re with the padre. Get a little sleep as soon as you can. Might not get a chance to before we move out, otherwise.”

She frowned but nodded instead of trying to talk me out of it. It’s nice how brushes with violent death can concentrate even the most stubbornly independent apprentice’s better judgment.

Forthill held up a hand. Then he wrote, First, I need to know how it is that you are back on your feet. Dr. Butters said that you would be too injured to get out of bed.

“Magic,” I said calmly, as if that should explain everything.

Forthill eyed me for a moment. Then wrote, I hurt too much to argue with you. Will make the calls.

“Thank you,” I said quietly.

He nodded and wrote, God go with you.

“Thank you,” I repeated.

“What about me?” Butters asked. There were equal measures of dread and excitement in his voice.

“Hopefully, we won’t need any more of your help,” I said. “Might be nice if you were standing by, though. Just in case.”

“Right,” Butters said, nodding. “What else?”

I clenched a hand and resisted the urge to tell him that he would be better off hiding under his bed. He knew that already. He was as frightened as a bunny in a forest full of bears, but he wanted to help. “I think Father Forthill has a car. Yes, Father?”

He started to write something, then scratched it out and held out his hand in a simple thumbs-up.

“Stay with them,” I said. I slapped magazines into both guns, confident that I knew them well enough to be sure they’d go bang when I pulled the trigger. “Soon as Forthill is done, get him to an emergency room.”

“Emergency room,” Butters said. “Check.”

Forthill frowned and wrote, Are you certain we shouldn’t turn our attacker over to the police?

“Nothing in life is certain, Father,” I said, rising. I stuck a gun in either pocket of my duster. “But if the police get involved, they’re going to ask a lot of questions and take a long time trying to sort everything out. I can’t spare that time.”

You don’t think this gunman will go to the authorities?

“And tell them what?” I asked. “That he got kidnapped off the street by a priest from St. Mary’s? That we beat him up and took his illegal weapon away?” I shook my head. “He doesn’t want the cops involved any more than we do. This was business to him. He’ll make a deal to fess up to us if it means he gets to walk.”

And we let a murderer go free?

“It’s an imperfect world, Father,” I said. “On the other hand, you don’t hire professional killers to take out nice old ladies and puppy dogs. Most of the people this guy has an appointment with are underworld types—I guarantee it—mostly those who are going to turn state’s evidence on their organization. Sooner or later one of them gets lucky, and no more hit man.”

Live by the sword, die by the sword, Forthill wrote.

“Exactly.”

He shook his head and winced as the motion caused him discomfort. It will be hard to help a man like that.

I snorted. “It’s a noble sentiment, padre, but a guy like him doesn’t want any help. Doesn’t see any need for it.” I shrugged. “Some men just enjoy killing.”

He frowned severely, but didn’t write down any response. Just then, someone rapped on the door, and Sanya opened it and poked his head in. “Dresden,” the Knight said. “He’s awake.”

I rose, and Mouse rose with me. “Cool. Maybe get started on those calls, padre.”

Forthill gave me another thumbs-up rather than nodding. I walked out, Mouse stolid at my back, and went to the utility closet with Sanya to talk to our . . . guest, I suppose.

The blocky hit man lay on the backboard, strapped down to it, and further secured in a cocoon of duct tape.

“Stand him up,” I said.

Sanya did so, rather casually lifting the gunman, backboard and all, and leaning it back at a slight angle against the wall.

The gunman watched me with calm eyes. I picked up a wallet from the little folding card table we had set up and opened it. “Steven Douglas,” I read from the license. “That you?”

“Stevie D,” he said.