Chapter 34

“Admittedly,” Sanya said a few minutes later, “normally I do not storm headquarters buildings of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. And in broad daylight, too.”

We were parked down the block from the FBI’s Chicago office, where Toot had guided us, crouched on the dashboard and demanding to know why Sanya hadn’t rented one of the cars that could fly instead of the poky old landbound minivan he had instead. Toot hadn’t taken the answer that “cars like that are imaginary” seriously, either. He had muttered a few things in Russian that only made Sanya’s smile wider.

“Damn,” I said, staring at the building. “Toot? Was Martin with her?”

“The yellow-hair?” Toot sat on the dashboard facing us, waving his feet. “No, my liege.”

I grunted. “I don’t like that, either. Why wouldn’t they have been taken together? Which floor is she on, Toot?”

“There,” Toot said, pointing. I leaned over and hunkered down behind him so that I could look down the length of his little arm to the window he was pointing at.

“Fourth,” I said. “That was where Tilly was talking to me.”

Sanya reached down to produce a semiautomatic he’d hidden beneath the seat of the minivan and cycled a round into the chamber, his eyes glued to the outside mirror. “Company.”

A bald, slightly overweight bum in a shabby overcoat and cast-off clothing shambled down the sidewalk with vacant eyes—but he was moving a little too purposefully toward us to be genuine. I was watching his hands with my shield bracelet ready to go, expecting him to pull a weapon out from beneath the big coat, and it wasn’t until he was a few steps away that I realized it was Martin.

He stopped on the sidewalk next to the passenger window of the van and wobbled in place. He rapped on the glass and held out his hand as if begging a handout. I rolled down the window and asked him, “What happened?”

“The FBI did its legwork,” he said. “They tracked our rental car back to my cover ID, got my picture, put it on TV. One of the detectives we shook down confirmed my presence and told them I’d been seen at your place, and they were waiting there when we came back to get you. Susan created a distraction so that I could get away.”

“And you left her behind, huh?”

He shrugged. “Her identity is genuine, and while they know she arrived with me and was seen with me, they can’t prove that she’s done anything. I’ve been operating long enough that the Red Court has seen to it that I’m on multiple international lists of wanted terrorists. If I were caught, both of us would have been taken.”

I grunted. “What did you find out?”

“The last of the Red King’s inner circle arrived this morning. They’ll do the ceremony tonight,” he said. “Midnight, or a little after, if our astronomer’s assessment is solid.”

“Crap.”

Martin nodded. “How fast can you get us there?”

I touched a fingertip to my mother’s gem and double-checked the way there. “This one doesn’t have a direct route. Three hops, a couple of walks, one of them in bad terrain. Should take us ninety minutes, gets us to within five miles of Chichén Itzá.”

Martin looked at me for a long moment. Then he said, “I can’t help but find it somewhat convenient that you are suddenly able to provide that kind of fast transport to exactly the places we need to go.”

“The Red Court had their goodies stashed near a confluence of ley lines,” I said, “a point of ample magical power. Chichén Itzá is at another such confluence, only a lot bigger. Chicago is a crossroads, both physically and metaphysically. There are dozens of confluences either in the town or within twenty-five miles. The routes I know through the Nevernever mostly run from confluence to confluence, so Chicago’s got a direct route to a lot of places.”

Sanya made an interested sound. “Like the airports in Dallas or Atlanta. Or here. Travel nexuses.”

“Exactly.”

Martin nodded, though he didn’t look like he particularly believed or disbelieved me. “That gives us a little more than nine hours,” he said.

“The Church is trying to get us information about local security at Chichén Itzá. Meet me at St. Mary of the Angels.” I handed him the change scrounged from my pockets. “Tell them Harry Dresden said you were no Stevie D. We’ll leave from there.”

“You . . .” He shook his head a little. “You got the Church to help you?”

“Hell, man. I got a Knight of the Cross driving me around.”

Sanya snorted.

Martin studied Sanya with eyes that were a little wide. “I . . . see.” A certain energy seemed to enter him as he nodded, and I knew exactly what he was feeling—the positive upswing in his emotions, an electricity that came with the sudden understanding that not only was death not certain, but that victory might actually be possible.

Hope is a force of nature. Don’t let anyone tell you different.

Martin nodded. “What about Susan?”

“I’ll get her out,” I said.

Martin ducked his head in another nod. Then he took a deep breath and said simply, “Thank you.” He turned and shambled away drunkenly, clutching his coins.

“Seems a decent fellow,” Sanya said. His nostrils flared a little. “Half-vampire, you say? Fellowship of St. Giles?”

“Yeah. Like Susan.” I watched Martin vanish into Chicago’s lunchtime foot traffic and said, “I’m not sure I trust him.”

“I would say the feeling is mutual,” Sanya said. “When a man lives a life like Martin’s, he learns not to trust anyone.”

I grunted sourly. “Stop being reasonable. I enjoy disliking him.”

Sanya chuckled and said, “So. What now?”

I took the guns out of my duster pockets and stowed them beneath the minivan’s passenger seat. “You go back to St. Mary’s. I go in and get Susan and meet you there.”

Sanya lifted his eyebrows. “You get her from in there?”

“Sure.”

He pursed his lips thoughtfully, then shrugged. “Okay. I suppose it is your funeral, da?”

I nodded firmly. “Da.”

I walked into the building and through the metal detectors. They went beep. I stopped and dropped all the rings and the shield bracelet into a plastic tub, then tried again. They didn’t fuss at me the second time. I got my stuff back and walked up to a station in the center of the floor that looked like an information desk. I produced one of my cards, the ones that called me a private investigator. I had only half a dozen of them left. The rest had been in my desk drawer at the office. “I need to speak to Agent Tilly about his current investigation.”

The woman behind the desk nodded matter-of-factly, called Tilly’s office, and asked if he’d see me. She nodded once and said, “Yes, sir,” and smiled at me. “You’ll need a visitor’s badge. Here. Please make sure it is displayed at all times.”

I took the badge and clipped it to my duster. “Thanks. I know the drill.”

“Fourth floor,” she said, and nodded at the person in line behind me.

I walked down to the elevators, rode them up to four, and walked to Tilly’s office, which turned out to be right across the hall from the interrogation room. Tilly, small, dapper, and quick-looking, stood in the doorway, looking at a file in a manila folder. He let me see that there was a picture of Susan paper-clipped to the inside cover before he closed the file and tucked it under his arm.

“So,” he said. “It’s Mr. Known Associate. Just as well. I needed to talk to you again anyway.”

“I’m a popular guy this week,” I said.

“You’re telling me,” Tilly said. He folded his arms, frowning. “So. We got a car rented by a mystery man using a bogus identity, right outside a building that blows up. We got sworn testimony from two local snoops that this leggy looker named Susan Rodriguez was seen in his company. We got a pancaked Volkswagen Bug, belonging to Harry Dresden, and seventy thousand dollars’ worth of property damage near the house of a local crooked IA cop who lied his ass off to point me at you. We got a file that says that Susan Rodriguez was at one point your girlfriend. Eyewitnesses that place both her and the mystery man at your apartment—which seemed to be a little too clean of anything that could implicate you. But before we could go back and take a real hard close look at it for trace evidence, it burns to the ground. Fire chief is still working on the investigation, but his first impression is arson.” Tilly scratched his chin thoughtfully. “I don’t know if you’re current on investigative technique, but when there are this many connections between a relatively small number of people and events, it can sometimes be an indicator that they might be up to something nefarious.”