Chapter Twenty-Eight
The new Velvet Room looked nothing like the old Velvet Room. "A health club?" I asked Murphy. "You've got to be kidding me."
Murphy goosed her Harley right up next to the Beetle. There had been only one parking space open, but there was room for both of our rides in it, more or less. It wasn't like I was worried about collecting a few more dents and dings in addition to the dozens already there.
"It's progressive," Murphy said. "You can get in shape, generate testosterone, and find an outlet for it all under one roof."
I shook my head. A modest sign on the second floor over a row of smaller shops proclaimed, EXECUTIVE PRIORITY HEALTH. It lacked the wide-open, well-lit windows of most health clubs, and apparently occupied the whole of the second floor.
"Wait a minute," I said. "Isn't that the hotel where Tommy Tomm got murdered?"
"Mmmm," Murphy said, nodding. "The Madison. A corporation that has absolutely no visible connection to John Marcone recently bought it and is renovating it."
"You have to admit it was a little... overdone," I said.
"It looked like the set of a burlesque show about an opium lord's harem," Murphy said.
"And now... it is one," I said.
"But it won't look like it," Murphy said.
"They call that progress," I said. "Think this bunch will give us any trouble?"
"They'll be polite."
"Marcone is the kind of guy who apologizes for the necessity just before his minions put a bullet in you."
Murphy nodded. She'd rearranged her gun rig and put on a Kevlar vest before we left. The baggy man's shirt was now buttoned up over it. "Like I said. Polite."
"Seriously," I said. "Think anything will start up?"
"Depends how big a beehive we're about to kick," she replied.
I blew out a breath. "Right. Let's find out."
We went inside. The doors opened onto a foyer, which was closed away from what had been the hotel's lobby by a security door and a panel of buzzers. The buzzers on the lowest row were labeled with the names of the shops on the first floor. None of the others were marked.
Murphy flipped open her notepad, checked a page, and then punched a button in the middle of the top row. She held it down for a moment, then released it.
"Executive Priority," said a young woman's voice through a speaker beside the panel. "This is Bonnie. How may I help you?"
"I'd like to speak with your manager, please," Murphy said.
"I'm very sorry, ma'am," came the reply. "The management is only in the office during normal business hours, but I would be happy to leave a message for you."
"No," Murphy replied calmly. "I know that Ms. Demeter is in. I will speak to her, please."
"I'm very sorry, ma'am," came Bonnie's rather prim reply. "But you are not a member of the club, and you are on private property. I must ask you to leave immediately or I will inform building security of the problem and call the authorities."
"Well, that should be fun," I said. "Go ahead and call the cops."
Murphy snorted. "I'm sure they'd love to have an excuse to come stomping around."
"I..." Bonnie said, floundering. Clearly, she hadn't been trained to deal with this kind of response. Or maybe she just wasn't all that bright to begin with.
I made a kind of do-you-mind gesture at Murphy. She shook her head and leaned to one side, so I could get closer to the intercom.
"Look, Bonnie," I said. "We aren't here for trouble. We just need to talk to your boss. If she likes, she can come talk over the intercom. Otherwise, I will come up there and talk to her in person. There's only one relevant issue here: Would you rather be reasonable and polite, or would you rather replace a bunch of doors, walls, and goons?"
"Um. Well."
"Just go tell your boss, Bonnie. It's not your' fault that we didn't fall for the business-hours-only line. Let her decide what to do, so you don't get in any trouble."
After a slight pause, Bonnie realized the professional value in passing the buck. "Very well, sir. May I ask who this is?"
"I'm with Sergeant Karrin Murphy, Chicago PD," I said. "My name is Harry Dresden."
"Oh!" Bonnie said. "Oh, Mister Dresden, please excuse me! I didn't know it was you, sir."
I blinked at the intercom.
"You're the last of our Platinum Club members to pay a visit, sir. By all means, sir, please accept my apologies. I'll have someone meet you and your guest at the elevator with your membership packet. I'll notify Ms. Demeter at once."
The door buzzed, clicked, and opened.
Murphy gave me a steady look. "What's that all about?"
"Don't ask me," I told her. "I'm gay now."
We went in. The first floor of the building looked like a miniature shopping mall, its walls completely lined with small shops that sold computer parts, books, video games, candles, bath stuff, jewelry, and clothes in a number of styles. All the shops were closed, their steel curtains drawn down. A row of small lights on either side of a strip of red carpet came to life, illuminating the way to the main bank of elevators. One of the elevators stood open and waiting.
We got in and I hit the button for the second floor. It began moving at once. "If there is a welcoming committee from the Lollipop Guild waiting for us when these doors open, I'm leaving. This is surreal."
"I noticed that too," Murphy said.
"Ms. Demeter," I said. "Think it's a pseudonym?"
One corner of Murphy's mouth quirked up. "I think we'll find all kinds of nongenuine modifications around here."
The elevator stopped and the door opened.
Three women were waiting outside of it. They were all dressed in... well, "workout clothes" wasn't quite accurate. Their outfits looked something like the ones the waitresses at Hooters wear, only tight. None of them could have been much over drinking age, and all of them had clearly passed some kind of intense qualification process certifying them to wear outfits like that. They were pretty, too, a blonde, a brunette, and a redhead, and they had nice... smiles.
"Welcome, sir," the redhead said. "May I take your coat and... and stick?"
"That's the closest I've come to being propositioned in years." I sighed. "But no, I'll hang onto them for now."
"Very good, sir."
The blonde held a round silver tray with two fluted glasses of orangey liquid. She beamed at us. The reflection of light from her teeth could have left scars on my retinas. "Mimosa, sir, ma'am?"
Murphy stared at all three of them with a blank expression. Then, without a word, she took one of the drinks, tossed it off, and put the glass back on the tray with a dark mutter.
"None for me," I said. "I'm driving."
The blonde stepped back, and the brunette - whose shirt bore a stencil of the word Bonnie - came forward carrying a customized black leather gym bag that probably cost as much as Murphy's Kevlar vest. Bonnie handed me the bag, and then offered me a manila folder and a big mustard-colored envelope. "These are complimentary, of course, sir, for all of our platinum members. There are several outfits for exercise on the inside, a set of athletic shoes in your size, a PDA to help you track your progress, and some basic toiletries." She tapped the envelope. "Here is a copy of your membership papers, as well as your membership card and your security access code."
If this was a trap, it was working. I tried to juggle all of my gear and the comp items, too. If I suddenly had to walk anywhere while doing it, I'd probably trip and break my neck.
"Uh," I said. "Thank you, Bonnie."
"Of course, sir," she chirped. "If you would please come with me, I'll show you to Ms. Demeter's office."
"That would be lovely," I said. The bag had a strap on it. I managed to get it over one shoulder, then folded the paperwork and stuffed it into one of my coat's roomy pockets.
Bonnie waited for me to get settled before taking my arm in a perfectly confident and familiar fashion and guiding me forward. She smelled nice, something like honeysuckle, and she had a friendly smile on her mouth. Her hands, though, felt cold and nervous.
Guided by Bonnie and her clammy hands, we walked through the building, past a long, open space filled with various exercise machines, weights, wealthy-looking men, and attractive young women. Bonnie started prattling about how new the machines were, and how the latest techniques and theories in fitness training were in use, and how Platinum Club members would each have their own personal fitness trainer assigned to them each and every visit.
"And, of course, our in-house spa offers any number of other services."
"Ah," I said. "Like massages, mud baths, pedicures, that kind of thing?"
"Yes, sir."
"And sex?"
Bonnie's smile didn't falter for a second, although it looked a little incongruous with her wary sideways glance at Murphy. She didn't answer the question. She stopped at an open doorway. "Here we are," she said, smiling. "If there is anything I can do for you, just pick up the phone on Ms. Demeter's desk and I'll answer right away."
"Thanks, Bonnie," I said.
"You are welcome, sir."
"Do you need a tip or anything?"
"Unnecessary, sir." She gave me another smile and a nod, and hurried away.
I watched her go down the hall, lips pursed thoughtfully, and decided that Bonnie was eminently qualified to hurry away. "We get left all alone here?" I asked Murphy. "Does this smell like a trap to you?"
"There's one hell of a lot of bait," she replied, glancing around, and then into the office. "But the fire stairs are right across the hall, and there's a fire escape just outside the office window. To say nothing of the fact that there are a dozen customers within a few yards who could hardly help but notice anything noisy."
"Yeah. But how many of them do you think would testify in court about what they heard or saw while they were at a ritzy brothel?"
Murphy shook her head. "Rawlins knows I'm here. If anything happens, they'll turn the place inside out. Marcone knows that."
"How come you all haven't done it already? I mean, this is illegal, right?"
"Sure it is," Murphy said. "And very tidy. In operations like this one, the women involved are generally willing employees, and generally very well paid. They're required to have regular medical examinations. There's a low incidence of drug use, and almost never any attempts to control them through addiction or terror."
"Victimless crime?"
Murphy shrugged. "Cops never have as many resources as they need. In general, they don't waste them on an operation like this one. Vice personnel are needed badly in plenty of other places where there is a lot more at stake."
I grunted. "The fact that it's obviously a club for the stupidly wealthy doesn't make it any easier to bring the hammer down."
"No, it doesn't," Murphy said. "Too many people with too much influence in the city government have their reputations to protect. The place makes money hand over fist, and as long as they don't flaunt their business, cops tolerate what's going on except for the occasional token gesture. Marcone isn't going to jeopardize that by killing us here, when he can just as easily have it done tomorrow, in a less incriminating location."
"Depending on the size of the beehive," I said.
"Depending on that," Murphy agreed. "We might as well sit down."
We went into the office. It looked like any number of executive offices I'd seen before, somber, understated, and expensive. We sat down in comfortable leather chairs. Murphy kept an eye on the doorway. I watched the window. We waited.
Twenty minutes later, footsteps approached.
A large man came through the door. He was built like a bulldozer made out of slabs of raw, workingman muscle, thick bones, and heavy sinews. He had a neck as thick as Murphy's waist, short red hair, and beady eyes under a heavy brow. His expression looked like it had been permanently locked into place a few seconds after someone had kicked his puppy through a plate-glass window.
"Hendricks," I greeted Marcone's primary enforcer with convivial cheer. " 'Sup?"
Beady eyes settled on me for a second. Hendricks made a growling sound in his throat, checked the rest of the room, and said, over his shoulder, "Clear."
Marcone came in.
He wore a gunmetal grey Armani suit with Italian leather shoes, and his shirt was open one button at the throat. He was an inch or two above average height, and had looked like an extremely fit forty-year-old ever since I had known him. His haircut was perfect, his grooming immaculate, and his eyes were the color of worn dollar bills. He nodded pleasantly and walked around the large mahogany desk to sit down.
"Wow," I said. "Ms. Demeter, you look almost exactly like this criminal scumbag I met once."
Marcone rested his elbows on the desk, made a steeple out of his fingers, and regarded me with a cool and unruffled smile. "And good evening to you, too, Mister Dresden. It's somehow reassuring to see that time has not eroded your sophomoric sensibilities." His eyes flicked to Murphy. "Sergeant."
Murphy pressed her lips together and nodded once, her eyes narrowed. Hendricks loomed in the doorway, arms folded, eyes steady on Murphy.
"Where's Amazon Gard?" I asked him. "You lose the consultant?"
"Ms. Gard," he said, emphasizing the Ms., "is on assignment elsewhere at the moment. And our working relationship is quite secure."
"And maybe she wouldn't much care for this particular branch of your business?" I suggested.
He showed me his teeth. "I see you got your membership package."
"I'm fighting not to gush at you with gratitude," I told him. "But it's oh so hard."
His upturned mouth and glittering white teeth did not resemble a smile. "Actually, all of my places of business have instructions to so treat you, should you arrive."
I raised my eyebrows. "You can't seriously be trying to buy me."
"Hardly. I am under no illusions about your fondness for myself and my business. I regard it as a preventive measure. In my judgment, my buildings are considerably less likely to burn to the ground during one of your visits if you are disoriented from being treated like a sultan. I do, after all, recall the fate of the last Velvet Room."
Murphy snorted without taking her wary eyes from Marcone. "He's got a point, Dresden."
"That was one time," I muttered. Something in one of the envelopes dug at me through my duster pocket, and I reached down to take it out.
Hendricks may have been big, but he was not slow. He had a gun out before my fingers had closed on the envelope.
Murphy went for her gun, hand darting beneath the baggy shirt.
Marcone's voice cracked like a whip. "Stop. Everyone."
We all did it, a reflexive response to the complete authority in his tone.
There are reasons Marcone runs things in Chicago.
Marcone hadn't moved. Hell, he hadn't blinked. "Mister Hendricks," he said. "I appreciate your zeal, but if the wizard wished to harm me, he'd hardly need to draw a concealed weapon to do it. If you please."
Hendricks let out another rumbling growl and put the gun away.
"Thank you." Marcone turned to me. "I trust you will forgive Mister Hendricks's sensitivity. As my bodyguard, he is all too aware that whenever you get involved in my business, Dresden, matters tend to become a great deal more dangerous."
I scowled at them both and drew the folded materials from my duster pocket, tossing them down beside the discarded gym bag. "No harm, no foul. Right, Murph?"
Murphy remained motionless for a long moment, hand under her shirt - long enough to make a point that no one was ordering her to do it. Then she returned her hand to her lap.
"Thank you," Marcone said. "Now, shall we tilt at one another a few more times or just skip to the point of your visit, Dresden?"
"I want information about one of the women who worked here."
Marcone blinked once and said, "Go on."
"Her name was Jessica Blanche. Her body was found a few days ago. The ME couldn't find a cause of death. I did. I've got more bodies. I think the killings are related. I need to find the link between Jessica and the other victims so I can figure out what the hell is going on and put a stop to it."
"That information is specific," Marcone said. "My knowledge of operations here is merely general. My manager will be more familiar with such things than I."
"Ms. Demeter, I take it."
"Yes. She should be here momentarily."
"Or sooner," said a woman's voice.
I turned to the doorway.
A woman walked through it, dressed in a somber black skirt suit, a white blouse, black pumps, pearls. She walked calmly across the office to stand behind Marcone, her left hand coming to rest on his right shoulder.
"Well, Dresden," Helen Beckitt murmured. "It took you long enough."
Chapter Twenty-Nine
I stared, momentarily silent. Marcone's teeth showed again.
"I don't believe it is polite to gloat," Helen murmured to him.
"If you knew the man, you would realize what a rare moment this is," he replied. "I'm savoring it."
Murphy glanced from Helen to me and back. "Harry...?"
"Shhh," I said, holding up a hand. I closed my eyes for a second, chasing furiously down dozens of twisty lanes of demented logic and motivation, trying to fit each of them to the facts.
The facts, man. Just the facts.
Fact one: Male operatives of House Skavis and House Malvora had been engaging in murders that attempted to frame the Wardens as the perpetrators.
Fact two: House Raith, their nominal superior, led by the White King (sort of), had pursued a policy of armistice with the White Council.
Fact three: That dippy twit Madrigal jumped into the deal on Malvora's side, pitching in a murder or two of his own, evidently to attract my attention.
Fact four: Thomas, though aware of the lethal intentions of his fellow White Court vampires, had shared nothing of it with me.
Fact five: The victims had been women of magical talent, universally.
Fact six: Vampires live for a long, long time.
Fact seven: In a whole graveyard full of the corpses of minor-league practitioners, one normal, pretty young girl named Jessica Blanche had been killed. Her only connection to the others was Helen Beckitt.
Fact eight: Helen Beckitt worked for Marcone.
Fact nine: I don't like Marcone. I don't trust him. I don't believe him any further than I can kick him. I've never hidden the fact. Marcone knows it.
"Son of a bitch," I whispered, shaking my head. Things went from bad to worse when Marcone showed up, and I naturally figured that the dangerometer had peaked.
I was wrong. Really, really wrong.
I needed one question answered to be sure what was going on, even though I was fairly sure what the answer would be - the only problem was figuring out whether or not the answer would be an honest one.
I could not afford to get it wrong.
"Helen," I said quietly. "If it's all right with you, I'd like to speak to you alone."
A small smile graced her mouth. She took a deep breath and let it out with a slow, satisfied exhalation.
"You needn't, if you do not wish to do so," Marcone said. "I do not react well when others threaten or harm my employees. Dresden is aware of that."
"No," Helen said. "It's all right."
I glanced aside. "Murph..."
She didn't look overjoyed, but she nodded once and said, "I'll be right outside."
"Thanks."
Murphy departed under Hendricks's beady gaze. Marcone rose as well, and left without glancing at me. Hendricks went last, shutting the door behind him.
Helen ran a fingertip lightly over the pearls on her necklace and settled into the chair behind the desk. She looked quite comfortable and confident there. "Very well."
I took a seat in one of the chairs facing the desk, and shook my head. "Jessica Blanche worked for you," I said.
"Jessie..." Helen's dead eyes flickered momentarily down to her folded hands. "Yes. She lived near me, actually. I gave her a ride to work several days each week."
Which must have been when Madrigal had seen them together - out in public, presumably not in their "professional" clothes, and the moron had just assumed that Miss Blanche was another member of the Ordo. From there, it wouldn't have been hard for him to ease up to the girl, snare her with the incubus come-hither, and take her off to a hotel room for a little fun and an ecstatic death.
"You and Marcone," I said. "That's one I can't figure. I thought you hated him. Hell, you were trafficking with the powers of darkness, helping to create an addictive drug - helping the Shadowman kill people, to get back at him."
"Hate," she said, "and love are not so very different things. Both are focused upon another. Both are intense. Both are passionate."
"And there's not much difference between 'kiss' and 'kill.' If you only look at the letters." I shrugged. "But here you are, working for Marcone. As a madam."
"I am a convicted felon, Mister Dresden," she replied. "I used to handle accounts with a total value in the hundreds of millions of dollars. I was ill suited to work as a waitress in a diner."
"Nickel in the pen didn't do much for your resume, huh?"
"Or references," she replied. She shook her head. "My reasons for being here are none of your business, Dresden, and have nothing to do with the matter at hand. Ask your questions or get out."
"After you parted company with the other members of the Ordo tonight," I said, "did you place a phone call to them?"
"Again," she said quietly, "we are at an impasse, exactly as we were before. It doesn't matter what I say, given that you are clearly unwilling to believe me."
"Did you call them?" I asked.
She stared steadily, her eyes so dull and empty that it made her elegant black outfit look like funerary wear. I couldn't tell if it would be more suitable for mourners - or for the deceased. Then her eyes narrowed and she nodded. "Ah. You want me to look you in the eyes. The term is overdramatic, but I believe it is referred to as a soulgaze."
"Yeah," I said.
"I hadn't realized it was a truth detector."
"It isn't," I said. "But it will tell me what sort of person you are."
"I know what sort of person I am," she replied. "I am a functional borderline psychopath. I am heartless, calculating, empty, and can muster very little in the way of empathy for my fellow human beings. But then, you can't take my word for it, can you?"
I just looked at her for a moment. "No," I said then, very quietly. "I don't think I can."
"I have no intention of proving anything to you. I will submit to no such invasion."
"Even if it means more of your friends in the Ordo die?"
There was the slightest hesitation before she answered. "I have been unable to protect them thus far. Despite all..." She trailed off and shook her head once. Confidence returned to her features and voice. "Anna will watch over them."
I stared at her for a second, and she regarded me coolly, focused on a spot a bit over my eyebrows, avoiding direct eye contact.
"Anna's important to you?" I asked.
"As much as anyone can be, now," she replied. "She was kind to me when she had no cause to be. Nothing to gain from it. She is a worthy person."
I watched her closely. I've done a lot of work as both a professional wizard and a professional investigator. Wizardry is awfully intriguing and useful, but it doesn't necessarily teach you very much about other people. It's better at teaching you about yourself.
The investigating business, though, is all about people. It's all about talking to them, asking questions, and listening to them lie. Most of the things investigators get hired to handle involve a lot of people lying. I've seen liars in every shape and size and style. Big lies, little lies, white lies, stupid lies. The worst lies are almost always silence - or else truth, tainted with just enough deception to rot it to the core.
Helen wasn't lying to me. She might have been dangerous, might have been willing to practice black magic to seek vengeance in the past, might have been cold and distant - but she had not, for one second, tried to conceal any of it, or denied anything that had happened.
"Oh, God," I said quietly. "You don't know."
She frowned at me for a moment - then her face became drawn and pale. "Oh." She closed her eyes and said, "Oh, Anna. You poor fool." She opened them again a moment later. She cleared her throat and asked, "When?"
"A few hours ago. The hotel room. Suicide."
"The others?"
"Safe. Hidden and under guard." I took a deep breath. "I have to be sure, Helen. If you really do give a damn about them, you'll cooperate with me. You'll help me."
She nodded once, her eyes distant. Then she said, "For them." And met my eyes.
The phenomenon referred to as a soulgaze is a fairly mysterious thing. No one's ever been able to get a really good grasp on exactly how it works. The best descriptions of it have always been more poetical than anything else.
The eyes are the windows of the soul.
Lock eyes with a wizard and the essence of who and what you are is laid bare. It is perceived in different ways by every individual. Ramirez had once told me that he heard it as a kind of musical theme that accompanied the person he was gazing upon. Others looked on a soul in a series of frozen images. My interpretation of a soulgaze was, perhaps inevitably, one of the most random and confusing I'd ever heard about. I see the other person in symbol and metaphor, sometimes in panorama and surround sound, sometimes in misty translucence and haunting whispers.
Whoever was gazed upon got a good look back. Whatever universal powers governed that kind of thing evidently decided that the soul's windows don't come in an optional issue of one-way mirrored glass. You saw them. They saw you, with the same kind of searing permanence.
For me, meeting someone's eyes is always risky. Every human being on earth knows what I'm talking about. Try it. Walk up to someone, without speaking, and look them in the eyes. There's a certain amount of leeway for a second, or two, or three. And then there's a distinct sensation of sudden contact, of intimacy. That's when regular folks normally cough and look away. Wizards, though, get the full ride of a soulgaze.
All things considered, I shouldn't have been surprised that when Helen met my eyes, it got uncomfortably intimate before a second had passed and...
... and I stood in Chicago, in one of the parks on Lake Michigan. Calumet, maybe? I couldn't see the skyline from where I was standing, so it was hard to be sure.
What I could see was the Beckitt family. Husband, wife, daughter, a little girl maybe ten or eleven years old. She looked like her mother - a woman with smile lines at the corners of her eyes and a white-toothed smile who very little resembled the Helen Beckitt I knew. But all the same, it was her.
They'd been on a family picnic. The sun was setting on a summer evening, golden sunset giving way to twilight as they walked back to the family car. Mother and father swung the little girl between them, each holding one hand.
I didn't want to see what was about to happen. I didn't have a choice in the matter.
A parking lot. The sounds of a car roaring up. Muffled curses, tight with fear, and then a car swerved up off the road and gunfire roared from its passenger window. Screams. Some people threw themselves down. Most, including the Beckitts, stared in shock. More loud, hammering sounds, not ten feet away.
I looked over my shoulder to see a very, very young-looking Marcone.
He wasn't wearing a business suit. He had on jeans and a black leather jacket. His hair was longish, a little mussed, and he also sported a stubble of beard that gave him the kind of rakish look that would attract attention from the girls who fantasized about indulging with a bad boy.
His eyes were still green - but they were the green of a summer hunter's blind, bright and intelligent and predatory, but touched with more... something. Humor, maybe. More life. And he was skinnier. Not a lot skinnier or anything, but it surprised me how much younger it and the other minor changes made him look.
Marcone crouched next to another young man, a now-dead thug I'd christened Spike years ago. Spike had his pistol out, and was hammering away at the moving car. The barrel of his 1911-model Colt tracked the vehicle - and its course drew its muzzle into line with the Beckitt family.
Marcone snarled something and slapped the barrel of the gun away from the family. Spike's shot rang out wild and splashed into the lake. There was a last rattle of fire from the moving car, and it roared away. Marcone and Spike piled into their own car and fled the scene. Spike was driving.
Marcone was staring back over his shoulder.
They left the little girl's broken body, limp and spattered with scarlet, behind them.
Helen saw it first, looking down to the hand that gripped her daughter's. She let out a cry as she turned to her child.
In the wake of the gunshots, the silence was deafening.
I didn't want to see what was coming. Again, I had no choice.
The girl wasn't unconscious. There was a lot of blood. Her father screamed and knelt with Helen, trying to stop the bleeding. He tore off his shirt, pressing it to the child's midsection. He babbled something to Helen and ran for the nearest phone.
His white shirt soaked through as Helen tried to hold it to the weakly struggling girl.
This was the worst part.
The child was in pain. She cried out with it. I expected her to sound horrible and inhuman, but she didn't. She sounded like every little kid who had ever suddenly found herself faced with her first experience of real, nontrivial pain.
"Owie," she said, over and over, her voice rough. "Owie, owie, owie."
"Baby," Helen said. The tears were blocking her vision. "I'm here. I'm here."
"Mommy, Mommy, Mommy," the girl said. "Owie, owie, owie."
The little girl said that.
She said it over and over.
She said it for maybe sixty seconds.
Then she went silent.
"No," Helen said. "No, no, no." She leaned down and felt her daughter's throat, then desperately pressed her ear to the girl's chest. "No, no, no."
Their voices, I realized, sounded almost identical. They blazed with the same anguish, the same disbelief.
I watched Helen shatter, rocking back and forth, trying through blinding tears to apply CPR to the silent little form. Everything else became an unimportant blur. Ghostly figures of her husband, cops, paramedics. Dim little echoes of sirens and voices, a church organ.
I'd known that the Beckitts set out to tear Marcone down out of revenge for what the warring gangsters had done to their daughter - but knowing the story was one thing. Seeing the soul-searing agony the little girl's death had inflicted upon her helpless mother was something else.
And suddenly, everything was bright and new again. Helen and her family were laughing again. In a few moments, they were walking again toward the parking lot, and I could hear the engine of the car whose gunmen would miss Marcone and kill the little girl as it approached.
I tore my eyes away from it, fighting to end the soulgaze.
I could not go through that again, could not remain locked in that horrible moment that had shaped what Helen had become.
I came back to myself standing, turned half away from Helen, leaning heavily on my staff with my head bowed.
There was a long moment of silence before Helen said, "I didn't call anyone in the Ordo, Dresden."
She hadn't. Now I was sure of it.
If Helen hadn't led the Ordo on a merry chase around town, drawing them out into vulnerability for the Skavis hunting them, someone else had.
Priscilla.
She'd been the one receiving all the calls, reporting all the "conversations" with Helen. That meant that she'd been working with the killer, drawing out Anna and the others on his behalf, isolating one of the women from the safety of the group so that he could take them alone.
And then I jerked my head up, my eyes wide.
Fact ten: In the middle of a Chicago summer, Priscilla, none too pretty a woman, had been wearing nothing but turtlenecks.
Priscilla hadn't been working with the Skavis.
Priscilla was the Skavis.
And I had left her holed up in safety with Olivia and Abby and all those women and children.
Predators. The White Court were predators. The Skavis had to know that I was closing in, and that it would not be long before I either caught up to Helen and got the real story or else figured it out on my own. Fight-or-flight instincts must have come down on the former.
I'd been sent after Helen on purpose. The Skavis had meant to send me haring off after her, leaving him alone with all those targets.
No. I hadn't left him alone with the women he'd been tracking. They were no threat to him. The Skavis had decided to fight. He had isolated a target, all right, just as he had while hunting helpless women - one who would present a deadly danger to him, should she ever learn his true identity. One who would be distinctly vulnerable, provided he could approach her while camouflaged.
"Oh, God," I heard myself say. "Elaine."
