27th February
"Nathan, tell me, who else knows where you hid Miss Sheridan?" Longsdale asked. The commissar wiped his lips with a napkin and, with some regret, pushed aside the dessert. Whoever cooked here in the absence of the witch - he did it perfectly. The consultant again generously sheltered Brennon for the night so that he would not have to run far if anything happened.
"You, me, Jen, Valentina and her family. Well, the pyromaniac. Not without him."
The hound snorted boomy from under the table. Longsdale grimly began crumbling the cake with the spoon.
"Lot. Even if the maniac has no control over them, they can simply blabber."
"I warned them sternly." Brannon poured the coffee and muttered, "There's no other option anyway. Unless to give Peggy to Redfern, he has been dripping saliva for a long time."
"I would love to offer Miss Sheridan my hospitality and protection," Longsdale said primly, and added as the Commissar choked on his coffee in surprise, "Jen is a girl, and Miss Sheridan's good name would be safe."
"We know she's a girl," Nathan wheezed. "And the rest of them don't."
"Ah," the consultant said after thinking, "that's right."
"Besides, are you sure that the maniac will not be able to subdue you?"
Longsdale considered. The hound got out from under the table and sat down beside the commissar, looking invitingly into his face, as if he wanted to convey something important. Nathan offered him a gingerbread; the animal turned away contemptuously.
"In general," the consultant noted, "suggestion, hypnosis or spells of this kind practically do not affect me."
"You yourself said that the maniac do not use the spells."
"Hm. But perhaps I could have resisted."
"Or maybe not. Sorry, but I won't risk it. Nobody can handle you."
The hound tugged impatiently at the commissar's trouser leg, but after a second thoughtful study of the red muzzle Nathan did not understand anything.
"And if I create a false trail for the maniac? Take him away from Miss Sheridan?"
"In general, it makes sense, after all, when we have the amulet that... Wait a minute!" it dawned on Brannon. "Are you offended that the pyromaniac will do this?"
"No," Longsdale replied with restraint, "but it seemed to me as if my services had not raised your complaints until now," and pursed his lips like a disgruntled spinster.
"It still do not raised. Why do you think so? I would much more gladly entrust this to you, but the pyromaniac refused to give me what he got in Edmoor."
"Jen could have taken it away," the consultant said coolly.
"Yeah. Would have arranged a beating in front of Valentina, her son, and Peggy. Witch does this always with great pleasure, but I do not think that Peg would stand and watch how Jen break her beloved mentor's ribs. Not to mention, Valentina wouldn't let us have a carnage at her cafe."
Longsdale stared down at the plate, digesting his arguments. Nathan finished his coffee, got up and took hold of his coat. The hound shifted from paw to paw. It still wanted to tell something, and the Commissar thought how much easier it would be for them all if the beast could write.
"I like your idea. I don't want the maniac to rummage around town looking for Margaret, so if you keep him busy, it will make things easier for us. Maybe we can even do without Redfern's amulet. We shouldn't be obliged to this guy."
The consultant perked up.
"Good, I'll warn you as soon as I decide what to do."
"Great. I'll be in the department. Byrne will report back to me they've managed to shake out of the crime scene. We still have an unidentified third victim. And the rest of the cases. In short, today I will be there as tied up."
Longsdale nodded. Judging by the sparkle of his eyes, he was already captured by some idea, and Nathan left the consultant alone with it, hoping for early results. Moreover, in the department, subordinates almost tore the Commissar to pieces, because in addition to the maniac, among the one hundred and forty thousand Blackwhitians, there were a lot of other criminals. In especially difficult days, Brannon thought that their number reached half the population.
When the Commissar was able to break through new murders, rapes and robberies, he ordered the attendant to send Byrne to the office as soon as he appeared, and dived into the coffin. Kennedy ran vigorously among the autopsy tables in the early morning, hammering medical wisdom into the heads of the trainees. Seeing Brannon, the old man nodded to him to the corner, separated by a green oilcloth screen. The Necromorph was there.
"In general, I fully confirm the conclusions of young Longsdale. There are fragments of six bodies, not five, plus three girls whom the maniac killed during this month."
"Are there any clues?"
"Besides black magic?" Kennedy snorted. "Not much. But, judging by the seams, the person who applied them has been doing this for at least twenty years. Filigree work, I must say."
"And besides your deep admiration?"
"Threads that the maniac used to sew, of the Lebierre brand, are produced in the Mestrian Republic. Very good quality." Kennedy rummaged in the locker and showed the Commissar a spool of black thread. "They are used in many countries, and I don't think there will be a surgeon who has never picked them up."
"Dead end," the Commissar concluded grimly.
"I took a series of scrapings from the skin. When I determine the composition of the substance that covers the body, you can go through the pharmacies with the list. Better than nothing. In addition, the dumbest of my trainees I sent to the archive. I am sure that at least two or three mutilated bodies will flicker among the unidentified.
"If he killed previous victims in Blackwhit."
"Where else?" The pathologist looked at Brannon in surprise. "Corpses decompose, you know. Drag from the other end of the country..."
"And then there's black magic," the commissar muttered. "And all sorcery crap, which is smeared with the bodies of these necromorphs."
Kennedy let out a long, heavy sigh and reluctantly said:
"Okay, I admit, some of the compounds may not yet be known to science. However, I still do not see the point in the actions of this maniac. Well, he would have gathered this face - and what next? What would he then do with the corpse?"
"Good question," Nathan said. He saw the risen dead, but what the hell was the point in assembling the necromorph out of them, if there were a lot of the dead in every cemetery? After all, it will still turn out to be a deadman! Why so much effort?
"So you've established that this guy is a surgeon. Already something. At least there is where to dig. Send me whatever your kids find in the archive. What else?"
"About this body - no," Kennedy covered him with a sheet, "but about yesterday's drowned man - yes."
"Well, let's get it," Nathan decided. In the end, he needs at least something to distract himself.
***
Byrne returned to dinner, dirty, angry and displeased.
"Every damn inch, sir!" The detective enunciated with gloomy indignation. "Every damn inch! Not a trace, not a crumb, not a print - sweet f*** all! This damned thing seems to be completely disembodied!"
"Well, I'm not sure about disembody," Brennon muttered as he read the report. The detective with several policemen searched the maniac's house from top to bottom, practically sniffed the entire area around, turned over every stone - and the only achievement was to find several small narrow tracks near the road. Before the snow melted, Byrne personally took casts.
"But all three dead were instantly identified," the detective said. "They lived in the village. All three are married. The wives, of course, got worried when the husbands suddenly gathered somewhere in the middle of the night, but none of them ran out after them. Thus, no one saw the maniac again."
"What about house?"
"It's no man's, sir. At least that's what the villagers think. After the decrepit old man who lived in it died six months ago, none of the heirs showed up. I sent a man to the mayor's office to rummage through the papers of their land department. The headman of the village is away, but one of the policemen is waiting near his house."
"And the headman's wife?"
"She left with him. The neighbor says that it seems like to relatives, but does not know where.
Brannon pulled the cast closer to him."
"Hmm, our maniac is, frankly, fragile build. It is not surprising that he prefers to mutilate corpses with someone else's hands. He would have strained himself, wielding a shovel or cobblestone."
Byrne coughed.
"Sir, since it's obvious that the maniac didn't live in this house, I took the liberty of giving a couple of orders about Taynor Creek, where Miss Sheridan was attacked. I ordered the police to go around all the houses and see if any short, skinny gentleman had come in recently and if anyone had moved out too quickly and suddenly."
"Not a bad idea," Brannon said. "But we have already interviewed residents."
"Yes, sir, but then we didn't even have a vague description of this guy. And now we have. Again, the interrogation of the Shihans and all of their servants did not produce any results, and neither did the search in Macy Flynn's room. As for Fever Patty," Byrne chuckled, "all her possessions fit in one suitcase. Andrew Half Fist keeps his girls in a straight jacket."
"Yet somewhere the maniac began to hunt them down. There must be some place where all three victims could have crossed, including the unidentified one."
"Maybe not, sir," the detective sighed. "This guy could just roam the streets until he met a suitable girl."
"Yeah. Okay, take care of Taynor Creek. Send Gallagher to me as you see him."
"Yes, sir," Byrne got up, but he hesitated at the door, coughed and asked: "I hope Miss Sheridan is safe?���
"Uh-huh," the Commissar buried himself in the report, "in complete."
Byrne ready-wittly disappeared. Gallagher knocked on Brennon's door forty minutes later, when the Commissar reread both Byrne's reports — about the house and the Shihans. The result was not encouraging. Therefore, Gallagher found the boss sorting through folders from the box with documents on the Edmoor disaster.
"In the hospital all is rotten, sir," the detective immediately pleased Nathan. "No one, except Missis Roslyn, saw or heard anyone enter the room of the three scumbags."
Brannon hummed and finally pulled out of the box what he was looking for - the puffy folder.
"Here you go. This is the list of all the passengers on the trains that crashed at Edmoor seven years ago. Plus the list of the dead and missing. Although not everything, of course."
"Uh... well, sir," Gallagher said carefully. "What should I do about it?"
"Look for doctors among them, especially surgeons. Kennedy believes that only a big specialist can so deftly sew a dead man out of pieces. And Longsdale found that our guy might well have caught the bad train at Edmoor."
Gallagher's physiognomy was as simple as a blackboard, but now very complex feelings reflected on it.
"Sir, are you sure? Well, that is, about Longsdale."
"I'm sure."
"But here..." the detective weighed the folder in his hand. "Lots of time!"
"I know, Gallagher, I know," Brennon said sympathetically. "But we have to."
The detective sighed softly and resigned himself to fate.
***
Margaret was bored. She took a bath, slept, had a delicious breakfast, and sat down to the new book Angel had given her - "Classification of the Undead, Volume 1". The pictures were especially fascinating, and three hours passed quickly. But she can't read all the time; and she can't go down to the cafe to help Marion and Victor either (what if someone sees?); and she can't even go to the window! But worst of all is the witch. Jen took a firm position near the door and watched the girl with the persistence of a cat.
"Don't you eat, don't drink and don't sleep?" Miss Sheridan asked irritably.
"And I don't run to the toilet," Jen added with a malicious smile. Margaret looked at her suit with envy: trousers and a frock coat are much more comfortable for adventures than a dress with a quilted petticoat! And also, the revolver and the long knife strapped to her thigh.
"Like? Insatiable little female."
"Stop it!" the girl flashed. The witch rose and stretched.
"And not what? Will you hurl spells at me? It's useless. Therefore, your angel had to endure, otherwise he would certainly fry me with some kind of spell."
"It's not something you should be proud of," Miss Sheridan said coldly.
"Oh, is it true, or what? You humans are food, so don't forget, female."
"Yeah. Why are you obeying to your food, Mister Longsdale and my uncle?"
"Because," Jen said through set teeth. Margaret went to the window and, hiding behind the curtain, looked out into the street. Life there went on as usual, and she became completely sad. Instead of helping Angel with the amulet, she has to sit locked up, with rude and angry witch!
The girl touched her lips uncertainly. It was a very strange sensation, not at all the same as they write in books. Instead of the fluttering of the heart that comes with a kiss, as the authors of the novels assured, Margaret for some reason most clearly remembered the thin hard nose resting on her cheek. The touch of warm velvety lips was very pleasant, but so short, and the girl was too stunned to remember everything in detail. If only it lasted longer!
"When will he finally taste you?"
Margaret jumped up - she did not notice how Jen was so close and, resting her hands on the wall on either side of the girl, pressed her whole body to her, breathing hotly into her ear.
"He still does not dare to bite off a piece of such a peach," Jen whispered. "Maybe he couldn't get it up? Or does he lick his lips at your uncle?"
"Let me go!" Margaret was indignant and tried to twist, but the witch grabbed her, pushed her into the wall and suddenly squeezed the girl's bust.
"Well, let me go!" Miss Sheridan snapped and slapped the witch in the face. Jen rolled back to the chair, rubbing her cheek with a grin.
"Is he afraid to get strike back? Or will you immediately put away the claws when he reaches under your skirt?"
"Why would he climb under my skirt?" Margaret hissed. Jen blinked in surprise:
"Don't you know?"
Margaret did not know, but she considered it beneath her dignity to confess her ignorance to the witch and proudly kept silent. Jen muttered in shock:
"So you still don't know... but do you know where children come from?"
"From the marriage of a man and a woman," Miss Sheridan snapped.
"Ooh!" the witch dropped her head on her hands and made a strange cackling sound. Margaret glanced sideways at the window. A carriage drove past the cafe, and the girl almost stuck to the window with her whole body. Mr. Longsdale was sitting on the coachbox! And inside the carriage is еру hound! Two dappled gray horses lured the carriage down Rocksville Street, away from the cafe and the police department, but shouldn't the consultant be sitting there like glued now and rummaging through the evidence from the maniac's house?!
"What the hell..." the witch was at Margaret's side in an instant, following the carriage with her glowing eyes and swore long and hard. That is, Miss Sheridan did not understand the words, but Angel swore in that tone. "Where did it take him?!"
"Don't you know?"
"No, this is something new," Jen rushed to the door, grabbed the handle and turned to Margaret with annoyance. "Damn it, I can't leave you without watching. Worse than a baby! Why did vivene's son grow up such a jerk, I can't even left you to him!"
"I'm not going anywhere," Margaret said with dignity. "I'm not a fool to run around the streets alone when the maniac is hunting me."
"Yeah of course. You will slip into the first crack to your goggle-eyed angel," the witch with a gloomy look returned to the chair and drummed her fingers on the armrests.
"He's not goggle-eyed!" Thought Margaret, offended; in the end, she also has big eyes, but that doesn't mean that she's goggle-eyed like a fish!
"Wait a minute!" the girl perked up. The thought of Angel pushed her to another thought - about spells, or rather, about tracking charms. True, for the tracking charms you need something flat and reflective, and some thing that has been in the hands of the sought person...
"Did he give you anything?" Miss Sheridan asked.
"Who?"
"Your master, Longsdale. A scarf, a handkerchief, anything?"
The witch gazed at the girl warily and considered the question carefully. Finding no catch, Jen patted her pockets, pulled out a folded cheque from one and swore softly.
"I forgot to take it to the bank, for the harness for..."
"Give it to me!"
Margaret snatched the cheque from her and yanked the mirror off the wall before the witch resented such impudent use of motus.
"Come on, clear the table for me!"
"What are you doing?!" Jen shouted, jumping to her feet and blocking the door.
"Practicing," Margaret snapped. "You don't have to run after him to find out where he is going. Or haven't you been taught that?"
The witch froze for a moment with her mouth open and a very stupid look.
"You can't do it!" She began to throw everything from the table onto the chair. "I can't sniff Longsdale, you think I didn't try?"
"I'm not going to sniff," Margaret put down the mirror in the center and wiped it with the edge of the tablecloth. "This is completely different, similar to similar."
While Jen was realizing her backwardness, the girl took a jar of face cream. She did not intend to write signs with blood, and in the textbook, a footnote strictly indicated the archaism of this method. Margaret opened the book to the desired scheme, marked out the quarters of a circle with cream dots and began to draw the garon, leisurely reading the accompanying spell. The witch, if she thought anything, kept it to herself. When a spark ran through the completed circle, the girl licked her lips. She was concentrating properly, but will she succeed or not?! Margaret carefully lowered the cheque signed by Mr. Longsdale into the center of the circle, diligently recalling the mighty, handsome, tall image. She was so absorbed in concentration that she hardly heard a knock on the door, or the quiet creak of hinges.
"Miss She... oh God, what's wrong with you?! What are you doing?!"
"Get out, you complete idiot!" the witch snapped. The image wavered and began to slip away. Margaret gripped the edge of the table so hard her fingers ached. She forced herself to remember strong arms, light blue eyes twinkling in the night, the cold smell of cologne, and whispered the last words - the "key" of the spell. The cheque on the mirror fluttered and rose smoothly into the air. A transparent pinkish dome (because of the cream) was woven over the garon. The cheque was at its highest point, a foot above the mirror, the surface of which was gradually blurring. Margaret exhaled slowly.
The fog curled up into a dim, barely visible image. Two gray spots dragged a large dark spot with them along a muddy ditch, in which the girl hardly recognized Rocksville Street. Margaret concentrated, and the picture became clearer. The carriage rolled south, to where the wealthy quarters turned into decent, decent - into modest ones, and everything ended up half-ruined. Miss Sheridan was not allowed to ride to the ruins – the last remnants of the Deir Empire's artillery bombardments. But what did Mr. Longsdale want there?
The carriage plunged confidently into the ruined quarter, leaving Rocksville Street, the road section rebuilt sixteen years ago that looped around the ruins. When there were too many of them for the carriage to pass, Longsdale jumped from the coachbox and let the hound out. Then they moved on foot, and in the hand of the consultant, Margaret saw a suitcase. The ruins of houses all around looked like gray spots, the picture blurred every now and then, but in the building in front of which Longsdale and the hound stopped, the girl recognized the church.
The consultant took something out of his suitcase, moved it back and forth, and when the thing was covered with a scattering of lights, he decisively headed for the door. They hardly succumbed to even such a strong human (or non-human). It was dark inside, Mr. Longsdale lit a flying ball of fire and entered the temple with the hound.
The reddish-yellow blot above their heads barely made it possible to distinguish their surroundings. Longsdale paused, looking around, his hound sniffing the floor. Suddenly the animal threw up its muzzle, bared its fangs and growled dully. And then something strange happened to the hound: it jumped up, shook its head, scraped its paws on the floor and wheezed. Margaret stood up. She had never heard a hound make such sounds.
The hound reared its fur, spun around, jumped several times on the spot and backed away from Longsdale. The consultant followed the animal, but his movements became more and more sluggish and weak, like a rag doll on a string. Staggering, he reached the hound huddled in a corner, stretched out his hand and fell to the floor, folding like a puppet. Walls, floor, ceiling flickered in the mirror, and the image faded.
Miss Sheridan screamed and grabbed the mirror with both hands. The witch grabbed her wrist.
"Have you seen?" Jen's eyes were dark scarlet. "Do you understand what it is?"
"No! And you?"
"Damn it!" the witch rushed to the door. "What the hell did he get there!"
Margaret glanced briefly at Victor van Allen - he froze, hunched over the mirror in a deep stupor, and looked like a man in whose eyes the whole familiar world had just collapsed.
"Jen, I'm with you!" the girl darted for a coat.
"Where are you with me?! Sit here! I will rush to the department, find the Commissar, and you watch the mirror. If he comes to his senses, the picture can return. Then you will push aside him," Jen jabbed her finger at Victor, "and send him to the department."
"But what about him?" Margaret asked fearfully. "Can his hound be harmed? And him? He's... he's..."
The witch snapped her teeth like a wolf.
"I'll find out who is so brazen, and personally ask."