"There's no f***ing use for this thing," the commissar grumbled dully after ten or fifteen minutes of thoughtful contemplation of the glass with the map. The red dot circled chaotically around Saint Rose. And no trace of Peggy. Brannon stood up. They were wasting time.
"I'm down. Call me if you need anything."
Redfern nodded silently, not looking up from his amulet. The pyromaniac was soldering something in it, covering his face with a shield of thick yellow glass. Bluish sparks poured from under the instrument covered with incomprehensible signs with a blue crystal at the end. Nathan braced himself.
"Does that mean she's unconscious? Would you... would you know if she died?"
Angel nodded again. Brannon left.
Police were scurrying below, and Nathan stopped on the stairs and squeezed the railing. How much time do they have before the maniac takes on Peg? What did Redfern manage to teach her, and is it enough for the girl to fight back the bastard? She would fight back like a wild cat; Nathan had no doubts. If she gets the chance. If the maniac does not intoxicate her with some kind of poison and does not kill her until she comes to her senses. If. If!
"God, why?" why did he refuse the pyromaniac's shelter with so pigheaded stubbornness? Let him take the girl to him, but alive! Lord!
Valentina's hand covered his, and Nathan shuddered. He did not hear her steps; he heard almost nothing at all.
"Forgive me. I had to keep my eyes on her."
"I should have," Brannon said bitterly. "And I left it all to you and calmed down."
"You could not sit next to her with a gun and guard around the clock."
"Uh-huh," the commissar muttered. "Could not. But I should have." He pushed his fist hard along the railing. "I didn't even let her go where the maniac would not get to her! Because the pyromaniac would definitely sit next to her, as if sewn on, and would be armed at all points!"
Valentina put her hand on his shoulder and pulled him with her. Nathan went like a ram, not knowing where he was being led. His thoughts were tossed and confused, and the investigation seemed like chaos, full of pieces, scraps and debris that could not be added to each other. There wasn't a trace of Peggy in that damn brew!
"Nathan," Valentina said softly and sat him down on a chair, "it's not your fault that the maniac is obsessed with girls like Margaret."
"I didn't keep track," Brennon whispered. "I didn't allow her to be hidden. But you said that my stupidity prevents me from looking at the matter soberly!"
"I didn't say that." her hands went back to Nathan's shoulders. "You were worried about her, you didn't want to let the girl make a big mistake. But now is not the time for that, Nathan."
She wrapped her arms around him and touched her lips to his temple.
"Five minutes," Valentina whispered. "Allow yourself five minutes not to think about anyone but her."
"And then?" He asked dully. "Then someone will snap their fingers and a miracle will happen?"
"No. But she doesn't need a miracle, Nathan, but something that no one does better than you."
"And what is it?" He grunted. His head was buzzing with a hodgepodge of thoughts and feelings, but the loudest was the guilt. He should have been! Should!
"You know yourself," he fancied that Valentina's voice was sounding right in his head. "You know better than me and better than all of us. You always know what to do."
Nathan squeezed her hands. A prickly lump appeared in his throat, but for some reason it felt better almost immediately. Maybe from her touch or her voice, or simply because she was here, next to... He allowed himself to lower his head on Valentina's shoulder for a moment. Just for a moment.
When at last he returned to his soul and thoughts - well, not peace, but at least logical harmony, he got up and smiled gratefully at the widow. It seemed that the morning in the department and the note from Longsdale had been centuries ago.
"Thank you."
"Not at all." She was still sitting on the armrest, and the Commissar realized with some embarrassment that Mrs. van Allen had brought him to her study, in which the two of them could hardly turn around. "What now?"
"Can you find Peggy?"
Valentina shook her head.
"One living being among hundreds of thousands of other living beings? It will take days. But," she added on reflection, "I can look for Longsdale. twofold essences are very rare. Perhaps I can find him faster."
"Even if he's unconscious?"
"If he's alive, it doesn't matter. I can't find the dead man, and that's why the dog..." Then she hesitated. She considered something for a second or two before continuing. "But it doesn't matter now."
I wonder, Brennon thought, closing the door behind him, why is Longsdale shying away from her and his hound not?
But the thought that the consultant was like a living deadman couldn't help now, and the Commissar dismissed it. He returned to the living room. Redfern still was hard at work over his amulet. Only now he was poking at him with a thin two-toothed fork, which emitted a whitish discharge with each poke.
"Sorry," Nathan said. The pyromaniac looked up at him. Behind the yellow handscreen, his eyes were even darker and more impenetrable. "I should have let her go and let you hide Peg."
Redfern twitched the corner of his mouth and buried himself in the amulet again.
"Are you going to hide Peggy in your hideout when we find her?"
"It's not even up for debate," Redfern said dryly. "Especially since the result of your care is obvious."
The Commissar endured this too. He, after all, had already gone so far that it made no sense to respond to bites. Treading a path to this man is not easy, but necessary.
"When you find him," Brannon pointed to the amulet, in the heart of which a glass ampoule gleamed dimly, "I want to know about it. I have to know out because Peggy is my niece."
Redfern looked at the Commissar for a moment.
"I promised her," he said to Nathan, slowly and separately, like to a moron, "that I would skin him. And don't try to stop me."
"God forbid!" Brennon replied. The pyromaniac's teeth bared for a moment in a predatory, vicious grin. The Commissar turned to the door and was already grasping the handle when Redfern hissed in his back.
"What, faith in law, order and court is pretty worn out?"
Nathan was silent again. He didn't know how he would keep the maniac in the cell, but that didn't matter now. Only Peggy mattered. It is unlikely that the maniac will waste time in vain, having finally got what he wants.
Downstairs, behind the counter, Marion was already in charge, and the commissar remembered that he had left her on the porch and run away like a rabbit from a wolf. Ashamed, Nathan approached her, nodded to Byrne, and noticed Jen in the corner.
"Sorry, miss."
"Oh, nothing," Marion put a cup and a plate of cookies in front of him. "Nothing, I understand."
Byrne sat down on a stool by the counter and the Commissar pushed a plate towards him. The detective was looking at him so intently that Nathan felt it necessary to clarify:
"Report. I'm ready to listen."
"Okay, sir, I almost got scared," Byrne muttered. "Well, in general, none of them saw anything until Longsdale's guy took over."
"What did he do to them?" the commissar shuddered. He knew what the witch was capable of if there was no one to muzzle her.
"He talked somehow in his own way," the detective shrugged. "When he looks in the eyes. So, those three over there didn't just see how the girl ran out of the cafe. Through the window they saw a closed carriage drawn by a pair of horses and a man who grabbed Miss and pushed her inside."
"What man?" The commissar asked impatiently. "What kind of carriage?"
"Now we are finding out. Should I call Raiden for you?"
"No, let him not be distracted. We have a clue that Longsdale managed to give me. Where in Blackwhit can a pile of human bones lie in the fresh air?"
"Human?"
"Uh-huh," the Commissar handed him the consultant's note. "Our maniac used an ointment, which includes bone powder, to preserve the necromorph. It is a fine powder made from bones lying in the sun."
Byrne thought about it, stroking his sideburns. Brannon glanced over to the corner where the witch was interrogating and frowned: the girl looked almost humanly tired. She turned, feeling his gaze, motioned for the next witness to wait, and went to the Commissar.
"Get some rest, Raiden. What did you find out?"
"That they look not with their eyes, but with their ass," Jen muttered. "If a person has not seen something, there is no way to shake the description out of him. One of them saw something: the carriage was driven by a man in a blue frock coat and a grey overcoat, who looked strong, but not young. It's all. The horses are either bay or black. Ugh! Useless creatures! How do you stand them at all?"
"Patience, lad, just patience," Byrne chuckled. "Sir, and this second consultant of yours - he can not, well, work his magic somehow?"
"He's working his magic," Brannon said grimly. "In the meantime, tell me what's going on with Taynor Creek. The maniac was not lazy to lure all his victims into the park, although he caught girls in different places. And Peg is the only one that his bandits attacked right on the street."
The detective reached into his pocket for a notebook.
"Well, maybe they attacked the others right on the street, and dragged corpses into the park," the witch suggested.
"No," Byrne said. "Near every crime scene, we found many female tracks suitable for the murdered girls. They went there themselves."
"Exactly. It's easier than dragging an unconscious, or even bleeding victim, on your back. But with Peg..." Nathan thought, rubbing his beard. "Something went wrong with Peg. Something pushed him to murder right in the middle of the street. We need to know what."
"But why?!" The witch exclaimed in bewilderment. "How will this help us in the search for your niece?"
"Here, sir," Byrne handed the Commissar a folded sheet of paper. "Here is a list of all tenants who fit the description - short, thin, preferably single men. With addresses."
"Good. Now I need to know whose doors and windows overlook Taynor Creek."
"But he will not kill where he lives!" Jen cried. "This... this is stupid! Any fool understands..."
"He will," Brannon said dryly, "if he's not going to leave the body. If he saw his ideal on the street, if he lived nearby and knew that he could quickly and quietly hide the body in his rooms, if so... then he just couldn't help himself."
***
"Mister Longsdale?" Margaret gasped. A mountain fell off her shoulders, and finally feeling almost safe, she rushed to the door. "Mister Longsdale?! Are you safe? Are you healthy? Can I help you?"
"Where is my dog?" The consultant asked after a long pause. Margaret was so dumbfounded that she even stopped pulling the bolt on the door.
"What?"
"Dog," the man's mad gaze darted down the corridor. "Where is my dog?"
A muffled clanking sound came from behind the door, and the consultant hit the door with his whole body. The wood creaked; Miss Sheridan drew back. Her heart sank somewhere and began to beat in fright - apparently in the stomach, because she felt sick from fear.
"Mister Longsdale..." she babbled.
"Hound!" The consultant growled. "I need my dog!!"
He grabbed the board in the gap and pulled it towards him. It broke with a crunch, creating a long crack across the door. Margaret heard the clank of metal again, and suddenly Longsdale fell.
"Help..." it came to her. The girl, trembling, pressed against the wall. Knees buckled, and the desire to immediately flee from the madman was closely intertwined with excruciating burning pity. It is not right! Unbearable - when he is like that... Margaret made a timid step towards the door.
"John?" She called dully; fear was still fighting pity. There was no sound in response.
"John?" the girl sat down on the bolt, grabbed the edge of the hole and pulled herself up to look inside. Longsdale was half-lying by the door, breathing heavily, unevenly; sweat and blood stained the shirt. He was chained in chains so massive that they could hold the bull. On the shackles and links, Margaret made out crudely etched symbols. "You hear me?"
He raised his eyes to her. His gaze finally cleared and the consultant asked:
"Are you safe, Margaret? Hasn't he hurt you?"
"Not yet. But somewhere here two of his slaves wander about, who brought me here. Are you feeling good? Can you get up and leave?"
"No," Longsdale breathed; his head dropped again. "I can't leave without my dog."
"Again!" Margaret Thought desperately. She slid off the bolt onto the floor and curled up into a ball, wrapping her arms around her knees. What can she do with him now?!
"You said two people brought you here. Where from? How did you escape?"
The girl sniffed and told everything she remembered. It's a pity that it couldn't tell them where they are.
"And you? Why don't you blow up a door, a wall, or make something else so powerful?"
A sad sigh came to her.
"The chains are marked with magic-binding garons."
"Then how did you break the door?"
"By hands."
Margaret shuddered with delight. For all his exclusivity, Angel would hardly have had the strength to rip a piece of board out of the oak door with his bare hands. However, it was also difficult for the consultant, judging by his condition. Or is it the enchanted chains?
"How are you feeling? If I remove the bolt, can you get out?"
"Do you have enough strength?"
"Well, I'm not going to move it with my hands," Miss Sheridan muttered and concentrated on the bolt. There was a noise in her ears, and the girl froze of horror - is it really the maniac again?! But then the noise gave way to dizziness and faint shivering, and she realized that it was from exhaustion. It took her quite a while to remove the bolt, and when Longsdale looked out the hole again, he looked at Margaret with concern.
"Are you okay?"
"Oh yes," the girl smiled weakly. "I'll just sit a little and..."
Footsteps rang out in the distance. Margaret froze, as if immobility made her invisible.
"To the wall," Longsdale ordered hoarsely. Miss Sheridan, belatedly recollecting herself, extinguished the glowing ball and pressed herself against the door.
"To the wall."
The girl with difficulty unstuck from the door and fell against the wall. The consultant stepped back into the cell and ran into the door with his shoulder. Margaret gasped - "It hurts!" - and the steps in the corridor turned into a run. Longsdale grabbed the board with both hands and yanked with all his might. And there was still a lot of his strength left – the board broke almost completely, and the consultant kicked the next one out with a few kicks.
"To me!"
For a moment, Margaret doubted - Longsdale held out his tattered, bleeding hand, breathing heavily and wildly flashing eyes.
"Crazy..."
"To me!" the consultant growled, and Margaret drew back. Someone was breathing noisily from behind, and she turned around.
The man appeared as if out of nowhere - in the pale light of the lantern he carried, only a gray beard, a dark frock coat and a dull wandering gaze were visible. In empty eyes, neither feelings nor thoughts were reflected. He raised his hand with some kind of balloon and took a step towards Margaret. Instantly realizing that the balloon could spray all sorts of rubbish, Miss Sheridan threw a shawl in the face of the enemy and darted towards Longsdale.
He caught her, grabbed her (the girl's breath stopped at how easily he did it), pulled her inside, leaving shreds of her dress on the oak boards - and threw her into the corner like a kitten. Margaret screamed, but did not even have time to get scared - the consultant blocked her with himself and immediately raised his hand, protecting his face from the jet from the balloon. The droplets settled on the chain and handcuffs. Longsdale rolled slightly to the side, though the cramped cage barely left room for maneuver. Margaret pressed herself against the wall. Scraps of spells that she had managed to learn were chaotically darting in her memory.
The man saw her. His gaze focused for a moment, and, threatening Longsdale with the balloon, the kidnapper stopped at the door. The gap was too narrow for him (Margaret squeezed into it only thanks to her thinness), and he did not climb inside. But as soon as he aimed the balloon at the girl, the consultant rushed to prey like a tiger. He grabbed the man by the wrist, twisted it to a crunch and, grabbing his hair, began banging his head against the door. When blood splattered, Margaret closed her eyes. A few seconds later, the body collapsed to the floor, and the girl opened one eye. Longsdale took possession of the balloon and fumbled over the body of the guard for the keys. The victim's head was so smashed that Miss Sheridan swallowed the nausea in her throat.
"Did you kill him?" Margaret asked, barely audibly.
"Do you think it is necessary?" Longsdale was puzzled. "He's already harmless. Take it."
The consultant threw her the balloon. There was still a decent amount of this poison, judging by the weight. The girl sideways crept closer. Longsdale finally found the key on the heavy keychain and slipped it into the keyhole. The key fit.
"What now?" the girl asked when they got out, and the consultant pushed the kidnapper into the cell.
"I need to find my dog."
"Oh Lord, but why?!" howled Margaret. "We need to run before the maniac captures one of us!"
"He's not here," Longsdale said. He suddenly leaned against the wall and closed his eyes.
"Are you feeling sick?" the girl was frightened. The consultant slid to the floor and dropped some round piece on a chain.
"He used a subjugating amulet," Longsdale muttered dully. "If the maniac controlled this man now, he would see everything with his eyes. And then he would not hesitate, but immediately captured you."
"Right," Margaret whispered. "So he is busy with something else! But with what?"
The consultant looked sick, almost emaciated. The girl sat down beside him and anxiously put her hand to his forehead.
"We need to get out of here," she said gently. "While the maniac is busy somewhere. Then my uncle will find your hound..."
He shook his head and Margaret clenched her fist in despair. She would have hit him hard to knock the folly out of him!
"I can't leave without the dog," Longsdale said in a fading voice.
"Why, my God?!"
"I cannot be away from him for too long."
"Why?" Margaret asked in amazement. He closed his eyes.
"Because otherwise I'll start dying."