"We knew that the Church liked to do their summonings at midnight," Karl said. "So I asked the others to keep looking, in case Crossman owned more than one warehouse. Christine and I hit the vampire afterburners and got over there. Once I saw you were inside, I called McGuire and told him. You know the rest."
I sat there quietly for a while, thinking about how close I had come to dying in the ugliest way possible. And if it weren't for my friends and my little girl, I would have. Good thing I'm such a tough guy, or I might've even cried a little.
"What's wrong, Daddy?" Christine asked me.
"Ah, it's just my allergies acting up again," I said, blowing my nose.
A few minutes later, a nurse came to the door and said the sweetest thing I've heard a woman say in quite some time.
"Stanley Markowski!"
A doctor at Mercy's ER treated my burn – which she described as "second degree" – bandaged it, told me to see my family physician, and gave me some pills for the pain.
I decided I'd only take the pain pills at bedtime, if at all. I know from experience that they make me logy, and in my job, that can be fatal. As it was, I hoped I wouldn't have to try a fast draw until the burn had healed somewhat. Scranton isn't Dodge City, and I don't go around looking for gunfights. But there are times when I need the gun, and if I don't draw it fast, I may not live to draw it at all. And right now, the burn would slow me up, maybe fatally.
Christine and Karl had brought me to the Radisson's front door, then taken off, since dawn was only about twenty minutes away. We'd been at the ER so long, Karl hadn't had the chance to go home early and check his place for any nasty surprises Thorwald might have left him. So, after getting my ok, Christine invited him to spend the day at our place. "I'm pretty sure we've got an extra sleeping bag," she'd said, "and there's enough plasma in the fridge to make breakfast for two." After a nod from me, Karl had accepted, with thanks.
Under other circumstances, having my partner sleeping with my daughter would have bothered me – a lot. As it was, I can't say that it didn't still bother me a little.
I went up to my room and packed. I was relieved to see that someone had removed Sharkey's head and changed the bedding. They hadn't done much about the smell, though. Good thing I wasn't planning to spend the day there.
I wanted to go home, get in my own bed, and sleep for a long time. McGuire said I should charge a couple of days to medical leave, and I hadn't argued with him.
I checked out, thanked Tim for all his help, and carried my suitcase out to where I'd left the car. Dawn was just breaking over the city, and the hotel parking lot was deserted. I was standing at the Lycan's trunk, gingerly digging for my keys, when a man's voice behind me said, "Hello, Markowski."
My right hand was deep in my pants pocket, so I didn't even try for the gun. Instead, I turned slowly.
Standing between two cars in the next aisle was Special Agent Greer of the FBI. His hands were out of sight, so at least he wasn't pointing a gun at me.
I nodded and said, "Agent Greer. Where's that partner of yours? I'd like to have a word with her."
"Linda? Haven't seen her since yesterday sometime. Word is, there's a material witness warrant out on her, so maybe she's lying low until she gets some legal advice. What's that warrant about, if you don't mind me asking?"
"Among other things, my boss wants to talk to her about a woman who allegedly went out to the goblin camp to recruit assassins, and sent them after me."
Greer smiled, which I thought was strange.
He said, "A woman, huh?"
"That's what the witness says." I didn't mention that the witness was a goblin who didn't even speak English and would never testify in court.
"Sounds pretty bad," he said.
"Yeah, we take conspiracy to commit murder pretty seriously around here," I said. "Agent Greer, do you know anything about the Church of the True Cross?"
A slow nod. "I might've heard something about them."
"They're a dangerous organization, or they were. Your partner is also suspected of working for them, as a kind of double agent."
"Is that right?" The smile reappeared for an instant, then vanished. "Why do you say they were dangerous?"
"Guess you're not up to speed on recent developments. Go on over to the squad – McGuire will fill you in. I'm going home."
"Just give me the short version," he said. No smiles now.
"All right. Their head guy, Bishop Navarra, is dead. The power behind the throne, a rich nut named Patton Wilson, is at large and facing a list of indictments longer than both of my arms. The members of the Church's praetorian guard – the survivors, I mean – have dispersed and are all wanted for questioning. Get the rest of it from McGuire – I'm tired."
"First explain what you meant by survivors," Greer snapped. It sounded like an order, instead of a polite request from one cop to another. But the simplest thing was just to answer him.
I said, "Two of the commando boys died last night, and a third one is currently dealing with a little demonic possession problem."
"I see," Greer said grimly. His face hardened into a mask of hatred. His arms came up, and I saw that he was holding a pistol, and it was pointed right at me. "I told Mister Wilson we should've just put a couple of pounds of Semtex under your house some morning – take care of you and that abomination you call your daughter at the same time."
"Semtex," I said. "That's plastic explosive, isn't it?"
"Bet your ass it is," he said. He thumbed back the hammer of his pistol, which looked like one of those new Sig Sauers. Trust the FBI to have the latest model.
"My only regret right now," Greer said, "is that you're going to die not comprehending the enormous damage you've done to your own race's chances for survival against the godless scum of the Earth."
"It was you all the time, wasn't it – not Thorwald." Even without the second-degree burn, my chances of drawing and firing before Greer could put ten bullets into me were nonexistent. I wondered if I should go for it, anyway. There was always the chance his gun would misfire. Right. Snowballs in hell, Markowski.