The Medium

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven

Coyote arrived at ten o’clock sharp.

“Got anything to tell me?” he demanded, but no one had much to say; they were distracted by the geometric designs he’d traced onto his face in dark red paint.

“You look freaking awesome,” Kim told him flatly, and she stood out of his way while he made a circuit of the room, toeing piles of books out of his way.

He shoved the coffee table up against the wall and cleared the debris from the couch, took the telephone off the hook, piled a stack of magazines on top of the television, and moved a glass of water into the kitchen. Then he sat in the dead center of the sofa and gestured imperiously for everyone else to clear out.

“I have to find my focus,” he declared.

The wizard, the vampire, and the ghost shuffled into the bedroom and shut the door, because finding a focus was evidently a private process.

Rocky sat against the wall, curled beneath his electric blanket.

“I thought we were t-t-taking a w-walk,” he said, giving the door a troubled frown. His eyes flicked periodically toward Vickie, who shifted uncomfortably until she faded from sight. He kept watching the place where she’d been, then watched a place near the foot of Kim’s bed, then blinked and looked at Kim. She guessed Vickie had beat it.

“It’s what he calls it,” Kim explained. “Spirit walk. Probably diagnostic only, the first time. He’s a special kind of telepath. Basically, the plan is for him to give you a guided tour of your own mind, help you figure out what’s gone wrong, and then make a plan for fixing it.”

He paled and began to stutter a protest, but the words wouldn’t come out.

“He won’t do anything you don’t want him to,” she hurried to reassure him. “That’s not how he rolls. And he won’t spill your deep, dark secrets or anything.” She grinned. “Witchdoctor-patient confidentiality.”

His forehead creased, and he went still. She didn’t think he was breathing.

“You can trust Coyote,” she pressed. “He’s one of the good guys.” And then, on a whim, she ventured further. “Like you, I think.”

He frowned, shook his head, and looked away.

They sat in silence until Coyote called them back into the living room.

There was no setup. No candles or incense, no plant matter strewn on the floor, no circles or triangles or mood music. Coyote leaned on his aluminum cane with its rubber feet, one fist on his hip.

“Sit,” he growled, pointing to the couch.

The vampire put up a visible internal struggle, but he sat.

“No flailing,” Coyote warned. “If you feel like freaking out, you let me know.”

The vampire nodded.

And just like there was no setup, there was no ritual, either.

“Readysetgo!” Coyote barked. That was all the warning he gave.

Rocky collapsed. Coyote scowled.

“Like I thought,” he said. “Kid’s fubar’d. It’s like a goddamn funhouse in here.”

Kim went to make coffee while Coyote growled and griped under his breath.

“Yep!” he sang out. “I called it. He’s booby-trapped. Some kind of trigger. Clumsy, though. I’m betting it’s only level one. Yep. There’s level two. Son of a gun. He’s pretty well neutered, here. No natural defenses left. Might be permanent.”

The coffee maker rumbled and sputtered, and Coyote kept up a running commentary. Everything shot to hell, locked down, data corrupted. He sank into the chair and laid his cane across his knees, letting his eyes drift out of focus.

“No good for nothing,” he said. “I can maybe clean out enough of this crap to give him a foothold, but it’ll take a while. And these safeguards are hell. Don’t want to trip a suicide switch. Goddamn tabula rasa. Goddamn Gordian Knot. Everything sealed up like Fort Knox. Nothing sloppy, either. Duran’s good. You know, in the worst possible sense.”

He fell silent. Kim poured two cups of coffee and then poured a third, just in case. She dumped powdered milk in one and carried them in to set them on the table. She sat on the edge of the table and sipped quietly.

“Hang on,” Coyote muttered. “Loose end? Let’s see about this.” He shut his eyes and folded his hands tightly in his lap. A bead of sweat slid down between his eyebrows, smudging his face paint.

The vampire stiffened and sat up straight, his eyes wide with surprise. His pupils dilated until there was no blue left around them.

“I didn’t,” he got out, and then he choked. His gaze darted from Coyote to Kim to the door.

There was a knock.

It had to be Zeb, Kim thought, and she nearly called out for him to come in.

But that was wrong. Coyote was hauling himself to his feet, slamming his cane into the floor with enough force to make a nearby book jump. Rocky was sliding off the couch, shuffling cautiously toward the door. Kim got in front of him and flung her arms out to hold him back. Coyote grabbed the vampire’s elbow and shoved him away from the door, whirled around more quickly than an old man should, and pressed his eye to the peep hole.

“s**t,” he spat. He backed away from the door.

Rocky moved forward again. His eyes were huge and empty. Kim knocked him over and sat on him.

The knock came again.

A man’s voice slithered in, heavy with power.

“That’s mine,” he said.

Rocky squirmed, but he wasn’t yet strong enough to throw Kim off, and when he couldn’t get up, he cried. Kim had felt sorry for him before, but there was something vile and perverse about these tears. He wasn’t crying because he wanted to go; it was because it hurt him to stay still.

A long silence began to grow. The hair on Kim’s arms rose. She held her breath. Coyote crossed the entryway and disappeared into Kim’s bedroom. He came back with Kim’s semiautomatic and Zeb’s revolver.

“Are you really going to push me on this?” the voice said from outside.

It had to be Duran. Kim had never heard his voice, but it fit. The smooth accents of Spain, tinged with Mexico’s consonants. Mild tone, gently coaxing. Even with the protection of her threshold between them, that voice was strong enough that she put actual thought into letting him in.

“I’m being outrageously reasonable,” he said in a whisper that carried straight to the nape of Kim’s neck. “If we were being fair, an eye for an eye, I should steal something of yours. Burn something of yours. Maybe your car. Or this building. But I’m not going to be fair, I’m going to be nice. If you give him back, I’ll go away.”

It was outrageously reasonable, she had to admit. For a murdering asshole. Assuming he kept his word. She could open the door to let Rocky out. Duran couldn’t get in unless she invited him, and that wasn’t going to happen. But there were too many uncertainties. She’d been watching closely enough to know Duran was completely unpredictable. He might turn around and burn her alive once he had his property safely out of the way.

But if she didn’t open the door, nothing would keep him from burning her out. He didn’t seem to want Rocky dead, but she didn’t believe he’d let a little thing like that stop him.

She caught Coyote’s eye and saw he was thinking the same thing. She also saw he wasn’t going to let her take unnecessary risks.

So she stood, slowly, keeping a firm grip on Rocky’s arms as she helped him up. Touch had seemed to ground him, before, but with the puppet master right outside, he was lost. He leaned forward, cautiously testing the strength of her grip. She let him go, and he propelled himself into the door to fumble frantically at the locks. A horrible expression stretched his face, not so much a grin as a spasm.

In that moment, Kim hated herself.

Coyote tossed the semiauto at her, and she caught it as he trained Zeb’s revolver on the door.

It opened. Rocky was outside.

Beyond him, Kim could see Duran. She knew what he looked like, had seen sketches and specially-treated photographs that could capture a dead man, had stalked him all over Austin since she’d gotten the job a year before. He was a hell of a lot bigger, up close.

He loomed like a tower, tight white shirt straining to contain acres of muscle, sleeves riding up over mountainous biceps. His hair had gone longer than in the photographs she kept, and it covered his forehead and the tops of his ears in inky curls. She knew his eyes would be stunning, rich brown with flecks of gold and thick, dark lashes, but she knew better than to look. It didn’t seem fair that someone so putrid could be so pretty.

He didn’t lunge forward. He didn’t have a gun, though he looked at theirs with a faint smile. He had a good smile, one that made him look like he actually cared. He didn’t even have a matchbook to carry out his threat.

“Much obliged,” he said, voice mocking through that kind smile. He placed huge hands on his prisoner’s shoulders, shockingly gentle. The smaller man shivered. A sour feeling rose in Kim’s throat.

“He was calling me. Crying out. How could I not come?”

Then they were gone, and it was over.

Coyote shut the door and locked it, then crossed to the kitchen and grabbed the fire extinguisher from under the sink.

Kim picked up the phone and dialed Amarillo.

“It’s Kimberly Reed,” she said, cutting off the man who answered, “calling about the Austin business. I need to speak with either Tony or Edith. Now.”