"Harry," I said.
"Are you all right?"
"Shot," I said. "It'll heal."
"Did you beat Nicodemus?"
"I got away from him," I said. "We stopped the plague. But he killed Shiro."
"Oh," she said quietly. "I'm sorry."
"I got my coat back. And my car. Not a total loss." I started opening mail as I spoke.
Susan asked, "What about the Shroud?"
"Jury's not out yet. Marcone got involved."
"What happened?" she said.
"He saved my life," I said. "Michael's too. He didn't have to do it."
"Wow."
"Yeah. Sometimes it feels like the older I get, the more confused everything is."
Susan coughed. "Harry. I'm sorry I wasn't around. By the time I was conscious, we were already over Central America."
"It's okay," I said.
"I didn't know what Martin had in mind," she said. "Honestly. I wanted to talk to you and to Trish and pick up a few of my things. I thought Martin was only coming along to help. I didn't know that he had come here to kill Ortega. He used me to cover his movements."
"It's okay."
"It isn't okay. And I'm sorry."
I opened an envelope, read it, and blurted, "Oh, you're kidding me."
"What?"
"I just opened a letter. It's from Larry Fowler's lawyer. The jerk is suing me for trashing his car and his studio."
"He can't prove that," Susan said. "Can he?"
"Whether or not he can, this is going to cost me a fortune in legal fees. Smarmy, mealymouthed jerk."
"Then I hate to add more bad news. Ortega is back in Casaverde, recovering. He's called in all his strongest knights and let it be widely known that he's coming to kill you personally."
"I'll cross that bridge when I come to it. Did you see the subtle humor there? Vampires, cross? God, I'm funny."
Susan said something in Spanish, not into the phone, and sighed. "Damn. I have to go."
"Saving nuns and orphans?" I asked.
"Leaping tall buildings in a single bound. I should probably put on some underwear."
That brought a smile to my face. "You joke around a lot more than you used to," I said. "I like it."
I could picture the sad smile on her face as she spoke. "I'm dealing with a lot of scary things," she said. "I think you have to react to them. And you either laugh at them or you go insane. Or you become like Martin. Shut off from everything and everyone. Trying not to feel."
"So you joke," I said.
"I learned it from you."
"I should open a school."
"Maybe so," she said. "I love you, Harry. I wish things were different."
My throat got tight. "Me too."
"I'll get you a drop address. If you ever need my help, get in touch."
"Only if I need your help?" I asked.
She exhaled slowly and said, "Yeah."
I tried to say, "Okay," but my throat was too tight to speak.
"Good- bye, Harry," Susan said.
I whispered, "Good-bye."
And that was the end of that.
I woke up to a ringing telephone the next day. "Hoss," Ebenezar said. "You should watch the news today." He hung up on me.
I went down to a nearby diner for breakfast, and asked the waitress to turn on the news. She did.
"- extraordinary event reminiscent of the science-fiction horror stories around the turn of the millennium, what appeared to be an asteroid fell from space and impacted just outside the village of Casaverde in Honduras." The screen flickered to an aerial shot of an enormous, smoking hole in the ground, and a half-mile-wide circle of trees that had been blasted flat. Just past the circle of destruction stood a poor-looking village. "However, information coming in from agencies around the world indicates that the so-called meteor was in actuality a deactivated Soviet communications satellite which decayed in orbit and fell to earth. No estimates of the number of deaths or injuries in this tragic freak accident have yet reached authorities, but it seems unlikely that anyone in the manor house could possibly have survived the impact."
I sat slowly back, pursing my lips. I decided that maybe I wasn't sorry Asteroid Dresden turned out to be an old Soviet satellite after all. And I made a mental note to myself never to get on Ebenezar's bad side.
The next day I tracked down Marcone. It wasn't easy. I had to call in a couple of favors in the spirit world to get a beacon-spell going on him, and he knew all the tricks for losing a tail. I had to borrow Michael's truck so that I could have a prayer of following him inconspicuously. The Beetle may be way sexy, but subtle it ain't.
He changed cars twice and somehow called into effect the magical equivalent of a destructive electromagnetic pulse that scrambled my beacon-spell. Only quick thinking and some inspired thaumaturgy combined with my investigative skills let me stay with him.
He drove right on into the evening, to a private hospital in Wisconsin. It was a long-term-care and therapeutic facility. He pulled in, dressed in casual clothes and wearing a baseball cap, which alone generated enough cognitive dissonance to make me start drooling. He pulled a backpack out of the car and went inside. I gave him a little bit of a lead and then followed him with my beacon. I stayed outside, peering in windows at lit hallways, keeping pace and watching.
Marcone stopped at a room and went inside. I stood at the window, keeping track of him. The paper tag on the door from the hall read DOE, JANE in big, permanent marker letters that were faded with age. There was a single bed in the room, and there was a girl on it.
She wasn't old. I'd place her in her late teens or early twenties. She was so thin it was hard to tell. She wasn't on life support, but her bedcovers were flawlessly unwrinkled. Combined with her emaciated appearance, I was guessing she was in a coma, whoever she was.
Marcone drew up a chair beside the bed. He pulled out a teddy bear and slipped it into the crook of the girl's arm. He got out a book. Then he started reading to her, out loud. He sat there reading to her for an hour, before he slipped a bookmark into place and put the book back into the backpack.
Then he reached into the pack and pulled out the Shroud. He peeled down the outermost blanket on her bed, and carefully laid the Shroud over the girl, folding its ends in a bit to keep it from spilling out. Then he covered it up with the blanket and sat down in the chair again, his head bowed. I hadn't ever pictured John Marcone praying. But I saw him forming the word please, over and over.