one day later after each holiday.” The man nodded to himself and got into his car. “It’s hard to remember, with all those damn federal holidays.”
Harry ran back to Magnusson’s house. He could hear Maggie tearing up the fence, and hurried around the back driveway to check on Tara and Cassie. He hoped they’d hit the deck soon enough. While the thought of the girl getting hit terrified him, imagining Tara being struck trying to save her froze his chest.
It was then he noticed Magnusson’s garbage can was out. If today was trash day, he must have put it out two days earlier.
Magnusson had known he’d be gone.
The thought lanced through his mind as he ran back up the driveway, raced up the porch steps, into the foyer, where his breath caught and blistered in his throat.
There was blood. It stained the white plaster of the foyer in a misty, high-velocity blood spatter pattern. Tara and Cassie crouched in a ball on the floor, below the line of the fire.
“We’re getting out of here.”
Tara turned as Harry spoke, blood smearing from her jacket on the white plaster. All color had drained from her face. Maggie whimpered and jumped up on her, paws scratching on the wall. Under Tara’s arms, Harry could see Cassie’s dark coat and a frightened eye. Tara dragged her back from the broken kitchen window, protected by the wall studs in the foyer.
Harry raced for Magnusson’s office, crouching below the level of the windows. Though the shooter had gone, he had no reassurance there weren’t more, and he was certain the house was still being surveilled. He snatched the laptop from the desk, jammed it under his arm as if it were a football.
Harry sprinted outside for the car. Heedless of the landscaping, he drove it on the gravel, right up to the edge of the porch. He rolled out of the passenger’s side, gun drawn, popping open the backseat door. He scanned the yard, the neighbor’s fence, the street, as Tara and Cassie stumbled out of the front door. Tara had flung her coat over the girl, and they piled into the backseat. Maggie, whimpering, clambered in after them.
Harry looked back in the rearview mirror at the women and the dog. Maggie was vigorously licking Cassie’s face, slapping Harry’s arm with her tail. Tara kept her hand on the girl’s head, keeping close to the floorboards.
Harry threw the car in gear and rattled back out of the driveway in reverse. The tires squealed when they hit the street, passed the garbage truck, and tore out of the cul-de-sac into the gray winter morning.
Chapter Seven
T HERE WERE always places to find dirty jobs, if one knew where to look. Black hat work didn’t bother Adrienne much. As a geomancer, she didn’t mind getting her hands dirty—literally or figuratively.
Adrienne stood in the back of a dive bar, arms folded, watching the room. Her boots had stuck to the floor, littered with peanut shells. The bar displayed a selection of liquors illuminated by a television above the bar showing a basketball game. Perched on bar stools, playing pool, drinking in the shadows at booths, were buyers and sellers of services. Judging by the ramrod postures and buzzed haircuts, many of these men were current or ex-military in civilian dress. A few biker types in leathers and long hair mixed in, and there were no other women. Some of the faces were familiar, those of former employers. Adrienne came here when she was looking for work, and never stayed long.
She knew Tara was searching for the missing physicist, Magnusson. Odds were, if she was looking for him, more shadowy types were, as well. Adrienne knew she stood a better chance of finding Tara if she allied herself with someone looking for the same thing. Geomancy had taught her all lines of power, most ley lines, ultimately intersected. . . if one knew where to listen. And unknown to most humans, this place that the black hats gathered was an intersection point for these lines.
Adrienne reached into her pocket for a milk
Harry ran back to Magnusson’s house. He could hear Maggie tearing up the fence, and hurried around the back driveway to check on Tara and Cassie. He hoped they’d hit the deck soon enough. While the thought of the girl getting hit terrified him, imagining Tara being struck trying to save her froze his chest.
It was then he noticed Magnusson’s garbage can was out. If today was trash day, he must have put it out two days earlier.
Magnusson had known he’d be gone.
The thought lanced through his mind as he ran back up the driveway, raced up the porch steps, into the foyer, where his breath caught and blistered in his throat.
There was blood. It stained the white plaster of the foyer in a misty, high-velocity blood spatter pattern. Tara and Cassie crouched in a ball on the floor, below the line of the fire.
“We’re getting out of here.”
Tara turned as Harry spoke, blood smearing from her jacket on the white plaster. All color had drained from her face. Maggie whimpered and jumped up on her, paws scratching on the wall. Under Tara’s arms, Harry could see Cassie’s dark coat and a frightened eye. Tara dragged her back from the broken kitchen window, protected by the wall studs in the foyer.
Harry raced for Magnusson’s office, crouching below the level of the windows. Though the shooter had gone, he had no reassurance there weren’t more, and he was certain the house was still being surveilled. He snatched the laptop from the desk, jammed it under his arm as if it were a football.
Harry sprinted outside for the car. Heedless of the landscaping, he drove it on the gravel, right up to the edge of the porch. He rolled out of the passenger’s side, gun drawn, popping open the backseat door. He scanned the yard, the neighbor’s fence, the street, as Tara and Cassie stumbled out of the front door. Tara had flung her coat over the girl, and they piled into the backseat. Maggie, whimpering, clambered in after them.
Harry looked back in the rearview mirror at the women and the dog. Maggie was vigorously licking Cassie’s face, slapping Harry’s arm with her tail. Tara kept her hand on the girl’s head, keeping close to the floorboards.
Harry threw the car in gear and rattled back out of the driveway in reverse. The tires squealed when they hit the street, passed the garbage truck, and tore out of the cul-de-sac into the gray winter morning.
Chapter Seven
T HERE WERE always places to find dirty jobs, if one knew where to look. Black hat work didn’t bother Adrienne much. As a geomancer, she didn’t mind getting her hands dirty—literally or figuratively.
Adrienne stood in the back of a dive bar, arms folded, watching the room. Her boots had stuck to the floor, littered with peanut shells. The bar displayed a selection of liquors illuminated by a television above the bar showing a basketball game. Perched on bar stools, playing pool, drinking in the shadows at booths, were buyers and sellers of services. Judging by the ramrod postures and buzzed haircuts, many of these men were current or ex-military in civilian dress. A few biker types in leathers and long hair mixed in, and there were no other women. Some of the faces were familiar, those of former employers. Adrienne came here when she was looking for work, and never stayed long.
She knew Tara was searching for the missing physicist, Magnusson. Odds were, if she was looking for him, more shadowy types were, as well. Adrienne knew she stood a better chance of finding Tara if she allied herself with someone looking for the same thing. Geomancy had taught her all lines of power, most ley lines, ultimately intersected. . . if one knew where to listen. And unknown to most humans, this place that the black hats gathered was an intersection point for these lines.
Adrienne reached into her pocket for a milk
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