The kid was not in good shape. We’d done a considerable bit of hiking that evening, and despite what might have been the beginnings of a thaw, it was still below freezing, and the slight lack of bitter cold in the wind wasn’t stopping it from cutting through Fitz’s layers of mismatched clothing and his old jacket. Those lean, gangly kids have the worst of it when winter sets in. They lose their body heat fast. He’d been making up for it in exercise, but he was getting tired, and I remembered that he probably hadn’t eaten since I’d seen him before the previous day’s sunrise.
He stood clutching his arms around his body, shivering and trying to look like nothing was wrong. His teeth were chattering.
“I know a guy here,” I said. “Go around to the back door and knock until someone answers. Ask for Father Forthill.”
Fitz looked skeptical. “What’s he gonna do for me?”
“Give you a blanket and some hot food, for starters,” I said. “Look, kid, I’m giving you my A game here. Forthill’s a decent guy. This is what he does.”
Fitz clenched his jaws. “This isn’t getting me the guns back. I can’t go back without them. If I can’t go back, I can’t get my crew out.”
“Go inside,” I told him. “Talk to Forthill. Get some food in you. If you decide you want to go back and try to sneak the guns out of that drift on your own, you’ll have plenty of time before dawn.”
Fitz set his jaw stubbornly.
“Your choice, man,” I said. “But going hungry in cold like this is hard on the body. You had, what—seven weapons? Most of them submachine guns? Comes out to maybe forty pounds. Call it fifty if you bring back all the clips and ammo. Think you can burrow into a half-frozen snowbank, get all those guns out, load them up, and walk for most of an hour in the coldest part of the night? On an empty stomach? Without a cop spotting you and wondering what a guy your age is doing on the dark streets so late, carrying a really heavy bag?”
He grunted.
“At least have a damned sandwich.”
Fitz’s stomach gurgled audibly, and he sighed. “Yeah. Okay.”
It took Fitz five minutes to get anyone to answer the door, and when it finally opened, a dour, sour-looking elderly man in a heavy brown bathrobe vaguely reminiscent of a monk’s habit opened the door. His name was Father Paolo, and he took himself very seriously.
Fitz told him that he needed to see Father Forthill, that it was a matter of life and death. Only after several minutes of emphasizing his original statement did Father Paolo sigh and invite Fitz in.
“Stay there,” Paolo said, pointing a stern finger at Fitz.
Fitz pointed at the ground, questioningly, and then nodded. “Got it.” Then he deliberately took a small shuffle-step to one side as the priest began to turn away, drawing a scowl worthy of at least a cardinal.
I probably shouldn’t have undermined Paolo’s authority by chuckling like that, but come on. That’s comedy.
Forthill came down the hall from his chambers a few moments later, dressed in flannel pajamas and a heavy, black terry-cloth robe. He had thick, fuzzy house shoes on his feet, and his fringe of hair was standing up every which way. His bright blue eyes were a little watery and squinty without the aid of his glasses. He blinked at Fitz for a moment and then said, “Can I help you, my son?”
“Harry Dresden said you could,” Fitz said.
Forthill raised his eyebrows. “Ah. Perhaps you should come with me.”
Fitz looked around and then nodded. “I guess.”
Forthill beckoned and led Fitz back down some hallways to the neat, modest chamber where he slept and lived. It was maybe ten feet square and contained a bed, a desk, a chair, and a couple of lamps. Forthill let Fitz in, then closed the door behind the young man. “Please have a seat, my son.”
Fitz looked around for a moment, then sat down on the chair. Forthill nodded and sat on the edge of his bed. “First things first,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “Should I give you a good set-up line for you to make a pithy comment about Catholic priests and sexual abuse of young men, or would you prefer to find your own opening during the conversation?”
Fitz blinked a couple of times and said, “What?”
“Such remarks are apparently quite popular. I wouldn’t want to deny you the enjoyment.”
“Oh, uh. No, that’s all right, Father.”
Forthill nodded gravely. “As you wish. Shall we talk about your problems now?”
“All right.”
“Well, then,” the priest said, “perhaps you should start by telling me when Dresden told you to come to me for help.”
“Uh . . .” Fitz said. He glanced around, as if looking for me.
“Go ahead,” I told him. “Just tell him the truth. It’s all right.”
Fitz took a deep breath and said, “About thirty minutes ago, Father.”
Forthill’s eyebrows tried to turn themselves into a toupee. “Oh?”
“Yeah,” Fitz said, his eyes restless. “I, uh. I hear dead people.”
“That must be disconcerting.”
“I’m not crazy,” Fitz said quickly.
“I never thought you were, my son,” Forthill said.
Fitz gave him a suspicious scowl. “You believe me?”
The old man gave him an imp’s grin. “I’m well aware of the supernatural facets of our city—and that the streets have been particularly dangerous for the past six months or so.”
“That’s . . . putting it sort of lightly, Father,” Fitz said.
He nodded. “I’m sure your experience has not been a gentle one,” he said. “I won’t add to it with my own disbelief.”
Fitz bit his lower lip for a moment. “Okay.”
“I am also aware,” Forthill continued, “that Dresden’s shade is apparently taking a hand in things. I assume that’s who you’ve spoken to?”
“Yeah.”
Forthill nodded and looked around the room. “He’s . . . he’s here with you, isn’t he?”
“Wow,” I said. “Points for Forthill.”
“Yeah,” Fitz sighed. “He . . . kinda doesn’t shut up.”
Forthill chuckled. “He is—he was—a very determined young man.”
“Hasn’t changed,” Fitz said.
“I see,” the priest said. “My son, I am sure you understand that these are perilous times. I am afraid that I must ask for some kind of confirmation that this entity is who he says he is.”
Fitz looked at the priest blankly. Then around the room. “You hear that?”
“Yeah,” I said. I walked over to the far wall of the room and stuck my head through it. On the other side was a dark space, a hidden storage compartment just large enough to contain a couple of small file cabinets. The concealed compartment had been unknown to anyone but Forthill until I worked a case for an archangel a while back. Michael Carpenter and I had seen him open the hidden cabinet.
“Come over here,” I said. “Knock on the wall, right here. Forthill will know what it means.”
“Uh, dude,” Fitz said. “I can’t see where you are.”
I sighed. “Can you hear my voice?”
“Yeah,” he said, “but it’s just . . . like, this disembodied thing. There’s not much direction to it.”
Which made sense. He was not actually, physically, hearing me speak. Fitz’s gift to sense spirits simply expressed itself as something his mind could interpret—in this case, auditory stimulus.
“Uh, okay,” I said. “Walk over to the back wall of the room, the one you were facing when you came through the door.”
Fitz said to Forthill, “He’s trying to tell me how to prove he isn’t full of crap.” Then he stood up and walked across the room.
“Okay,” I said. “Put your hand out on the wall. Now move to your right. Little more. Little more. Too far.
