Urban Shaman

“Wait! Can you tell us why you’re here, Officer Walker? Can you give us any information about today’s killings? Damn,” Laura Corvalis said as we made our escape. “Cut the tape. Maybe we can get something out of this.”

Billy threw me in his car before he started yelling. “Would you care to tell me what the hell that was?”

I rubbed my forehead where I’d cracked it against the door frame and looked at him sullenly. “I’m not a detective. I can just see Morrison coming down on me like a load of bricks for giving myself an on-screen promotion. Anyway, I didn’t say anything damning.” I didn’t think I’d said anything damning. Please God, let me not have said anything damning. “It probably won’t even be on the news.”

“You shouldn’t have said anything. You’ve been suspended, for God’s sake, Joanne. You’ve been suspended and you just showed up at a murder scene and don’t think for a minute that Laura Corvalis isn’t going to do her homework on you. It’ll be on the news. ‘Suspended officer, suspected of murder, visits crime scene’. God, why didn’t you keep your mouth shut?”

I shrank down in my seat. “I’m sorry.”

Billy glared more, then sighed. “I didn’t tell you not to say anything. It’s as much my fault as yours.” He went silent, then sighed again, more explosively. “Did you get anything in there?”

I sighed too, shrinking farther down into the seat. “Yeah. Kind of a good news/bad news scenario.”

“Give me the good news first.”

“It’s not Cernunnos.”

Billy hit the steering wheel with the heel of his hand. “What’s the bad news?”

“It’s not Cernunnos.”

“Shit.” Billy didn’t say anything for a couple of blocks. “All right, well, it’s something. We’re not dealing with a Celtic god here. Good. Great. Fantastic.” The sarcasm dripped. “You know, Joanie, I’m glad you don’t think I’m crazy anymore, but—”

“But now you think I’m crazy.”

He glanced at me. “You could’ve picked a smaller way to break into the wonderful weird world of the paranormal, yeah.”

“I guess I didn’t get the memo on that one.” I slid my fingers over the thin scar on my cheek. “Do we have a physical description of this guy?”

“About six-one, mid-thirties, Caucasian, long light brown hair, green eyes, big shoulders but overall a slender build, carries a very sharp knife.”

“A teenager told you he was in his mid-thirties?” I remembered distinctly when twenty-six was old. I was pretty sure I wouldn’t have recognized mid-thirties as such, when I was fifteen.

“No, the teacher, Mrs. Potter, did. She gave us most of the description.”

“Where is she?”

“Hospital. You said they got lucky, the circle wasn’t closed? That’s probably thanks to her. She tackled the guy. Got cut up pretty good herself, two stab wounds to the abdomen and a lot of minor cuts.”

“Brave lady.” I sucked my lower lip into my mouth, staring out the windshield. “I think I need to go see her.”

“They won’t let you in without a police escort.”

I looked at him. “Well, you’re in trouble anyway.”

* * *

Hospital antiseptic is chemically balanced to cut through the smells of blood and vomit and urine and death. It also makes me sneeze so hard I cry.

Gary arrived in time to stand next to Billy and watch the end of the sneezing fit. They were both grinning and not trying to hide it when I unfolded from a fetal position and looked up with watery eyes. “Oh, shuddup,” I said thickly. Gary offered me an enormous red handkerchief that looked like it hadn’t been used. I wiped my nose and stuffed it in my own pocket, on the assumption that he didn’t want my snot in his pocket. He didn’t object, so I figured I was right. “Thanks,” I said as politely as I could. “What’re you doing here, anyway?”

“He called me up while you were on your way over.” Gary tipped his head at Billy. “Said you were gonna need a ride back to your car and he had to go down to the station to get his ass chewed.”

“Oh.” The minute Billy had agreed to take me to the hospital I’d fallen asleep. He could have run a brass band over my head and I wouldn’t have noticed, not with the comforting thrum of wheels against concrete soothing me.

Mrs. Potter was in a private wing down a rat’s maze of gated hallways. Billy stopped and talked to the guard, who opened the gates and ushered us through into a corridor that looked like its sole purpose was keeping important people safe. There were no windows, the walls were prison gray and the lights did nothing to cheer it. My boots echoed on the linoleum. “What do they do, bring people down here to encourage them to die?”

“It’s a little morbid, isn’t it? Supposed to discourage people from exploring down this way.” Billy waved a hand at the nearly empty hall.

“Like they can get past the guards,” Gary muttered. “What’s the point?”

“Used to be a psychiatric wing.”

“Sure,” I said. “Like crazy people need another reason to be depressed.”

Billy scowled at me. “They converted it about ten years ago, and the primer color paint got donated. These days it’s used for celebrities, criminals and emergencies. The isolation helps keep sightseers and ambulance chasers away.”

“And visitors,” I opined. “I’d have gotten discouraged three corridors back. What happens if sainted Aunt Sally wants to visit her precious movie star nephew who got hurt filming on location?”

“First sainted Aunt Sally gets a background check, then she gets brought down here with a police escort. Just like you did.” Two more guards stood at attention as we came around a corner and up the hall. I wondered if they’d been like that the whole time, or if there was a poker game hidden around the next corner.

“Does that mean you did a background check on me?” Gary asked. Billy ignored the question, walking up to the guards. Gary grinned. “Bet that means no.” Billy gave him a dirty look and pushed the door open, gesturing me in.

I had an image of Mrs. Potter built up in my mind. She was young, in her early thirties at the most, with heavy blond hair she usually wore up. It would be down now, and she would be pale under her light tan. She’d be tall, although not as tall as me, and muscular like a swimmer. She’d have blue eyes and not need much makeup.

A woman who was at least in her mid-sixties lay on the bed, the oxygen mask they’d given her set askew on her face. An orderly tried steadily and without the slightest success to get her to put it back on.

She had gobs of white hair that stood out in random directions, a state that seemed natural rather than caused by a traumatizing day. She was, in fact, both tall and muscular, and she had an amazingly solid feeling to her, like Mrs. Claus on steroids. “My lungs, young man, are perfectly functional,” she was saying as I walked in. “I do not need this ridiculous contraption and I will not wear it. The doctor has verified that my brain is operating quite within normal parameters. If you insist, I will sign paperwork absolving the hospital of all responsibility should my lungs suddenly collapse, leading to my demise through suffocation, but I have had quite enough of that silly mask.”

“You like Star Trek?” I asked, surprised. Mrs. Potter removed her gaze from the orderly, who sagged in either relief or resignation, and fixed it on me.

“I do,” she said crisply. “How ever did you deduce that?”

I grinned and walked forward. “I don’t think anybody who wasn’t a Trek fan would say ‘operating within normal parameters.’ Hi, I’m Joanne Walker.” I stepped up to the side of her bed and offered my hand. She had a strong grip.

“Good evening, Joanne Walker. My name is Henrietta Potter. To what do I owe the pleasure of your acquaintance? And who are these two ruffians?” Sharp blue eyes glanced over Billy and Gary, and she waved a hand. “Who is the one ruffian,” she corrected herself. “I see our detective with the unfortunate name has returned. You are a very polite interrogator, young man.”

Billy grinned and half bowed, all charming modesty. “I try, ma’am. This is Gary Muldoon.” Gary hung back in the door, trying to look small. It didn’t work.

“Well, Gary Muldoon. I normally prefer to be a little more attractively attired before entertaining gentlemen