The King of Plagues

the cars parked on the street and didn’t see anyone sitting in them. All of the plates were local. No pedestrians.

Amber Taylor lived on West Avenue, just off of Route 611. A blue BMW sat out front. Right color, make, and plates.

“Are we going to wait for your team?”

“No,” I said. “I want to talk to this woman ASAP. If the Spaniard leaned on her, then we may have our first solid lead. We can’t risk waiting … but it’s your call if you want to stay here or—”

“I’m going in,” Circe said in a tone that brooked no argument.

“Fine, Doc, but remember that this is a criminal investigation.”

“Yes, yes, and you’re the alpha. Get a grip, Joe; this isn’t my first time in the field.”

She said it with a lot of conviction, but I thought she was lying. I was pretty sure that this was her first time out of the world of “what if.” Even so, I kept my mouth shut on all the ways I wanted to reply to that. I took my Homeland ID case out of the glove box and looped the lanyard around my neck. We got out and I checked the street again. Nothing moved except the breeze through the December trees. I let Ghost out of the back. There was a case in the back marked with a rubber stamp of a blue old-style British police telephone box. In the TV show Doctor Who it was called a TARDIS, a kind of time and space ship. In the real world it was the box of special ultra-high-tech doodads provided by Dr. Hu and his team. I opened it and stuffed a few gizmos into my pocket.

I petted Ghost, who had caught my nervous tension and was fidgeting. I pointed to the Taylor house. “Watch. Call-call-call.” With that command he would watch the street and then bark like a crazy dog if anyone came within a dozen yards of the front door. The DMS trainer, Zan Rosin, had brought Ghost to a superb level of efficiency, and I worked with him every day to perfect the command and response between us. Ghost had a peculiar habit, though. When I gave him an order he opened and closed his mouth with a wet glup. His way of saying, “Hooah.”

Circe and I cut across the brown lawn and mounted the three steps to the stone porch. All of the houses on the street were decorated for Christmas. I noticed that Taylor’s was, too, but the work was sloppy. Lights strung crookedly, window decorations put up in haste. Circe noticed it, too.

“Nerves,” she said quietly. “Probably trying to fake it for the kids.”

I knocked on the door and waited. Nothing happened, so I tapped again.

“Joe,” Circe said without moving her lips, “the curtain moved, someone’s—”

“I know. Smile and look helpful.”

“Who are you?” a voice demanded from behind the door.

“Federal agents, Mrs. Taylor. Department of Homeland Security.”

“Prove it!”

I held up my ID so anyone looking through the peephole could see it. Then I removed my wallet and showed my driver’s license to prove the name matched. There was a picture in the adjoining glassine compartment. Grace.

“How do I know you’re who you say you are?”

“Do you still have the number you called?”

A pause. “Yes.”

“Call them. Ask for a description of the agent they sent. My name is Joseph Edwin Ledger. My partner here is Dr. Circe O’Tree. Have whoever you talk to describe us.”

“Okay. But if you try to force the door I’ll—”

She cut herself off before finishing the sentence. She didn’t know what she would do. I don’t think she had a gun or she would have threatened us with it. Scared people often do.

We waited. I could hear her speaking to someone, but her voice was muffled. All I could make out was “yes,” repeated several times.

“Okay, they gave me two questions to ask you.”

“Hit me.”

“What is your cat’s name?”

“Cobbler. And my dog, who is watching the house right now, is Ghost.”

“That wasn’t the other question. The man said to ask you what he called you when you first met.”

“He said I was a world-class smart-ass. He’s right, too. I hold several international records.”

I actually heard a short laugh from behind the door.

“Okay … I’m going to open the door.”

We waited and I could imagine the woman taking a steadying breath, trying to muster the optimism to trust the moment. She had her kids in there. If Santoro had done to her what he had done to Dr. Grey, the images of her children as victims of the Spaniard’s knife—as his angels—would be overwhelming.

The lock clicked. I traded a look with Circe. She looked as wired as I felt.

The door opened an inch and we saw a single terrified eye. Bright blue and filled with a kind of profound dread that should never be in any human’s eyes, let alone a parent’s.

“We’re here to help,” said Circe softly.

A tear welled in the corner of that bright blue eye.

“Don’t let them hurt my babies,” she begged.

I smiled—and I don’t know if it was the Cop or the Warrior who shaped that smile—and said, “Not a chance.”

Interlude Thirty-two

Crown Island

One Month Ago

“It’s done.”

The Goddess smiled into the phone. “Ah, lovely boy, I never had a doubt. Was it difficult?”

“Toys whined about it,” Gault said, “but it was more than worth it. We’ll be in Cairo in two hours and back there before this hits the news services.”

“Hurry home to me, Sebastian,” Eris purred. “I want you here. In my arms. Inside of me.”

“If I could sprout wings, my love,” he murmured, “I’d already be in the air. Oops, the cab is here. Got to go. I’ll call you when I land in Toronto. Have fun on the Internet.”

“Oh, I will. By this time next month the Inner Circle will be rending their garments and beating their chests.”

“Don’t forget gnashing their teeth and wailing. The gnashing and wailing is such a kick.”

They were both laughing as they disconnected.

Interlude Thirty-three

Regent Beverly Wilshire

Beverly Hills, California

One Month Ago

Charles Osgood Harrington III disliked speaking on the phone. Most of his calls were taken by various assistants and secretaries. His cell phone had a private number given to a very select handful of people. Even his son didn’t have it. Which Harrington considered a good business move since his son, Charles Osgood Harrington IV—known as C-Four to everyone from the police to the national media—was a good-for-nothing waste of time.

So when his cell phone rang Harrington assumed that it was one of that small circle from whom he was always happy to take a call.

“Charlie,” said a breathless voice.