From the street came a wheezy little beep-beep! The Blue Beetle came slowly down the street and stopped in front of the building. Molly was behind the wheel, waving at me frantically.
I hurried down to the street and got in before the mismatched color scheme of my car sent the obsessive-compulsive federal personnel in the building behind me into a conniption. As Molly pulled away, I buckled up, then got a sloppy kiss on the face from Mouse, who sat in the backseat, his tail going thump-thump-thump against the back of the driver’s seat.
“Ick!” I told him. “My lips touched dog lips! Get me some mouthwash! Get me some iodine!”
His tail kept wagging and he smooched me again before settling down and looking content.
I sagged back into my seat and closed my eyes.
Maybe two minutes passed. “You’re welcome,” Molly said abruptly, her tone frustrated. “No problem, Harry. Whatever I can do to help.”
“Sorry, padawan,” I said. “This has been a long day already.”
“I came back from the church and saw a bunch of guys and cops were going in and out of your apartment. The door was broken down and the whole place looked like it had been ransacked.” She shuddered and clenched the wheel. “God. I was sure you were dead or in trouble.”
“You were about ninety percent right,” I said. “Someone told the feds I was the one who blew up the office building. They wanted to talk to me.”
Molly’s eyes grew wide. “What about the Swords? We’ve got to tell my dad, right away, or—”
“Relax,” I said. “I stashed them. They should be safe for now.”
Molly puffed out a breath and subsided in relief. “You look terrible,” she said, after a minute. “Did they beat you up or something?”
I swept my eyes left and right as we went on, searching. “Giant centipede.”
“Oh,” Molly said, drawing the word out, as though I had explained everything. “What are you looking for?”
I’d been scanning the traffic around us for a dark sedan. I’d found about thirty of them so far, being a master detective and all. “The car of the guy who just shot at me.” I produced the bullet, a little copper-jacketed round more slender than my pinkie and a little under an inch long.
“What is that?” Molly asked.
“Two-twenty-three Remington,” I said. “I think. Probably.”
“What’s that mean?”
“That it could have been almost anybody. It’s the round used in most NATO assault rifles. A lot of hunting rifles, too.” A thought struck me and I frowned at her. “Hey. How did you know where to find me?”
“I let Mouse drive.”
Thump, thump, thump.
I was tired. It took my brain a second to sort out the humor in her tone. “It isn’t funny when everyone does it, Molly. Not ready for the burden of constant wiseassery are you.”
She grinned widely, evidently pleased at having scored the point on me. “I used a tracking spell and the hair you gave me in case I ever needed to find you.”
Of course she had. “Oh, right. Well-done.”
“Um,” she said. “I’m not sure where we’re driving. As far as I know, your apartment is still crawling with guys.”
“Priorities, grasshopper. First things first.”
She eyed me. “Burger King, huh?”
“I’m starving,” I said. “Then back to the apartment. They should be gone by the time we get there, and it’s the only place where I’m sure Susan and Martin will be trying to make contact.”
She frowned. “But . . . the wards are down. It’s not safe there anymore. Is it?”
“It never was,” I said calmly. “If someone really wants to come kill you, it’s hard to stop them. All you can do is make it expensive for them to try it, and hope that they decide the price is too high.”
“Well, sure,” Molly said. “But . . . without the wards, aren’t you kind of having a super discount sale?”
Kid had a point. Anyone who ever wanted to take a whack at me had a peachy opportunity now. Attention, shoppers! Discount specials on Harry Dresden’s life. Slightly used, no refunds, limit one per customer. Shop smart. Shop S-Mart.
I leaned my head against the window, closed my eyes, and said, “What’d Forthill tell you?”
“What he always says. That he couldn’t make any promises, but that he’d do whatever he could to help. He said to call him back in a few hours and he’d see what he could get from his peeps.”
“Pretty sure that Roman Catholic priests don’t have peeps,” I said gravely. “Too trendy and ephemeral. Like automobiles. And the printing press.”
Molly didn’t return fire against my comments, though I’d made them lightly. She was conflicted on the whole issue of the Church, which I thought was probably a fine state for her mind to be in. People who ask questions and think about their faith are the last ones to embrace dogma—and the last to abandon their path once they’ve set out on it. I felt fairly sure that the Almighty, whatever name tag He had on at the moment, could handle a few questions from people sincerely looking for answers. Hell, He might even like it.
“Harry,” she said. “We could talk to my father.”
“No,” I said in a calm and final tone. “That isn’t even on the table.”
“Maybe it should be. Maybe he could help you find Maggie.”
I felt a sharp stab of anger and pain go through me—a vivid memory. Michael Carpenter, Knight of the Sword and unflagging friend, had gotten his body torn and beaten to bits trying to help me with one of my cases. Bearing a Sword melded to one of the nails of the Crucifixion, given him by an archangel, he had been a bulwark against very real, very literal forces of evil in the world. It was incredibly comforting to have him on your side. We’d waded into all kinds of ridiculously lethal situations together and come out of them again.
Except that last time.
He was retired now, and happy, walking only with the aid of a cane, out of the evil-smiting business and spending his time building houses and being with his family, the way he’d always wanted to. So long as he stayed retired, I gathered that he had a certain amount of immunity against the powers of supernatural evil. It would not surprise me at all if there were literally an angel standing over his shoulder at all times, ready to protect him and his family. Like the Secret Service, but with swords and wings and halos.
“No,” I said again. “He’s out of the fight. He deserves to be. But if I ask for his help, he’ll give it, and he’ll have chosen to accept the consequences. Only he can’t protect himself or your family from them anymore.”
Molly took a very deep breath and then nodded, her worried eyes focused on the road. “Right,” she said. “Okay. It’s just . . .”
“Yeah?”
“I’m used to him being there, I guess. Knowing that . . . if I need him, he’s there to help. I guess I always had it in my head that if things ever went really, truly bad, he’d Show Up,” she said, putting gentle emphasis on the last words.
I didn’t answer her. My father had died when I was young, before I learned that there was anything stronger than he was. I’d been operating without that kind of support for my whole life. Molly was only now realizing that, in some ways, she was on her own.
I wondered if my daughter even knew that she had a father, if she knew that there was someone who wanted, desperately, to Show Up.
“You get yourself an apartment and your plumbing goes bad, he’ll still be there,” I said quietly. “Some guy breaks your heart, he’ll come over with ice cream. A lot of people never have a dad willing to do that stuff. Most of the time, it matters a hell of a lot more.”