Chapter 10: Chapter 10
The body of the third victim was found by workers repairing the fence of the park - it was hidden in the bushes near the pond. The girl died in the same eastern part of the park as the previous victims. Kennedy was already working on her body while Byrne and Gallagher tried to interrogate the workers - one of them was still vomited, the other muttered prayers continuously, and the third stuttered, and Brennon was unsure whether the man suffered from this defect before such an impressive find. The shovel, which turned the victim's face into porridge, was fished out by a hound in a pond.
Now the witch was drying Red in the backyard, Longsdale handed out medallions to the staff, and the Commissar wearily trudged to his side. In the last two days, he had somehow piled on a lot, and, rising to his office, he first thought about the fact that retired, maybe not so bad. At least, you don't have to read Byrne's report on Shihans' interrogation, while driving away the idea that the police consultant is some kind of twofold essence, the nature of which even the immortal vivene knows nothing. Or who is she there...
"What the heck?!" the commissar roared. Rising to himself, to be a little alone and concentrate, he dreamed of peace and quiet, and not about the damned pyromaniac in his chair! The damned bastard casually threw an amulet on the table, which should protect the cabinet from his own invasion, and scornfully remarked:
"Bungler."
Brennon was breathing heavily. With some effort, the Commissar reminded himself that it was thanks to the pyromaniac that Peggy was safe and sound (already three times!) and that he still had not encroached on her maiden honor, although it was not clear why. Nathan slammed the door shut.
"I can arrest you for killing Father Grace and Jason Moore right now," he said through set teeth.
"You can try," the pyromaniac corrected him. He did not even bother to take off his coat and hat, and threw himself up in a chair in a businesslike manner, scornfully scrutinizing the study. "Is this where you work?"
"Get out of MY chair," Brennon hissed. The sorcerer measured his eyes and, as if evaluating it as a piece of furniture, slowly got up and walked around the table - prudently in the corner farthest from the commissar. Nathan took the chair, threw Byrne's report into the drawer and grunted:
"Well?"
"You are an interesting person," the pyromancer took a chair and flashed dark eyes from under his hat at the commissar.
"What are you saying. Show the cane."
The wizard raised an eyebrow. Brannon waited in silence, glaring at him with a look that he reserved for the vilest scum of society. Pyroman grunted, put the cane on his knees and half a foot pulled out a sword blade from it. The metal was pale green; under the handguard a narrow triangle is woven from some icons. The familiar look. Did he get hold it in the same place where Longsdale get the trihedron?
"One more today, right?" the pyromaniac slid the blade into its scabbard.
"Yeah," Brennon said grimly. The sorcerer took off his hat, hung it on the back of the chair, and smoothed his wavy hair. The commissar, in deep irritation, thought that only innocent children and meek girls were entitled to such curls, and not...
"I came to exchange information," the pyromaniac said.
"Great. Start with your name."
"Don't flatter yourself," this curly parasite answered with a grin. "I'm here only because of Margaret. Well, because of you a little."
Brennon choked. For a moment he was struck by the eerie thought that the pyromaniac was not interested in Peggy's innocence, since he was not at all interested in women. And it is still unknown what is worse!
"Infrequently there are people who can scare the undead. Why aren't you afraid of it?"
"Information," the Commissar reminded dryly. "Or I will throw you out of the window and you will not be able to land again on all four legs."
"I didn't succeed the last time if it will comfort you," the pyromaniac said mockingly. "Get started."
Brennon looked at him silently for some time.
"If you think gratitude for Peggy will make me..."
"Oh, don't bother. I remember your gratitude last time."
The commissar discontentedly felt a pinch of conscience. In the end, this tough saved the Peggy family, although not out of noble intentions.
"I suppose you refuse to share because you have nothing to say to me," the pyromaniac said impudently. "Then another deal: I will give you information, and you will allow Margaret to go to the shelter that I found for her."
"The deal?" Nathan squeezed through gritted teeth.
"Agreement. Contract. Nonaggression pact. Think soon, I have little time."
"Give you Peggy for undivided use."
Piroman chuckled ironically.
"You pick out great expressions. But you are not a slave owner, and Margaret is not your property."
"Where is the guarantee that she will return the same as she was? An honest girl, not with your present under her heart?"
The sorcerer's lips tightened into a thin, hard line, mocking good-naturedness melted in an instant, his eyes flashed unkindly.
"You have a very flattering opinion of your niece, I will take a look. Come to senses, she is still a child. And you cannot protect her from the one who kills, without even approaching the victim."
Brennon gazed steadily at his thin nosed physiognomy. The close resemblance to Longsdale is not noticeable – a nervous, mobile face, in contrast to the calm physiognomy of the consultant with a heavy, massive jaw. But there was something vaguely familiar in the pyromaniac...
"Okay," said Nathan. "Warranty."
"My word. In the end," the pyromaniac added irritably, "over the course of these months I did not touch her with my finger."
"Perhaps you have not yet found a ritual suitable for the occasion."
"Yes, damn it, I'm only waiting for an astrological sign to ritually deprive her of innocence on the altar!" The sorcerer barked, rose abruptly and pulled his hat from the back of the chair. "But hell, I'm not going to wait for her own father slaughter her!"
He had already grabbed the doorknob when Brennon said wearily:
"Okay, calm down. I agree. But you will not hide her before I warn her family."
"Today," the sorcerer demanded.
"Why the hell do you even need this?" The commissar asked. "As if you could not have taken her away even by force, even under hypnosis."
"Don't flatter yourself," the pyromaniac answered coldly. "I am here only because she so wanted. And do not hope that even she will make me ask you for something."
Nathan looked at him in surprise. He was very far from thinking of any requests from this critter: and it is so clear that he is not accustomed to asking. Pyroman threw his hat on the Commissar's table, leaned his knee on a chair, swayed on it, and finally gave out some valuable information:
"Your Freedom Park is located on the site of Damn Bald. This is a wasteland in the city, which arose on the site of the plague barracks. Town governors forbade building for a very long time, fearing that the infection would spread again."
Brennon flinched; fatigue completely disappeared.
"Barracks? Devilry! Longsdale spoke of bad places! This is one of it? One of those where evil spirits can tear a hole from other side to ours?"
"Oh," said the pyromaniac, after a pause and rather respectfully, "you remember. And use it."
"I also know how to read," Nathan yanked on the table the roll of park maps that the manager, terrified by the number of bodies, had sent. "Here, here and here," the commissar scribbled in red pencil the crosses at the places where the bodies were found. They lay down together. Pyroman pulled out a folded sheet of paper from his bosom.
"This is a copy from the city plan of one thousand five hundred and twelfth. Take a look."
Nathan put paper on the map. The location of the barracks coincided with the crosses.
"Your maniac senses, maybe even unknowingly, what kind of power lurks in a place where thousands of people suffered and died."
"And he wants to make a hole..."
"No," the pyromaniac disappointed Brannon. "He doesn't want to. What he does is not like any ritual of invoking evil spirits."
"So what is he doing?"
"I don't know," the pyromaniac said through set teeth, clearly unhappy with his ignorance. "The purpose of his actions is also unknown to me. From a magical point of view, they are generally meaningless. He doesn't make sacrifices, he doesn't steal the souls, like this one of your Moore, he does not build a portal. Maybe he just went nuts and collects pieces of skin."
"Why do you think he went nuts?"
"Do you consider he normal?"
"Well, actually, no," Nathan frowned at the map. "But if he still has some purpose? Some kind of ritual that no one knows about? Who invents them at all?"
"Rituals are not fiction, but the fruit of centuries of effort, gathered a bit of experience and poking at random with a stick in the dark," the pyromaniac said in a teacher's tone. "But I am inclined to believe that the maniac was just crazy."
"Why?"
"Because that's how he got his abilities."
"What?" the Commissar did not understand. "You want to say that all the patients in our madhouse are secretly powerful sorcerers, and the doctors hide it?"
Pyroman was silent for a moment. However, the Commissar did not think that he wanted to lie: rather, the sorcerer was thinking about how to describe it more precisely - but what? Maniac? The reason for his insanity?
"Sometimes," he finally said slowly, "portals from that side arise spontaneously, and this happens either gradually, over many years, or in an instant, like an explosion. An explosion tearing the tissue of this and other side, similar to a volcanic eruption in a split second. Pure magic breaks out of the rupture with such force that it incinerates everything around, and that which survives is distorted beyond recognition. The human who was nearby..." he fell silent and bowed his head, fingering the edge of the map with his fingers. "Most often he burns down, but sometimes... rarely... the one who survives changes forever."
"But... but these same barracks were long ago, in the five hundred and twelfth year!" The commissar exclaimed incredulously. "Even if such a person had turned up under this, God forgive me, the explosion - he would have died long ago!"
Pyromanus grunted and put on his hat.
"Who said," he inquired mockingly, "that this man could die?"
***
"A piece of skin was cut off from the forehead," Kennedy said, turning the bone under the microscope with a pair of tongs so that Brennon could see a trace of the scalpel.
"What the hell is he doing this?" The commissar asked, more from himself, but the pathologist removed his pince-nez and, thoughtfully wiping the glass, replied:
"I think this is some kind of mental upset. In fact, the harmless collecting in the clouded mind of this unfortunate person turned into a cruel mania."
"You think he's unfortunate?" Brennon snorted. "He's probably happy to be doing what he loves."
"Doctor von Brock is teaching at our university now. If you want, I can ask him for a consultation. This is a very outstanding scientist in the field of psychiatry."
The Commissar reflected. In general, if you consider that some twofold essence consults the police about evil spirits, then psychiatrist won't make it any worse.
"Ask. If he can describe similar cases, all the better. Anything else?"
"Same as before. A few bruises on her wrists and ankles don't look like signs of a violent struggle. The victim did not resist," Kennedy frowned. "But why? I did not find a single drug I know of, traces of gas poisoning, suffocation or a blow to the head."
"I'm more interested in why he cuts a different piece from each, and even such a small one. He will need at least a hundred girls to collect everything... all..." the Commissar outlined a female silhouette in the air. "Well, you get the point."
"Mysterious," the old man agreed. "And since he cuts already killed victims, at night, all alone, I can not imagine what prevented him from scalping immediately with one, entirely."
Brennon sniffed. On these issues, he should have consulted with Longsdale, and the Commissar was not sure that he would be able to talk to him normally after he found out.
"What if she's mistaken? Suddenly she just confused him with someone else? She couldn't explain why he became such."
The other, however, tormented Nathan much more - her words that even her trace was unbearable for the dead. But Longsdale cannot be dead - the Commissar saw him come to life! He breathed, slept and ate like all people, not to mention the fact that he did not stink or decompose on the go.
"A psychiatrist," Brennon thought longingly. "I will need him soon, and apparently not just one. And immediately with the orderlies."
He still had to report to Broyd and go to the Sheridans to... then Nathan's thought stopped. After all, the pyromaniac is lying, how is he breathing, maybe he lied about this? But, immediately thinking about this, the Commissar reluctantly admitted that this was not so: until now, the pyromancer had always told the truth.
As a result, choosing between the report to Broyd, consisting of nothing, and the visit to Longsdale, the Commissar with desperate courage chose the worst. He warned the attendant, jammed his hat and went into the wet February snowstorm with the thought that in Mazandran at least there was no this vile snow. And also maniacs-sorcerers, pyromancers, who sharpen their teeth on innocent nieces, and all sorts of twofold essences, hell with them...
At 86, lights burned throughout the second floor — Longsdale buried in the bowels of his vast library in search of a suitable ritual. Brennon rang the bell. The door opened slowly, with an ominous noiselessness. On the threshold stood a hound. At the sight of the commissar, the twofold beast moved its ears questioningly in the depths of its thick mane. But how is their existence even possible?!
"Цhat a brute of a day," the Commissar said grimly to Red, taking off his coat. The animal snorted sympathetically, rubbed against Nathan's leg and trotted up the stairs.
Longsdale stood at the shelf and, frowning with displeasure, was leafing through a large black-bound book. Jen laid out some schemes dotted with obscure badges on the table. Brennon coughed loudly.
"Ah, Commissar," the consultant said without much friendliness and slammed the book. "Unfortunately, I can't please you with anything yet."
"But I can. The pyromancer came to me today."
"What?!" The witch shouted piercingly, tossing up over a stack of schemes like a snake. Longsdale incredulously asked:
"The one? But why?"
"In person," Nathan laid the amulet on the table. "He criticized this thing."
The consultant burst into a pale pink blush, like a schoolboy.
"And at the same time shared some information with me. Sit down."
"In exchange for what?" The witch asked. Longsdale grabbed the amulet, squeezed it in his fist and exclaimed indignantly:
"Hacked!" He stared at the amulet with narrowed eyes from annoyance. "But how did he hack it?"
"Sit down," Brennon repeated with pressure. "I need your expert opinion. And yours too. And him." He jabbed a finger at the hound. The beast sniffed a finger with such interest that Nathan hurried to pull it away. The consultant sank into a chair, not looking up from the study of the amulet; Jen stood behind her, arms folded across her chest and flickering orange fire in her eyes; the hound lay down in the middle of the carpet and stared questioningly at the Commissar.
If only paint a picture, Brennon thought. It seems that the only creature whose attention he managed to attract is a hound.
Nathan briefly retold everything he learned from the pyromaniac. Longsdale became less interested in the amulet as the story progressed, and at the end he tapped it absently on the palm of his hand, listening thoughtfully to the vague description of the maniac issued by the pyromaniac. The fire in the eyes of the witch, too, gradually died out, giving way to wariness and distrust.
"Well? What do you think? Lying?"
The hound sighed and shook his head.
"You can check the history of Damn Bald by looking at documents related to that era in the city archive," Longsdale said. "There should be records of the plague, the barracks, and the death toll. The maniac may not really know that there were plague barracks on the site of the park, but he will be pulled there instinctively."
"But he does not want to cause evil spirits?" Nathan asked. He did not know what was more in his question — bewilderment (after all, for some reason the maniac goes there as a job!) or hope (one ifrit was enough for the Commissar's acuteness of sensations).
"There is no need to cause evil spirits," Jen snorted. "In places where death oozes from the soil, you can do a lot of interesting things."
"For example?"
"Raise the dead," the witch began enthusiastically. "Curse the living. Make disease or pestilence on the whole city. Poison water and air. Send madness to people and animals. And also..."
"Enough!" the Commissar cried foul, imagining everything at once. The hound grinned maliciously.
"Nevertheless," Longsdale intervened, looking sternly at the girl, "so far I have not found a single indication of exactly what this sorcerer does."
"Fussing with corpses. The revival of the dead?" Brennon suggested, not very confidently.
"Why do you think so? To raise the dead do not need parts of human bodies. Devilry!" Longsdale growled, and Nathan flinched, catching the echo of that other voice. "Until he starts to do at least something other than cutting pieces of skin..."
"Can he assemble some creature from them?" the Commissar interrupted. Longsdale blinked in surprise.
"Can you imagine how many more victims he will need if he continues to be content with the small ones? And the skin, bones, internal organs? Blood, after all."
"Maybe he already has it all, and he only has left to assemble a face."
The consultant thought about it. The witch drummed her fingers on the back of the chair, and Brennon noted that they did not find his idea ridiculous. Although the Commissar expressed it only because it was the only more or less rational reason that he could find.
"But why didn't he just scalp?" Jen asked. "After all, the girls were already dead, there were nobody witnesses, and an obedient puppet at hand who cuts the corpse with at least a slice, even with a cube. Why assemble a face from pieces?"
"Well, I have two options," Brennon said frowningly. "Either the cause is some damned magical reason that you should call me; or he wants to assemble a certain face and therefore cuts off those parts that are most suitable."
The consultant began pacing in front of the fireplace; the hound twisted its bushy tail under its belly.
"And he's right," Jen remarked. "In place of the plague barracks with the graveyard, there will be enough resource to raise the dead man. Even if it is sewn from shreds."
"But why would he?" Longsdale muttered. "What is the use of this? There is a lot of potential undead at the Saint-Rose Cemetery, extremely vicious and dangerous. Not to mention the existing cemeteries, where you can recruit an army of ghouls in just one night."
The commissar shivered, remembering the pack of the dead that ifrit had set on them.
"We will catch the bastard and ask," Nathan decided. "And this leads us to the next question - about, um, the nature of this maniac. Pyroman is right?"
The consultant stopped and stared at Brennon as if he had just seen.
"Catch him?" Longsdale asked. "Do you want to ambush? But why now?"
"Because we already have three dead girls. Because I won't risk my people, damn it. But now that you have delivered the amulets to us, this critter can be neutralized. Plan everything, think over..."
"If the pyromaniac is right," the consultant said, "then these amulets are useless."
"What?!" Brennon soared from the place. "Why?!"
"Because the amulet is designed to protect against spells and sorcerers. The maniac, if your pyromaniac is right..."
"Mine?!"
"If he is right, then the maniac does not use spells. He forces by the power of his will. The amulet is enough for a minute or two."
"But Peggy was saved!"
"No. Her amulet burned out in a minute and a half. She was just lucky that Miss Thay entered the room, and the maniac took up easier prey."
"Is he right?" Brennon asked, intently staring at Longsdale. "Pyroman is right?"
The consultant lowered his head. He thought for a long time and finally reluctantly said:
"It is possible in principle."
"In principle," the commissar repeated caustically.
"Pyromaniac doesn't lie about portals," Jen explained. "Opening suddenly, they really cause a powerful magical explosion. The strength of that side gushes into the hole, like water into a breach in a dam. But I do not know who can survive under such a blow."
���Even people like you?"
"Yes. A man is more likely to be pulverized than..."
"But in principle it is possible," Longsdale repeated. "That fully explains the maniac's strange abilities."
Brennon rubbed his temples. His head was already cracking.
"And we? Why weren't we torn to pieces when we were near the portal in the church?"
"Precisely because it is a portal," the consultant said. "Artificially created, designed not to miss anything extra. Do not breach the dam, but the stop-gate."
The Commissar turned to Longsdale and, looking at him point blank, asked:
"Do you remember that?"
"Me?"
"The spontaneous portal exploded near you?"
The hound carefully looked at the Commissar. The consultant was silently bewildered. Jen leaned forward.
"I don't remember," Longsdele said, a little audibly.
"Yes," Brennon sighed, "that still doesn't explain where such knowledge came from in your head."
"I always knew that. I've always been like this... I remember myself like this."
"But no one really knows whether it is possible to survive or not!" Jen exclaimed hotly, grabbing him by his shoulder. "The spontaneous portal is a rarity; they are not watched by a herd of scientists with stopwatch! Maybe... maybe... therefore..." she fell silent and helplessly waved her hand around the consultant and his hound.
"But once I saw what remains around such a portal after the breakthrough," Longsdale objected. "What was in the church is a trifle compared to how it destroys and distorts everything around. The reality you find there is a crumpled tattered canvas. A human, even having survived this, will be distorted beyond recognition."
Brannon listened in silence, though it was on the tip of his tongue: "And what's wrong? Haven't you been distorted to the point where even the undead run away from you as soon as they smell you?" But now he could not tell the consultant neither about the twofold essence, nor about the fact that Valentina considered him dead. Just not now, when Longsdale was so pale, upset and disheveled, almost like an ordinary human.
"Okay, let's give it, the idea was unsuccessful," the Commissar muttered. "What shall we do with the maniac?"
"Leave you to your maniac!" The witch grabbed Longsdale by the shoulders. "Do you remember? Can you remember anything?"
"I don't know what," the consultant answered helplessly. "What do I need to remember? You claim that there is some kind of person inside," he banged his fist on the chest ,"but I don't even know what you're talking about! "
"We'll discuss this later," Brennon said softer. "When you are ready and we will have time for this."
"Yes," Longsdale whispered in relief and ran a hand over his forehead, "yes, there will be time..."
Jen snorted angrily and turned away from them.
"So, Half Fists said that the voice was in his head," Nathan continued busily, "but one thing is not clear to me here. Why did a maniac need a man to break the gate?"
Longsdale blinked, shook his head, and remarked:
"Most likely, because a maniac cannot influence material objects. The spell is immaterial, he can destroy it, but the gate cannot."
"But he used the spell to kill the bandits in the hospital," the Commissar objected. "What was stopping him here?"
The consultant smiled, although pale, but already quite familiar:
"Well, a maniac might just not know the right spell. Just because he owns one does not mean that thousands of others..."
"Thousands?" The commissar said in a quavering voice. "I thought there were a hundred, well, two..."
The hound said "Pffff!". The witch murmured venomously under her breath, "He thought, pha!"
"No one can know all the spells," Longsdale waved his hand over his library: "I don't remember everything that is there either. And since this is not what they teach in school, in fact, every wizard uses what he can get."
"And the pyromaniac?" the Commissar almost blurted out. "Where did he get so much from?"
But Nathan bit his tongue in time, especially since the consultant, frowning, began to think out loud:
"And as for the maniac, I still can not figure out what can be done with him. If the pyromaniac is right, and this person survived the impact of the portal, then no one can say how it changed him. It would be best for me to look at the maniac nearby. Then I may be able to understand how he is changed and what he is capable of."
"Yeah," Brennon chuckled, "and he will subdue you. Listen!" He suddenly started up. "Can this toad influence a witcher or a witch?"
"Theoretically - of course, if there is a mind, then..." Longsdale paused. "But practically... but do you understand how great the risk is?"
Jen turned to the Commissar and grinned predatorily. Nathan understood. If a maniac subjugates this to himself - no one will leave alive...
"And Red? Red, can you neutralize her?"
"Hey!" the girl was indignant; the hound measured her with an appreciative look and nodded in the affirmative. "We'll see!"
"The last time you failed to overcome it," Longsdale said, and added dryly, "If you do not improve your gift, you will never become an adult."
"I just wanted to," the witch grunted. Nathan was surprised:
"Is she not an adult right now?"
"No. Witches and witchers must be initiated to reach adulthood. She won't succeed if she does so..."
"To beat the bandits with a poker, I understand. In any case, I still have no idea how we can lure him. He leaves no marks on the victims and does not come close to the crime scene."
"Maniac," Longsdale repeated thoughtfully. "All this is strange... It would seem that he is prevented from taking control of a whole police department or a dozen men or a dozen bandits? But no, he acts individually. Even this crazy Fist of yours..."
"Andrew Half Fist."
"Even he was able to escape from the power of the maniac, as soon as he was distracted by the park ranger. Why didn't the maniac capture all of Miss Sheridan's relatives, but limited himself to her chaperon?"
"Are you trying to tell me something reassuring?"
"It is likely that a maniac, despite the strength of his influence, is simply not able to hold more than two or three people in his power, and a third can run away."
"Um..." Nathan thought. Actually, that made sense.
"Why is he so petty?" Longsdale muttered; Brennon choked - it just seemed to him that the maniac was acting on a grand scale and very brazenly. "With such abilities - what prevents him from subjugating the whole city to himself? The top of power? The head of the republic with all the ministries and the army? But no, he hides in the shadows and catches mortals from among the simplest, those whom no one would have missed if ..." the consultant looked at Brennon. "Maybe the maniac is not only too weak for the real thing, but also pursues some personal goal of his own?"
"For example, which?"
"I can't guess yet. There are too many options from eternal youth to omnipotence."
"We will catch - we'll ask," the commissar muttered and stood up. "Okay, another unidentified body is waiting for you in the morgue. If you need me, I'll be in the department in an hour or two."
"Are you angry with me?" Jen asked when she escorted Nathan to the door.
"Angry? For what?"
The witch sighed:
"I promised that nothing could happen to Margaret."
"So what?" the Commissar did not understand. After a second, it dawned on him that for a girl it was not just a figure of speech. "Well... you have nothing to do with it."
"Damn pyromaniac," Jen said through gritted teeth. "He doesn't let me even get close to her!"
Brennon frowned grimly. The memory of the pyromaniac was not pleasant. He walks around as if to his own house, makes himself an aristocrat among the serfs, teaches Peggy all kinds of rubbish, kills criminals... what the hell is he doing for this?
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