And end up further in his pocket. But there was no other choice. Sam needed to be protected, because even though Fabiano never mentioned him, assuming she didn’t know who he was would be insanely risky.
“I know,” he said. “Pass me the bottle.”
9
The next morning, Bellinowski waited outside the house to pick Sam up for work.
As soon as Fabiano left, Alistair had whisked them both home, then spent half the night pacing around the living room. He’d insisted Sam call Bellinowski, tell him Fabiano had been bold enough to walk right into The Pride. Sam was going to need protection, at least going to and from the hexworks.
“What about you?” he’d asked Alistair. “She’s already tried to kill you once!”
“Doris is going to come by in the truck. Don’t worry about me.”
Of course that wasn’t going to happen—Doris was formidable, but Fabiano’s men had Tommy guns. Hopefully Fabiano wanted to avoid a shootout in the streets, but what if she didn’t?
It felt as though everything was both speeding up and falling apart at the same time. This hadn’t been the life he’d imagined when he agreed to work for Sullivan. The idea he was important enough to kill seemed like an absurd nightmare.
“Morning, Choirboy,” Bellinowski said as he emerged from the car. Apparently Turner’s nickname for him was going to stick. “Mr. Sullivan has someone he wants you to meet.”
What now? “Oh?”
“Another wise head. He’s going to help us out with your current project. I’m taking you to him instead of to the hexworks today.”
Bellinowski opened the car door, and Sam had no choice but to climb in the back seat. Mrs. McIntyre sat in front, in human form; she smiled when he got in. “Good morning, Mr. Cunningham! There’s a gun under your seat, though you shouldn’t need it.”
A flash of fear went through Sam’s limbs. “But I might?”
“It’s just a precaution, in case Fabiano has anyone snooping around,” Bellinowski said as he slid in behind the driver’s seat. “Don’t worry, though—Angie Wings is keeping an eye out from above.”
“She’s a falcon,” Mrs. McIntyre added as Bellinowski pulled out. “If Fabiano has any pigeon spies following us, she’ll knock ’em out of the sky. She got a chest full of medals from doing the same to the Jerries over in Europe, so no goon of Fabiano’s has a chance.”
It had never even occurred to him that any of the ubiquitous pigeons might be familiars sent to spy on them—or worse. If this went on for long, he’d be too paranoid to leave the house.
They drove south into the loop, then kept on until they reached streets Sam had yet to set foot on. Eventually, they parked in front of a butcher’s shop with a closed sign in the window.
Unconcerned with the sign, Bellinowski went to the door and knocked. A few minutes later, a person of indeterminate gender opened it and beckoned them inside.
The front of the shop looked like any ordinary butcher’s Sam had set foot in, though the carcasses and cuts of meat had been removed from the windows while it was closed. Fresh sawdust coated the floor, and either a shop cat or one of Sullivan’s people in cat form sprawled on the counter by the register, eyes cracked to watch their comings and goings.
A small door let into a back room filled with steel tables, knives of every imaginable shape and size, and the other implements of the butcher’s trade. Hexed cold lockers lined two of the walls, their doors firmly shut.
A third room waited behind a door marked “Private,” filled with crates Sam recognized from the meatpacking warehouse. Most of them stood open now, and packing straw littered the floor. A man stood at a small table in the middle of the room, peering through a magnifying glass at the same disassembled chair Sam had seen in the warehouse.
“This is Doctor—” Bellinowski began, but the man held up his hand.
“Just call me Doc,” he said sternly.
He was a bit older than Sam, his light brown hair in disarray, as though he’d run his hands through it. He wore a pair of silver-rimmed glasses and an off-the-rack suit that could have used some tailoring for his slight form.
Bellinowski tried again. “Doc, this is the hexmaster, Sam Cun?—”
“I don’t want to know your names, either,” Doc snapped. “As soon as I’m done with this job, I intend to forget any of you so much as exist.”
It sounded as though he didn’t normally involve himself with criminal activities. “I’m sorry,” Sam said, “but I’m not sure what’s going on or why I’m here.”
“Doc works for the Field Museum,” Bellinowski said, seeming to relish Doc’s obvious discomfort. “He knows a lot about this Egyptian stuff, so he’s kindly offered his services to help us figure out what we’ve got. That includes the hex.”
Oh no—this poor man, who clearly would have preferred to be anywhere else, was here because Sam told Sullivan they needed an Egyptologist. Ignoring the worm of guilt squirming in his belly, he said, “That’s…that’s great.”
