I called Chuey to tell him. He’d loved Henry, too. We spoke briefly and promised to catch up at the Horse. Then Cassius and I walked two blocks to a small courtyard and sat on a bench beside a large hedgerow in the afternoon sun.
The reality of Henry’s death was in this plain manila folder, and that was heavier and hurt more than anything else I’d been through recently. I didn’t need to do this here or now, but I wanted to. Maybe I needed to.
So, with trembling fingers, I unwound the little thread and pulled back the flap.
Gently, I shook out the contents—Henry’s wallet, his keys, and two slips of paper—letting them fall into my lap. This was what Brach had so desperately wanted. One of the papers was a laminated quote by Keith Moon:I love to see people laugh and I love it more if I can make them laugh. It was Henry’s favorite quote. I’d heard him say it a thousand times. The other paper was unreadable, the ink too blurred by river water.
His wallet held three wet photos: Martha, his wife, seated at a piano facing away toward a window; the Iron Horse stage, blurry, but I’d have bet it was the Who; and one of Henry and me laughing as we loaded a guitar cabinet into a van.
I miss you, Henry.
There were a few cards tucked tightly into his billfold. I pulled them out and slowly leafed through them. One was for an antiquarian. The other was from a barrister, a Mr. AlastairCooper. Lawyers keep secrets for their clients, don’t they? Maybe this Cooper knew something that could help us.
I pulled out my phone again—waterproof to a depth of six feet, for once it seemed the manufacturer hadn’t lied—and dialed the number on the card. A familiar voice answered. “Alastair Cooper. Who, may I ask, is calling?”
“Church?”
The line went silent for several moments. “That you, Jack?” “Church, why does this solicitor’s card ring through to you?”
“I have a second phone . . .” The line went silent again. Then, “Bloody damn, you’ve been called to collect Henry’s effects, haven’t you? Jack, how quickly can you meet me at the Iron Horse? There are things we need to discuss posthaste.”
I’d wait to tell him Brach had been after Henry’s things. “I need to swing by my place to grab a shower and some dry clothes. Be there in fifteen.”
“Good,” said Church. “Oh, and Jack, you should know that some of the regulars never turned up today. Among the absentees was Jimmy. Gives me a bad feeling.”
I’d forgotten that I told Jimmy to come by for another lesson today at my place, which was now outside the protection of the ward. Angela’s pale skin in the water flashed in my mind.
I hung up my phone and shoveled Henry’s effects back into the folder. Then Cassius and I hoofed it back toward my flat. When we turned onto Flitcroft Street, the door to my apartment was open. Jimmy wouldn’t have left the door like that. Then something moved in the window. Cassius raised his sword, I drew my new knife, and together we stepped into my flat.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Out of the Endless Dark came a host of wraiths and other vile creatures. Mad Jack called together a semblance army with the light and sound of his glorious pipes. Then, broadsword in hand, he led them in and put down the threat.
—Account of Chancellor Jack Churchill’s Defense of the Modern Stratum (collected by Convocation officials
as evidence of wraith collusion)
Cassiusand I found my books strewn across the floor and a couple of chairs knocked over. My bronze boot lamp was toppled, the shade all torn to hell. Sofa mattresses had been pulled and tossed. And the orange-crate coffee table, eucalyptus plant, all of it was smashed.
I snapped my head toward the corner and sighed with relief. My guitar was still there, untouched, where I’d left it by the window. As Cassius closed the door, Lakshmi stood up from behind the sofa bed. I jumped and swung my knife toward her.
“Easy, Mr. Solomon.”
Cassius stepped closer. “What has happened?”
“I tracked a wraith to your flat, but Jack . . . I got here too late.” “What are you talking about?” I asked.
“Prepare yourself,” she said, pointing toward the kitchen.
A pair of bloody legs wearing Doc Martens lay on the floor in the kitchen doorway. Jimmy.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here in time to prevent it,” she said. “Jimmy, no . . .”
My throat suddenly ached and I clenched my teeth so hard they hurt, as I bit back a scream. The ache of losing someone throbbed again through my head; sharp pains stabbed at my temples like hot nails. I thought I might be sick. I shut my eyes and imagined Slayer’s “Raining Blood,” but couldn’t hear it. I shook my head and finally screamed a few notes.
Cassius came up beside me and put his giant hand on my shoulder again. The way Henry used to.
Henry, and now Jimmy. I leaned into Cassius to steady myself.
