Changes (The Dresden Files #12) - Jim Butcher Page 0,108
I said calmly, as if that should explain everything.
Forthill eyed me for a moment. Then wrote, I hurt too much to argue with you. Will make the calls.
“Thank you,” I said quietly.
He nodded and wrote, God go with you.
“Thank you,” I repeated.
“What about me?” Butters asked. There were equal measures of dread and excitement in his voice.
“Hopefully, we won’t need any more of your help,” I said. “Might be nice if you were standing by, though. Just in case.”
“Right,” Butters said, nodding. “What else?”
I clenched a hand and resisted the urge to tell him that he would be better off hiding under his bed. He knew that already. He was as frightened as a bunny in a forest full of bears, but he wanted to help. “I think Father Forthill has a car. Yes, Father?”
He started to write something, then scratched it out and held out his hand in a simple thumbs-up.
“Stay with them,” I said. I slapped magazines into both guns, confident that I knew them well enough to be sure they’d go bang when I pulled the trigger. “Soon as Forthill is done, get him to an emergency room.”
“Emergency room,” Butters said. “Check.”
Forthill frowned and wrote, Are you certain we shouldn’t turn our attacker over to the police?
“Nothing in life is certain, Father,” I said, rising. I stuck a gun in either pocket of my duster. “But if the police get involved, they’re going to ask a lot of questions and take a long time trying to sort everything out. I can’t spare that time.”
You don’t think this gunman will go to the authorities?
“And tell them what?” I asked. “That he got kidnapped off the street by a priest from St. Mary’s? That we beat him up and took his illegal weapon away?” I shook my head. “He doesn’t want the cops involved any more than we do. This was business to him. He’ll make a deal to fess up to us if it means he gets to walk.”
And we let a murderer go free?
“It’s an imperfect world, Father,” I said. “On the other hand, you don’t hire professional killers to take out nice old ladies and puppy dogs. Most of the people this guy has an appointment with are underworld types—I guarantee it—mostly those who are going to turn state’s evidence on their organization. Sooner or later one of them gets lucky, and no more hit man.”
Live by the sword, die by the sword, Forthill wrote.
“Exactly.”
He shook his head and winced as the motion caused him discomfort. It will be hard to help a man like that.
I snorted. “It’s a noble sentiment, padre, but a guy like him doesn’t want any help. Doesn’t see any need for it.” I shrugged. “Some men just enjoy killing.”
He frowned severely, but didn’t write down any response. Just then, someone rapped on the door, and Sanya opened it and poked his head in. “Dresden,” the Knight said. “He’s awake.”
I rose, and Mouse rose with me. “Cool. Maybe get started on those calls, padre.”
Forthill gave me another thumbs-up rather than nodding. I walked out, Mouse stolid at my back, and went to the utility closet with Sanya to talk to our . . . guest, I suppose.
The blocky hit man lay on the backboard, strapped down to it, and further secured in a cocoon of duct tape.
“Stand him up,” I said.
Sanya did so, rather casually lifting the gunman, backboard and all, and leaning it back at a slight angle against the wall.
The gunman watched me with calm eyes. I picked up a wallet from the little folding card table we had set up and opened it. “Steven Douglas,” I read from the license. “That you?”
“Stevie D,” he said.
“Heard of you,” I said. “You did Torelli a couple of years back.”
He smiled, very slightly. “I don’t know any Torelli.”
“Yeah, I figured,” I said.
“How is he?” Stevie D asked.
“Who?”
“The little guy.”
“Fine,” I said. “Wearing a vest.”
Stevie D nodded. “Good.”
I lifted an eyebrow. “Professional killer is happy he didn’t kill someone?”
“Had nothing against him. Wasn’t getting paid for him. Don’t wanna do time for hitting the wrong guy. Isn’t professional. But everything I heard about you said I shouldn’t dick around waiting to get the shot off, so I had to get him out of the way.”
“Stevie,” I said, “this can go a couple of different ways. The simplest is that you give me who hired you, and I let you go.”