Unsympathetic Magic - Laura Resnick [69]
“So you think his heart attack was strictly due to natural causes?”
“All things considered, it is impossible to say for certain, but, yes, I believe so. In truth, based on what he says about his condition, it sounds as if he’s lucky the attack wasn’t more severe. It may not be wise for him to return to work as early as he evidently intends to.”
I nodded in agreement, though I wasn’t sure who had the strength of will to stop Nolan, if returning to work too soon was what he decided to do.
Biko was waiting for us outside on the sidewalk. His sword case was slung over his back. Although there were plenty of people around and it would be light for a little while longer, I was still glad he was armed, since we were about to go visit baka stomping grounds.
“Got rid of Jeff?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Good. He’s not a bad guy, but he really doesn’t seem to get it.”
I thought that statement also accurately summed up Jeff as a boyfriend, but I said nothing.
We weren’t very far from the spot where Biko and I had met, so we started our investigation there. Biko showed us the half-eaten pigeon carcasses he had found last night. We also studied the claw marks that were nearby.
“It was the baka,” I said with certainty when I saw the thick scratch marks on the cement wall that Biko pointed out. I felt a chill run through me, despite the evening’s muggy heat. The hand that made these marks would have been nearly as big as mine, and the claws could easily eviscerate a dog Gilligan’s size. “These marks weren’t made by a person or a pet.”
“No, indeed,” said Max, examining them intently.
We went next to the area where I had seen the zombie and the growling gargoyles, and where Lopez and I had later found the severed hand being eaten by carrion feeders. There was no evidence here of anything that had happened last night. I was just about to say so when someone coming out of one of the row houses shouted loudly.
“You!”
We all looked up.
A white man in his fifties, balding and wearing wire-rimmed glasses, shook his fist at me. “The cops were here all morning and half the day because of you! What did you do?”
“Friend of yours?” Biko said to me.
I recognized the voice. “That’s the man who wouldn’t call for help for Darius!”
“Get out of here!” The man ran over to the garbage cans on the sidewalk, picked up a lid, and brandished it at me. “We don’t want your kind around here!”
“Oh, dear,” said Max.
“Yo, mister,” Biko said sternly to the man. “You talk that way to my sister again, and you’ll answer to me. Do I make myself clear?”
“Your sister?” the man blurted.
“Yeah, my sister,” Biko said. “She was mugged here last night. Are you the jerk who just shouted at her when she was calling out for help?”
“She wasn’t . . . She . . .”
Biko started walking forward. “Are you the guy who let my sister get mugged right outside your own house and wouldn’t help her? Are you that guy?”
“Uh . . .” The man wisely chose to go inside, where he locked his door—and probably shoved a piece of heavy furniture in front of it, too.
“Hmph.” Biko glared at the closed door. “Maybe the next time a woman in the street is asking for help, that loser will do more than shout at her and slam his window shut.”
We searched the area, but the cops had cleaned up all signs of what had happened there. So we accompanied Biko to the north end of Mount Morris Park where, very near the Livingston Foundation, he showed us where he had found the baka attacking Frank Johnson. Though the fading summer light was very dim by now, we were able to find some scratch marks on the pavement, similar to the ones we had seen a little while ago. We walked through the darkening park to the south end, and Biko showed us where he and Puma had found Gilligan’s body. Only a large dark brown spot on the cement revealed evidence of what had occurred there.
“His blood,” Biko said quietly.
“My dear fellow.” Max patted his shoulder.
Ahead of us was a large expanse of grass, then a steep, rocky hill that