Mean Streets - Simon R. Green Jim ...

Mean Streets - Simon R. Green Jim Butcher Kat Richard, ebook, ebook.1400, Temp 2

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//-->Praise for Jim Butcher'sDresden Files"ThinkBuffythe Vampire Slayerstarring Philip Marlowe."—EntertainmentWeekly"What would you get if you crossed Spenser with Merlin? Probably you would come up with someonevery like Harry Dresden."—TheWashingtonTimesPraise for Simon R. Green's Nightside Novels"Sam Spade meets Sirius Black . .. inventively gruesome."—EntertainmentWeekly"Fast-paced and amusing, as well as packed with inventive details."—TheDenverPostPraise for Kat Richardson's Greywalker Novels"A great heroine."—Charlaine Harris"A creepy and original addition to the urban-fantasy landscape."—Tanya HuffPraise for Thomas E. Sniegoski's RemyChandler Novels"Tightly focused and deftly handled.. . . Fans of urban fantasy and classic detective stories will enjoy thissmart and playful story."—PublishersWeekly"The most inventive novel you'll buy this year ... a hard-boiled noir fantasy by turns funny, unsettling, andheartbreaking."—Christopher GoldenCONTENTSTHE WARRIOR - Jim ButcherTHE DIFFERENCE A DAY MAKES – Simon R. GreenTHE THIRD DEATH OF THE LITTLECLAY DOG - Kat RichardsonNOAH'S ORPHANS – Thomas E. SniegoskiTHE WARRIOR - JimButcherI sat down next to Michael and said, "I think you're in danger." Michael Carpenter was a large, brawnyman, though he was leaner now than in all the time I'd known him. Months in bed and more months intherapy had left him a shadow of himself, and he had never added all the muscle back on. Even so, helooked larger and more fit than most, his salt-and-pepper hair and short beard going heavier on the saltthese days.He smiled at me. That hadn't changed. If anything, the smile had gotten deeper and more steady."Danger?" he said. "Heavens."I leaned back on the old wooden bleachers at the park and scowled at him. "I'm serious."Michael paused to shout a word of encouragement at the sec-ond baseman (or was that baseperson?)on his daughter Alicia's softball team. He settled back onto the bleachers. They were cov-ered in old,peeling green paint, and it clashed with his powder-blue-and-white shirt, which matched the uniformT-shirts of the girls below. It said "COACH" in big blue letters."I brought your sword. It's in the car.""Harry," he said, unruffled, "I'm retired. You know that.""Sure," I said, reaching into my coat. "I know that. But the bad guys apparently don't." I drew out anenvelope and passed it to him.Michael opened it and studied its contents. Then he replaced them, put the envelope back on the benchbeside me, and rose. He started down onto the field, leaning heavily on the wooden cane that wenteverywhere with him now. Nerve damage had left one of his legs pretty near perfectly rigid, and his hiphad been damaged as well. It gave him a rolling gait. I knew he couldn't see out of one of his clear,honest eyes very well anymore, either.He took charge of the practice in the quiet, confident way he did everything, drawing smiles and laughterfrom his daughter and her teammates. They were obviously having fun.It looked good on him.I looked down at the envelope and wished I couldn't imagine the photos contained inside it quite soclearly. They were all professional, clear—Michael, walking up the handicap access ramp to his church.Michael, opening a door for his wife, Charity. Michael, loading a big bucket of softballs into the back ofthe Carpenter family van. Michael at work, wearing a yellow hard hat, pointing up at a half-finishedbuilding as he spoke to a man beside him.The pictures had come in the mail to my office, with no note, and no explanation. But their implicationswere ugly and clear.My friend, the former Knight of the Cross, was in danger.It took half anhour for the softball practice to end, and thenMichael rolled back over to me. He stoodstaring up at me for a moment before he said, "The sword has passed out of my hands. I can't take it upagain—especially not for the wrong reason. I won't live in fear, Harry.""Could you maybe settle for living in caution?" I asked. "At least until I know more about what's goingon?""I don't think His plan is for me to die now," he replied calmly. It was never hard to tell when Michaelwas talking about the Al-mighty. He could insert capital letters into spoken words. I'm not sure how."What happened to 'No man knows the day or the hour'?" I asked.He gave me a wry smile. "You're taking that out of context."I shrugged. "Michael. I'd like to believe in a loving, just God who looks out for everyone. But I see a lotof people get hurt who don't seem to deserve it. I don't want you to become one of them.""I'm not afraid, Harry."I grimaced. I'd figured he might react like this, and I'd come prepared to play dirty. "What about yourkids, man? What about Charity? If someone comes for you, they aren't going to be par-ticular aboutwhat happens to the people around you."I'd seen him display less expression while being shot. His face turned pale and he looked away from me."What do you have in mind?" he asked after a moment."I'm going to lurk and hover," I told him. "Maybe catch our photographer before things go any further.""Whether or not I want you to do it," he said."Well. Yes."He shook his head at me and gave me a tight smile. "Thank you, Harry. But no thank you. I'll manage.“Michael’s home was an anomaly so close to the city proper—a fairly large old colonial house, completewith a white picket fence and a yard with trees in it. It had a quiet, solid sort of beauty. It was surroundedby other homes, but they never seemed quite as pleasant, homey, or clean as Michael's house. I knew hedid a lot of work to keep it looking nice. Maybe it was that simple. Maybe it was a side effect of beingvisited by archangels and the like.Or maybe it was all in the eye of the beholder.I'm pretty sure there won't ever be a place like that for me.Michael had given a couple of the girls—young women, I suppose—a ride home in his white pickup, soit had taken us a while to get there, and twilight was heavy on the city. I wasn't making any particularsecret about tailing them, but I wasn't rid-ing his back bumper, either, and I don't think either of them hadnoticed my beat-up old VW.Michael and Alicia got out of the car and went into the house, while I drove a slow lap around theirblock, keeping my eyes peeled. When I didn't spot any imminent maniacs or anticipatory fiends about topounce, I parked a bit down the street and walked toward Michael's place.It happened pretty fast. A soccer ball went bouncing by me, a small person came pelting after it, and justas it happened I heard the crunchy hiss of tires on the street somewhere behind me and very near. I havelong arms, and it was a good thing. I grabbed the kid, who must have been seven or eight, about half asecond before the oncoming car hit the soccer ball and sent it sailing. Her feet went flying out ahead ofher as I swung her up off the ground, and her toes missed hitting the car's fender by maybe six inches.The car, one of those fancy new hybrids that run on batteries part of the time, went by in silence, withoutthe sound of the motor to give any warning. The driver, a young man in a suit, was jabbering into a cellphone that he held to his ear with one hand. He never noticed. As he reached the end of the block, heturned on his headlights.I turned to find the child, a girl with inky black hair and pink skin, staring at me with wide, dark eyes, hermouth open and uncertain. She had a bruise on her cheek a couple of days old."Hi," I said, trying to be as unthreatening as I could. I had limited success. Tall, severe-looking men inlong black coats who need a shave are challenged that way. "Are you all right?"She nodded her head slowly. "Am I in trouble?"I put her down. "Not from me. But I heard that moms can get kind of worked up about—""Courtney!" gasped a woman's voice, and a woman I presumed to be the child's mother came hurryingfrom the nearest house. Like the child, she had black hair and very fair skin. She had the same waryeyes, too. She extended her hand to the little girl, and then pulled her until Courtney stood behind hermother. She peeked around at me."What do you think you're doing?" she demanded—or tried to. It came out as a nervous question. "Whoare you?""Just trying to keep your little girl from becoming a victim of the Green movement," I said.She didn't get it. Her expression changed, as she probably wondered something along the lines of,Isthisperson a lunatic?I get that a lot."There was a car, ma'am," I clarified. "She didn't see it coming.""Oh," the woman said. "Oh. Th-thankyou." "Sure." I frowned at the girl. "You okay, sweetheart? I didn'tgive you that bruise, did I?""No," she said. "I fell off my bike.""Without hurting your hands," I noted.She stared at me for a second before her eyes widened and she hid behind her mother a little more.Mom blinked at me, and then at the child. Then she nodded to me, took the daughter by the shoulders,and frog-marched her toward the house without another word. I watched them go, and then started backtoward Michael's place. I kicked Courtney's soc-cer ball back into her yard on the way.Charity answered the door when I knocked. She was of an age with Michael, though her golden hair hidany strands of silver that might have shown fairly well. She was tall and broad-shouldered, for a woman,and I'd seen her crush more than one inhuman skull when one of her children was in danger. She lookedtired—a year of seeing your husband undergoing intensely diffi-cult physical therapy can do that, I guess.But she also looked happy. Our personal cold war had entered a state of detente, of late, and she smiled [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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