Broken

Fake

IN A CITY LIKE TORONTO, WHICH, AS FAR AS I KNEW DIDN’T even have a Cabal satellite office, the supernatural community is small. I’d lived here, on and off, for ten years after I became a werewolf, and never knew it existed. Zoe said there were only a few sorcerer families, so the community was tight-many of them knowing each other from birth, as Patrick Shanahan and Randall Tolliver did.

Although Zoe claimed to know Tolliver much better than she did Shanahan, she’d say little about him-protecting another customer.

We had a heck of a time finding Tolliver. His office either didn’t have his exact schedule, or was reluctant to provide it, so we ended up canvassing a list of places he was expected to visit that afternoon. We stopped at a low-income housing complex, then an AIDS hospice, both times being told he’d come and gone.

Those places gave me a pretty good idea what Tolliver did for a living. An investment broker of another kind…the sort who buys bargain-basement housing, turns it into something barely livable and reaps the benefits of government assistance. Typical sorcerer.

“Let’s pop by his office,” Zoe said. “I’ll see if I can sweet-talk the receptionist into paging him for me.”

Clay swung a look my way that begged for something more active than trailing Zoe across town.

“How about we catch up with you after you find him?” I said. “We’ve got another stop we can make in the meantime.”

“ Erin?” Anita said as we walked into the bookshop.

The girl popped up from behind a display where she’d been unpacking books.

“Can you watch the store, dear? We’ll be in the back.”

Anita ushered us through the beaded curtain into the back office.

“We’ll have to step out back to speak freely if a customer comes, but that’s unlikely. We haven’t seen anyone since noon. Now they’re just phoning about charms and whatnot-afraid to even leave the house. Complete nonsense, of course, like wearing those hospital masks during the SARS outbreak.”

“You said you have more information for us?” Clay said.

I resisted the urge to glare at him. I suspect it didn’t matter how rude Clay was-Anita would get to the point at her own pace.

First, she had Clay haul out three folding chairs. Then she set up bottled water and cookies on a box of books, insisting I at least have the water to avoid dehydration.

She finally settled into the empty chair. “I managed to dredge up a Jack the Ripper story with a portal angle, though it doesn’t mention the From Hell letter.”

The story seemed to be an embellishment on the one about a half-demon making a deal with his father. In this version, the killer had been only partway through fulfilling his obligation to his demon father when he’d been caught by a band of sorcerers, who’d imprisoned him in a dimensional portal.

“The legend goes that the sorcerers then lost the portal device, and it’s out there somewhere, waiting to be accidentally triggered, whereupon the monster will, once again, be unleashed on the world, rendered insane by his long imprisonment, driven only by the need to fulfill his unholy obligation.” Anita grinned, eyes twinkling. “Rather sounds like a campfire story, doesn’t it? Something for our children to spook their supernatural friends with.”

“It does. I suppose there could be a nugget of truth buried in there…”

“Well, it’s not the part about sorcerers playing world saviors, I’m sure.” She shook her head. “Uncharitable of me, but I suspect they would have been negotiating to share the demon’s boon instead.”

We discussed the story for a few minutes, then Anita asked about our progress, and I brought her up to date. When I told her about Hull, her eyes widened.

“He came through the portal?”

“Well, he says so. But he isn’t a zombie, so I doubt-”

“Oh, but that doesn’t prove anything. Only those who were sacrificed come out as zombies. If they were alive when they went in, they’ll be alive when they come out.”

“Like in the story,” I said. “If Jack the Ripper was imprisoned in a dimensional portal-”

Clay snorted. “That guy is not Jack the Ripper.”

“And how do you know-?”

“It is just a story,” Anita said. “At most, as you said, it may contain distorted elements of truth, as most folklore does. But still, if this man came from Victorian London-”

“He claims,” Clay said.

“But if he did, I would love to speak to him. The historical wealth of information, combined with his circumstances…Why, it would be supernatural folklore in the making.”

My cell phone rang.

“Zoe,” I said. “Hopefully she found Tolliver.”

She had. “He’s at Trinity Church. Are you still over on Yonge? I can swing by and meet up with you.”

I told her where we were. A moment of silence. Then, “Hmm, that’s a bit farther out of my way than I thought. How about I just meet you there?”

According to the plaque outside, the Church of the Holy Trinity was built in 1847, on what had then been the outskirts of Toronto. Looking around, it was hard to imagine this had ever been on the outskirts of anything. The small church stood incongruously cheek-to-jowl with the sprawling Eaton Centre shopping center-an urban shopping mall in the heart of downtown. As if having a house of spiritual worship standing beside a monument to material worship wasn’t ironic enough, the church also served as a walk-in center for the homeless.

As we waited for Zoe, I read the homeless memorial list posted outside. The list of names was dotted with Jane and John Does, those who couldn’t even be properly immortalized on their own memorial.

Clay glanced over my shoulder as Zoe approached. She tensed, her face going rigid.

“What?” he said.

“Go ahead. Say it.”

“Say what?”

“Ask how many of those-” She waved at the list. “-were mine.”

Clay gave me a “huh?” look, but said only, “I was going to say something. Like ‘hello.’ Or ‘about time you showed up.’ ”

Zoe nodded, obviously relieved. A few of the names on those lists undoubtedly had been her victims. A vampire doesn’t kill every time she feeds, but she does need to drain lifeblood once a year to retain her immortality. Most pick someone like the men and women on this list. Choosing a victim from the streets lessens the ripple effect, affecting fewer lives than, say, killing a suburban mother of four, and drawing less public attention. Still, however much has gone wrong with a life, it is still a life. I suppose vampires realize that, at least some of them.

As we headed for the front doors, Clay said, “So what’s up with Anita Barrington?”

Zoe blinked. “Why? What did she-?”

“You heard where we were, and suddenly didn’t want to meet us,” he said.

“No, I-” She paused, then shook off the denial. “I’m sure there’s nothing wrong with Anita Barrington. She’s quite new here, but from what I hear, a nice lady. It’s just…well, she’s an immortality quester.”

Zoe looked across our blank faces. “An immortality quester is-”

“A supernatural trying to find the secret to immortality,” Clay said. “Yeah, we know. Ran into a couple of vampires doing that a few years back.”

“Edward and Natasha.” Zoe nodded, then lowered her gaze for a moment before continuing. “Well, even vampires can catch the bug. But those questers who aren’t vampires sometimes develop an…unhealthy interest in our kind, the semi-immortals.”

“So Anita’s bothered you-”

“No, no. Never met her. But I had an…experience with an immortality quester years ago. It just taught me to avoid them.”

Clay studied her face, then grunted. “Let’s get inside. Before this Tolliver guy takes off.”

We climbed the steps to a set of tall, narrow green-painted wooden doors, propped open to welcome daytime visitors. Inside was a reception area, staffed by a volunteer at a table with guides and history booklets. To our left, a huge framed antique coat of arms hung over recycling containers. On the right, tarnished brass memorial plaques hung above a bulletin board covered in flyers for antiwar demonstrations, AIDS clinics and missing-person notices.

Zoe led us to the left, where the pews were. They were arranged to form a three-sided box that faced a table in the middle. Above the western entrance doors were colorful banners for social justice, peace and cultural diversity. Beneath them, a young man slept on a green sofa.

Zoe headed toward two men talking near an interior door. The younger man, probably in his early forties, turned and started walking briskly down the aisle. Dressed in jeans and a T-shirt from the Metro-Central YMCA, he was fit, average height, dark-skinned with a short beard and distracted eyes. In one hand he carried a black bag that looked like an old-fashioned medical satchel.

He almost smacked into me, as if I’d materialized from nowhere. With a murmured apology, he started going around me.

“Randy,” Zoe called after him.

He stopped, and turned. “Zoe?”

“Hey, Doc. Do you have a minute? We need to talk to you.”

A discreet glance at his watch, then at Clay and me, as if curiosity was warring with an insanely busy schedule. Without a word, he nodded and waved us to a hall on the east side of the church. We went down a few steps, then out a single door into a courtyard.

Brightly painted red and blue metal chairs and tables were arranged around a small fountain. Every chair was empty, but Tolliver still led us around the fountain, to take a table at the far side, where the noise of the falling water would mask our conversation.

He gestured to the chairs. There were only three, and he seemed ready to give them to us, but when Clay took up position at my shoulder, Tolliver turned the third chair around to face ours, then sat.

“So…” he began. “What’s this about?”

I told him the story. A version of it, that is. Zoe had suggested we remove the part about stealing the letter ourselves. If that would bother Tolliver, it seemed a little hypocritical, considering he engaged Zoe’s services often enough to be on a first-name basis. But she’d advised us to stick to a variation on the truth-that we were interracial council delegates investigating the portal and trying to close it.

I also left out the part about suspecting Shanahan of being the zombie controller.

When I finished, Tolliver looked at Zoe.

“You know that these two are council delegates? For a fact?”

She laughed. “Why else would they be investigating this? It’s hardly the kind of thing people volunteer for.”

“I can think of one group who would, particularly if they could use this portal to their advantage.”

“A Cabal?” Zoe waved at me. “Does she look like a Cabal goon?”

“No, which would be a perfect way to convince us she isn’t. It would also explain why Patrick is missing. They likely took him into custody themselves.”

“Yeah?” Clay said. “Then why would we be looking for him? That’s what we’re doing here. Trying to find him, hoping he can close this thing.”

Tolliver’s expression didn’t change. “If you are on the council, then tell me this. Who’s the sorcerer delegate?”

“Trick question,” Zoe muttered.

“No,” I said. “ If Dr. Tolliver does know the current council, then it’s a trick question within a trick question. There is no sorcerer delegate. Never has been. However, one other delegate is married to a sorcerer who does help with our investigations, though he doesn’t participate in matters of policy.”

Tolliver met my gaze. “You know him?”

“Of course. And he knows us. Call him up and ask, about either us or the investigation. He’s aware of it, and has been helping with background.”

Tolliver hesitated, then nodded, but didn’t move. I suspected he didn’t know Lucas well enough to have his number, though he might be able to get it if he made a few calls. I reminded myself to ask Lucas about Tolliver. He hadn’t known Shanahan, but he was more likely to know a supernatural doctor, at least by reputation.

Tolliver finally put his medical bag on the ground and relaxed into his chair. “I can tell you this much. Whoever said Patrick’s letter is responsible for this portal is wrong.”

“Right,” Clay said. “So the fact that this portal opens on the same night his letter is stolen, and spews out Victorian zombies and cholera is…a coincidence?”

Tolliver blinked. “This portal is responsible for the cholera?”

“Nah, it’s just a coincidence.”

Tolliver ignored him and turned to me. “Is there anything else?”

I hesitated, then said, “Possibly something with the rats, but we aren’t sure yet.”

Tolliver let out a quiet curse. “Typhus, probably. I’ve been dealing with rat bites all day.”

“Typhus? How…bad is that?”

“Treatable with antibiotics if it’s caught. People haven’t started showing symptoms yet. I’m just dealing with the bites, far more than normal. Typhus will be a concern, if that’s what it turns out to be, but at this stage, I’m more worried about infection from the bites. The rats seem to be more aggressive than normal.”

“We found that out. They’re attacking in daylight too. Is that from the disease?”

“I don’t know enough about typhus to say.” He leaned back. “First, cholera. Now this. No wonder I’m so busy.”

Clay looked at him. “So, getting this portal closed might not be such a bad idea.”

“I never said it was. Cholera and typhus notwithstanding, I completely agree that it needs to be closed, but I’m not convinced that finding Patrick will help. Yes, it seems impossible that this is a coincidence, but I find it very hard to believe his letter is to blame. It’s a fake.”

“That may be,” I said, “but whether Jack the Ripper wrote it or not-”

“No, I mean it wasn’t a real portal device. It was a fake. That’s what Mr. Shanahan-Patrick’s father-always said.”

As he looked across our faces, he must have seen our confusion, and continued, “Geoffrey Shanahan was what you’d call an affable drunk. Normally, he barely said two words to me, but when he’d been drinking, he liked to talk, especially about his father’s collection. He’d take Pat and me in there and regale us with the stories behind the pieces, what they were supposed to do, who had exposed them as fakes-”

“Fakes?” I said.

“Of course.” Again, Tolliver looked at us, then Zoe. “You must know this, Zoe. You put some of those artifacts in that collection yourself.”

She shook her head. “Theodore Shanahan placed the order and I filled it. Half the time, I barely even knew what I was stealing.”

“Not surprising, I guess. He was an arrogant old bugger. Like most men who get their money from shady dealings. If you act like you’ve been born to it, no one questions where the money came from.”

“So it’s a collection of…fakes?” I glanced up at Clay, remembering the files we’d found in the house, where we’d thought he’d cleverly documented his artifacts as counterfeits. “Supernatural curiosities.”

Tolliver nodded. “All of them, including that letter.”

“So it supposedly did contain a portal,” I said. “One that was believed to be fake.”

“I don’t remember the exact story behind it, but Patrick will have it on file.”

“File’s gone,” Clay said.

Tolliver nodded, as if neither surprised nor indignant that we’d searched Shanahan’s house.

“Can you remember anything about it?” I asked.

He paused, then shook his head. “I’ll think on it some more, but that piece never interested me. Neither did Jack the Ripper in general.” A small laugh. “Even as a child, I think I was offended by the suggestion that a doctor might have been responsible. Patrick would know more. The letter was one of his favorite pieces.”

“Which brings us back to square one…” Clay said.

“Finding Patrick. I agree that the portal needs to be closed, and quickly. Even if I don’t know how much help Patrick can be, I’d be happy to help you locate him…if I could.”

“Why can’t you?” I said.

“Because, while Patrick and I were close as boys, we’ve barely seen one another since college. He only calls now and then to see whether I’ve come to my senses and taken up a more profitable branch of medicine…with profits he could help me invest. When he learns I haven’t…” Tolliver shrugged. “That’s the end of our contact until the annual Christmas card. I can try-”

Tolliver’s cell phone rang. He answered. As he listened, he closed his eyes, suddenly looking very tired. “Tell them I’m on my way,” he said, then hung up.

“There’s a small outbreak of intestinal upset at a nursing home I cover, and they’re worried it’s the cholera. More likely food spoilage from the heat, but I need to check it out immediately. As I said, I’ll think about the letter some more, and Patrick as well, and see what I can come up with.”

I took out a piece of paper, jotted down my number and gave it to him. He was out of the courtyard before I got to my feet.

Zoe made us promise to call and update her. In the meantime, she’d try to track down more on the story behind the letter.

The five of us went to dinner before the meeting with Matthew Hull. Jeremy had decided we’d go-that the potential reward outweighed the risk.

We found a sit-down restaurant and a quiet table. Easy enough now-in the wake of the cholera “epidemic,” they were all quiet. The city still hadn’t cleaned the water supply. They’d taken every step-multiple times-but the problem persisted. As long as the portal remained open, the cholera was here to stay.

While Jeremy and Antonio updated us on their dead-ended investigations, Clay kept casting anxious glances at me as I picked at my dinner.

When it was our turn and I asked Clay to tell them what we’d learned, he leaned my way.

“What’s wrong?” he murmured.

“Noth-”

“You’ve barely touched your meal.”

“It’s just the heat.”

“You look pale,” Jeremy said. “I thought it was the lighting, but-”

“It is. I’m fine.”

“You’re probably dehydrated,” Antonio said. “Finish your milk and we’ll order you another.”

I lifted my hands. “Enough. The pregnant woman is fine. Not terribly hungry tonight, that’s all.” I felt Clay’s gaze boring into me, and sighed. “Okay, maybe a little tired, but no more than everyone else, I’m sure. It’s been a very long day.”

Clay pushed back his chair and stood. “Come on. I’m taking you up to our room.”

“Before I finish my dinner?”

That gave him pause, but only for a second. “We’ll ask for takeout.”

I shook my head. “Yes, I am tired, probably from the heat, but the sooner we get this done, the sooner I can go home and really rest, in my own bed. Now sit down and bring everyone up to speed on what Randy Tolliver said.” I looked up at him. “Please.”