Death Masks (The Dresden Files 5)

Michael nodded. "All of my armor. She used to work on motorcycles."

My shoulder throbbed hard enough to make me miss the next sentence. "Sorry. What did you say?"

"I said you'll need to take your medicine. Can you handle some food first?"

"I'll try."

I had soup. It was exhausting. I took a Vicodin and slept without dreaming.

Over the next couple of days, I managed to piece together what had happened from talking to Michael and, on the second day, to Sanya.

The big Russian had come out of things all right. Marcone, after getting me and Michael out of the water, had called Murphy and told her where to find us. She had already been on the way, and got there in only a couple of minutes.

The crew of the train, it turned out, had been killed. The three goons that had been trussed up on the train had bitten down on suicide pills and were dead when the cops found them. Murphy had taken us all to Butters instead of to the emergency room, since once my gunshot wound was reported, Rudolph and company could have made my life hell.

"I must be out of my mind," Murphy told me when she visited. "I swear, Dresden, if this comes back to bite me in the ass, I'm taking it out on your hide."

"We're fighting the good fight, Murph," I said.

She rolled her eyes at me, but said, "I saw the body at the airport concourse, Harry. Did you know him?"

I looked out the window, at Michael's three youngest playing in the yard, watched over by a tolerant Molly. "He was a friend. It could have been me instead."

Murphy shivered. "I'm sorry, Harry. The people who did it. Did they get away from you?"

I looked at her and said, "I got away from them. I don't think I did much more than annoy them."

"What happens when they come back?"

"I don't know," I said.

"Wrong," Murphy said. "The answer to that question is that you don't know exactly but that you will certainly call Murphy from the get-go. You get less busted up when I'm around."

"That's true." I covered her hand with mine and said, "Thanks, Murph."

"You're gonna make me puke, Dresden," she said. "Oh, so you know. Rudolph is out of SI. The assistant DA he was working for liked his toadying style."

"Rudolph the Brownnosed Reindeer," I said.

Murphy grinned. "At least he's not my problem anymore. Internal Affairs has to worry now."

"Rudolph in Internal Affairs. That can't be good."

"One monster at a time."

On the fourth day, Charity inspected my wound and told Michael that I could leave. She never actually spoke to me, which I considered an improvement over most visits. That afternoon, Michael and Sanya came in. Michael was carrying Shiro's battered old cane.

"We got the swords back," Michael said. "This is for you."

"You'll have a better idea what to do with that than me," I told him.

"Shiro wanted you to have it," Michael said. "Oh, and you got some mail."

"I what?"

Michael offered me an envelope and the cane as a unit. I took them both, and frowned at the envelope. The lettering was in black calligraphy, and flowed beautifully across the envelope.

"To Harry Dresden. And it's your address, Michael. Postmarked two weeks ago."

Michael shrugged.

I opened the envelope and found two pages inside. One was a copy of a medical report. The other was ornately handwritten, like the envelope. It read:

Dear Mr. Dresden,

By the time you read this letter, I will be dead. I have not been given the details, but I know a few things that will happen over the next few days. I write you now to say what I might not have the chance to in the flesh.

Your path is often a dark one. You do not always have the luxury that we do as Knights of the Cross. We struggle against powers of darkness. We live in black and white, while you must face a world of greys. It is never easy to know the path in such a place.

Trust your heart. You are a decent man. God lives in such hearts.

Enclosed is a medical report. My family is aware of it, though I have not shared it with Michael or Sanyo. It is my hope that it will give you a measure of comfort in the face of my choice. Do not waste tears on me. I love my work. We all must die. There is no better way to do so than in the pursuit of something you love.

Walk in mercy and truth,

Shiro

I read over the medical report, blinking at several tears.

"What is it?" Sanya asked.

"It's from Shiro," I said. "He was dying."

Michael frowned at me.

I held up the medical report. "Cancer. Terminal. He knew it when he came here."

Michael took it and let out a long breath. "Now I understand."

"I don't."

Michael passed the report to Sanya and smiled. "Shiro must have known that we would need you to stop the Denarians. It's why he traded himself for your freedom. And why he accepted the curse in your place."

"Why?"

Michael shrugged. "You were the one we needed. You had all of the information. You were the one who realized Cassius was masquerading as Father Vincent. You had contacts within the local authorities to give you access to more information, to help us when we needed the concourse emptied. You were the one who could call in Marcone for his help."

"I'm not sure that says anything good about me," I said, glowering.

"It says that you were the right man in the right place and at the right time," Michael said. "What of the Shroud? Does Marcone have it?"

"I think so."

"How should we handle it?"

"We don't. I do."

Michael regarded me for a moment, then said, "All right." He stood up and then said, "Oh. The dry cleaners called. They said they're going to charge you a late fee if you don't swing by and pick up your laundry today. I'm running out for groceries. I can take you."

"I don't have anything that goes to a dry cleaners," I muttered. But I went with Michael.

The dry cleaners had my leather duster. It had been cleaned up and covered with a protective treatment. In the pockets were the keys to the Blue Beetle, along with a bill to a parking garage. On the back of the bill, written in flowing letters, were the words thank you.

So I guess Anna Valmont wasn't all that horrible a person after all.

But then, I've always been a sucker for a pretty face.

When I got back to my house, I found a postcard with a picture of Rio and no return address with my mail. There was a number on the back. I called the number, and after a few rings, Susan asked, "Harry?"