"Crooks are funny that way," he agreed. "No respect."
I scrunched up my face in thought. I was hungry, thirsty, tired, hurting, and I had to use the bathroom in the worst way. None of those things were going to become easier to bear as the night went on, and I needed to have all the concentration I could get.
"Okay," I said. "Be smart. Take a break." I leaned down and broke the circle by sweeping the sand aside with my hand, letting the energy of the spell I'd been holding ready drain away. At least I'd already done it once. Getting it back into position wouldn't take nearly as long as the first time.
I tried to rise, but my legs were incommunicado. I grimaced at Rawlins and said, "Give me a hand here?"
He set his candle aside and helped me up. I wobbled precariously for a couple of seconds, but then stumbled to the bathroom and back out.
"You okay?" he asked.
"I'm good. Tell Murphy to hold steady."
Rawlins nodded. "We'll be downstairs." He paused and said, "Hope this happens soon. There's some kind of costume contest going on."
"Is it bad?"
"There are a lot of skimpy getups, and some of those people should not be wearing them."
"Call the fashion police," I said.
Rawlins nodded gravely. "They've crossed a line."
"Do me a favor?" I asked him. "Take Mouse out for a walk?" I dug a couple of bills from my back pocket and passed them to Rawlins. "Maybe get him a hot dog or something?"
"Sure," Rawlins agreed. "I like dogs."
The dog's tail thumped rapidly against the wall.
"Whatever you do, don't give him nachos. I didn't bring my gas mask with me."
Rawlins nodded. "Sure."
"Keep your eyes open," I said. "Tell Murph I'll be reset in a couple of minutes."
Rawlins grunted and left.
I had a canteen of fruit punch in my backpack, along with some beef jerky and some chocolate. I went to the bag and started wolfing down all three while pacing back and forth to stretch my legs. Holding myself ready to strike had been more than simply a physical strain. My head felt like someone had packed it in wool, while at the same time my senses seemed slighdy distorted; edges made sharper, curves more ambiguous, the whole combining to make the hotel room feel like a toned-down Escher painting. There was no help for that. The use of magic was mostly in the mind, and holding a spell together for a long time often triggered disconcerting side effects.
I polished off the food as fast as I could gulp it down, went easy on the drink, in case I was there for another several hours, and settled back down in my circle, preparing to close it again.
When the room's phone rang.
"Deja vu," I commented to the empty room. I stood up, my knees creaking, and went to the phone.
"Dresden Taxidermy," I said. "You snuff it, we'll stuff it."
There was a beat of startled silence from the phone, and then a young man's voice said, "Urn. Is this Harry Dresden?"
I recognized the voice-Boyfriend Nelson. That made my ears perk up, metaphorically speaking. "Yeah, this is him," I said.
"This is..."
"I know who it is," I told him. "How did you know where I was?"
"Sandra," he said. "I called her cell. She told me you'd checked in."
"Uh-huh. Why are you calling me?"
"Molly said... she said you helped people." He paused to take a breath, and then said, "I think I need your help. Again."
"Why?" I asked. Keep the questions open, I thought. Never give him one with a simple answer. "What's going on?"
"Last night, during the attacks. I think I saw something."
I sighed. "It was going around," I agreed. "But if you saw something, you're a witness to a crime, kid. You need to show up and work with the cops. They get sort of unreasonable with people who go all evasive when they want to ask questions about a murder."
"But I think some... thing is following me," he said. An unsteady tremor shook Nelson's voice. "Look, they're just cops, man. They just have guns. I don't think they can help me. I hope you can."
"Why?" I asked him. "What is it that you saw?"
"No," he said. "Not on the phone. I want to meet with you. I want you to promise me your help. I'll tell you then."
Right. Because it wasn't like I had anything better to be doing. "Look, kid..."
Nelson's voice suddenly went thready with breathless fear. "Oh, God. I can't stay here. Please. Please."
"Fine, fine," I said, trying to keep my voice strong, steady. The kid was scared-the bone-deep, knee-watering, half-crazy kind of scared that makes rational thinking all but impossible. "Listen to me. Stay around people, as many of them as you can. Go to Saint Mary of the Angels Church. It's holy ground, and you'll be safe there. Ask for Father Forthill. He's a little guy, mostly bald, glasses, bright blue eyes. Tell him everything and tell him I'm coming to collect you as soon as I can."
"Yes, all right, thank you," Nelson said, the words hysterically rushed. There was a brief clatter, and then I heard running footsteps on concrete. He hadn't even gotten the phone back into its cradle before he'd taken off at a dead sprint.
I chewed on my lip. The kid was definitely in trouble, or at least genuinely believed that he was. If so, it meant that maybe he had seen something last night, something that made it important for someone to kill him-i.e., some kind of damning evidence that would probably help me figure out what the hell was going on. I felt a stab of anxiety. Holy ground was a powerful deterrent to the things that went bump in the night-or in this case, things that went stab, stab, hack, slash, rip in the night-but it wasn't invulnerable. If something of sufficient supernatural strength really was after the kid, it might be able to force its way into the church.
Dammit, but what choice did I have? If I left my position here, any fresh attack could make last night's look like a friendly round of Candy-land. What could he possibly have seen that would make him worth killing? Why the hell was he being followed? I felt like I was floundering around in the dark inside someone else's house, benighted of savoir faire enough to move with assurance. I was spread too thin. If I didn't start finding more pieces of the puzzle and put them together, and soon, more people would die.
I could only be in one place at one time. If the kid was in real trouble, he'd be as safe at the church, with Forthill, as anywhere in town short of the protection of my heavily warded apartment. Meanwhile, there were a bunch of other kids here who looked to be the next meal on the phobophage buffet. I had to act where I could do the most good. It was a cold sort of equation, the calculus of survival, but undeniable. I'd get to Nelson after I had taken care of business at the hotel.