Moonheart

by Charles de Lint

  “Ted Benson’s been working for us‌—trying to figure out what they are, where they’re from. To try and get a clue on the old fellow who owned them. One of the two men we’re looking for. Do you follow me so far?”

  Sara nodded, a little mollified. She found herself listening to the Inspector’s explanation with interest and she wasn’t frightened of him any more. But she still had that sense of foreboding‌—the little warning light in the back of her head was still flashing. She remembered‌—

  ‌—A spill of bones, clicking and clacking against each other as they tumbled and fell . . . and she was falling too . . . through a mist of grey and brown . . . one more bone . . . until the face reared up with its ursine features and fierce eyes, jaws gaping‌—

  ‌—her dream. She shivered, but the Inspector didn’t appear to notice it, nor the sense of evil that seemed to fill the shop for a moment. She thought she saw something move in the shadows that lay between two kitchen hutches that stood against a wall behind the Inspector. She looked quickly away and tried to concentrate on what Tucker was saying.

  “When your uncle brought that bone disc in to Benson, he didn’t know what to think. This is a very . . . volatile investigation that we’re involved in. Highly secure. No one’s supposed to know anything about it, but here comes your uncle waltzing in with another piece to the same puzzle we’ve been working on without any luck. Benson called me and I came down to see what was up.”

  Sara glanced at the shadows, but there was nothing there‌—if there ever had been.

  “I mean, put yourself in our position,” Tucker was saying. “Here’s something we’ve been working on for a couple of weeks‌—without much success, I might as well add‌—and here comes what might be a vital clue. Okay. So I blew it talking to your uncle. He got me a little hot with his accusations and I had to think to myself: What’s he trying to hide?”

  “He just gets a little excited,” Sara said.

  Tucker shrugged. “And it was the same thing with you when I first walked in. Even now you’re looking like I’m going to bite you or something.”

  “I . . . I had a bad dream last night,” Sara said, “and something made me remember it just now. You’re right about Jamie, but he’s not a criminal. He gets worked up pretty quickly and you as much as called him a liar. And with all you read in the papers about . . . you know. . . .”

  “Royal Commissions and the like?”

  “Well. . . .”

  “You’ve been reading too many thrillers.”

  “Who are these men you’re looking for?” Sara asked. “What did they do?”

  “They haven’t done anything yet. We just want to talk to them.”

  He reached into his pocket and took out a couple of pictures. Laying them on the counter in front of Sara, he asked:

  “Ever seen either of them before?”

  Sara had a look.

  “Him,” she said, putting her finger on a picture of Thomas Hengwr.

  “Do you know him then?”

  “Not really. He’s been in the shop a few times and I think I even saw him at the House once or twice. But not recently.”

  “Could he have secreted the disc in here, without your knowing it?”

  Sara thought about how she’d found it‌—wrapped in a brown paper parcel, inside the medicine pouch.

  “I don’t see how he could’ve,” she said. “I found it at the bottom of a box that I got out of the storeroom. It was covered with dust and I never let anyone back there anyway.”

  Tucker nodded. He indicated the picture of Kieran.

  “How about him?”

  “He looks sort of familiar‌—not someone I know, but like I’ve seen him around.” She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to remember. “I think he might’ve played in a band‌—a folk band. That was a long time ago‌—three or four years at least. They were called the Humors of something or other. It was a long name. I think he sang, maybe played guitar too.” She looked up. “I’m not being much of a help, am I?”

  “At least you’re trying. You haven’t seen either of them around, have you? I mean lately?”

  Sara shook her head. “I’m not sure about him‌—” she pointed to Kieran’s picture‌—“but I’d remember if I’d seen the other fellow. I used to have long talks with him every few weeks or so. He was a funny sort. He seemed younger than he looked, but older at the same time. Did you show these pictures to Jamie?”

  “I didn’t think there’d be much point.”

  Tucker put the pictures away and took out a pen and notepad. He wrote down his name and both home and business phone numbers on a piece of paper, tore it from the pad, and handed it to Sara.

  “If you remember anything else‌—anything at all‌—give me a call, would you?”

  “Okay. You can’t tell me why you’re looking for them?”

  “ ’Fraid not. Does it matter?”

  “Of course it matters. He seemed like such a nice old man. I liked him a lot, I’d hate to think of him being in trouble.”

  “If he’s in trouble, it’s not because of us. We’re just trying to find him.”

  “Oh,” Sara said.

  “I’m sure he’ll turn up all right.” Tucker stood up. “Look. Thanks for your help. It’s appreciated. And I’m sorry for coming on so heavy before.”

  “That’s okay. I guess I was a little on edge.” She looked down at the paper he’d given her. “I just call up and ask for you?”

  “Night or day.”

  Sara stuffed the note into the pocket of her jeans and stood up with him. At that moment the front door burst open and Jamie thundered in, dragging Phillip MacNabb, their family lawyer, behind him. MacNabb, a man in his fifties, seemed a little out of breath. He had a broad open face, the honest lines of which had stood him in good stead before many a jury.

  “That’s him! That’s him!” Jamie cried.

  “Easy, Jamie.” MacNabb turned his attention to the Inspector and they exchanged smiles.

  “Hey, Phil. How’s it going?”

  “Well enough, Tucker. How’s Maggie?”

  “Okay, I guess. Haven’t seen her for awhile.”

  At the pained look in the Inspector’s eyes, MacNabb quickly changed the subject. “So what seems to be the problem here?” he asked.

  “It’s okay,” Sara said. “We got it all straightened out.”

  “I’ve got to get back to the office,” Tucker said. He tipped his hand against his forehead in a casual salute. “Thanks again for your help, Ms. Kendell. Keep in touch.”

  He stepped past a flustered Jamie and was through the door before Jamie could think to stop him. Jamie grabbed MacNabb’s sleeve.

  “Can’t you serve him a writ or whatever it is you lawyers do?” he asked.

  “Jamie!” Sara said. “It’s all right.”

  “What happened?” MacNabb asked.

  “Sit down and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  Sara dug up her thermos and peered inside to see how much coffee was left.

  “Anyone want some?” she asked.

  MacNabb took the seat that Tucker had so recently vacated. Jamie hovered around looking like a disgruntled rooster until Sara steered him into a chair and set a mug in his hands.

  “He seemed like a nice enough man,” she said as she perched on the stool behind the counter. “He’s looking for these two men, you see. . . .”

  Okay, Tucker thought as he climbed into his Buick.

  It was parked on Fourth Avenue, around the corner from The Merry Dancers. He put his hands on the steering wheel and stared out the windshield.

  So what did he have? Something. Maybe nothing to do with Project Spook, but then again. . . . Tucker didn’t believe in coincidences. The thing he had to figure out was what Tams was doing with the bone disc in the first place. He considered himself a pretty good judge of character, and he figured Sara was being straight with him.

  So, if she had found the disc where she said she had, how had it
gotten there in the first place? And what was it doing there? Obviously Tams had access to the storerooms, but Tucker just couldn’t figure out what the point of it all was. If Tams was involved, why had he come waltzing into Benson’s office with the disc?

  Tucker scratched his head. He wasn’t going to get any further sitting here. He’d have to put a tail on both Sara and her uncle and get back to headquarters to see what he could dig up on them in the files. Maybe things were coming together. Something had to give. Maybe even the elusive Mr. Hengwr.

  He started up the engine and headed down Fourth to the Driveway. On the way he radioed headquarters and had a couple of men put on Sara Kendell and Jamie Tams.

  “Yeah,” he responded to a question from the man on dispatch. “It’s in the Glebe. Between Third and Fourth. If you shake your asses, maybe you can still pick them up there.”

  Shaking his head, he hooked the mike back onto the dashboard. His squad was getting a little lazy. Too much sitting around. Well, if the feeling he had was right, things’d pick up pretty soon. And if they didn’t? Well, he’d just have to push a little harder.

  “So that’s it,” Sara said.

  “I’d like to see those other discs,” Jamie said.

  He was still somewhat miffed at Tucker’s treatment of him, but the Inspector’s explanation to Sara had set his curiosity in motion, smoothing his ruffled feelings.

  Sara laughed. “Good luck.”

  “Well, we’ve still got the other stuff you found,” Jamie said. “I’ll be a little more discreet in my inquiries after today.”

  MacNabb stood up. “I don’t think I want to hear about this. I might as well head back to the office.”

  “I’m sorry to have dragged you all the way down for nothing,” Jamie said. He was looking a bit sheepish. “I guess I got a little worked up.”

  MacNabb smiled. “I’m used to it. Wait till you see my bill. ’Bye, Sara. It was nice seeing you again. Try and stay out of trouble, would you, Jamie?”

  “Well, now what?” Sara asked when the lawyer was gone.

  “Now what what?”

  Sara held up her hand and the ring sparkled.

  “What about this and the painting and the other stuff? Do you think it’s all connected with the bag of bone discs at the museum?”

  “Can’t be.” Jamie pursed his lips. “Aled died in ’76 and that stuffs been sitting in the storerooms since then.”

  “Inspector Tucker seems to think that they’d been planted there. Either by you, or one of the men he’s looking for.”

  “Well I didn’t put them there. At least not the way the Inspector means.”

  “I know that.”

  Sara pulled out her tobacco pouch and rolled a cigarette.

  “It’s funny though,” she said around her cigarette as she lit it. “Them finding a whole bag of the same kind of artifacts. What do you think they are?”

  Jamie shrugged. “All the designs were different, he said, didn’t he?”

  “Umhmm.”

  “It’s hard to say. A game of some sort?”

  “I wonder if they were planted in the storerooms,” Sara said.

  “To what purpose?”

  Sara pointed her cigarette at Jamie.

  “That’s what’d be interesting to find out,” she said.

  “Are you going to play sleuth?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Sairey, be careful.” Jamie’s face wrinkled with worry. “That man Tucker doesn’t look like anyone to fool around with.”

  “He’s not out to get us, Jamie. We haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “He doesn’t know that.”

  But her vague premonition hadn’t left her yet. Nor had her dream. She remembered the discs falling over each other in a long tumble. It was too much of a coincidence that she’d dreamed that last night after only seeing one of the bone discs, and today was told there were sixty more. She remembered the cloth with the Celtic cross and ribbonwork on it. The shaman/bear had dropped the discs onto it as though they were some sort of . . . oracular device maybe?

  After Jamie left she couldn’t get back to her novel. She just sat, smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee, going over the odd happenings of the past couple of days. A little chill touched her every time she thought of the gaping jaws of whatever creature it had been that sent her clawing her way out of her nightmare last night. The nightmare itself seemed like a warning of some sort. A warning about what? That she shouldn’t get involved? Or that if she didn’t get involved something terrible would happen to her?

  That, she told herself, was taking it a little far.

  She thought about the two photographs that Tucker had shown her. She’d forgotten to ask him their names. He probably wouldn’t have told her anyway. She’d never learned the old man’s, even though he’d been in the shop often enough. For all his friendliness, he never came across as the sort of person you could ask personal questions of. As for the younger fellow . . .

  She tried to think of who might know him. Who else had played in that band? Julie might know.

  She dialed the number and waited through a few rings.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Julie. Are you busy?”

  “Nope. You calling about Saturday? I found out who’s playing at Faces. Cobbley Grey.”

  “Who?”

  “Cobbley Grey. That’s Toby Finnegan’s new band. Don’t you remember him? He’s that fiddle player that Linda had a mad crush on. He used to play in The Humors of Tullycrine.”

  Something went click in Sara’s mind. The chances of it being coincidence had just dropped by a few more percentage points. It happened that way. Synchronicity. You never thought of someone, but when you did, all of a sudden the name kept coming up.

  “Are they playing there all week?” Sara asked.

  “Supposed to. They opened last night. Beth went and saw them and said they were pretty good. They’re right up your alley‌—all jigs and reels and stuff.”

  “Julie, remember that guitar player in Toby’s old band‌—the quiet fellow with the dark hair?”

  “Vaguely. Why?”

  “You don’t remember his name, do you?”

  “No. Is it important? Linda would know. Or we could ask Toby on Saturday. Have you got Linda’s number?”

  “No. But that’s okay. It’s not very important.”

  “I’m feeling snoopy. Why’d you want to know his name?”

  “It’s a long story. Are you working tomorrow?”

  “I start at four.”

  “Drop in before you go in to work and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  Sara cradled the phone and stared at it thoughtfully. She dug out her clock and checked the time. Five to five. Would Toby be at the club yet? Setting up maybe, or doing a sound check? Probably not. They’d have gone through all that last night. Well, there was Linda then.

  Sara stopped and asked herself, why am I doing this? Even if she did find out the fellow’s name, what would that get her? Nothing, she supposed, but she’d be doing something. It had started with finding that package in the storeroom. She was involved now, and she had to be doing something.

  She pulled out the phonebook and looked up Linda Deverell’s number. She might be home from work by now. Rolling another cigarette after she dialed, she waited for Linda to answer.

  Johnnie Too-bad was listening to the new Black Uhuru album. The reggae sound blasted from two big Tanoy speakers, bass thumping in time to the ganja buzz that he was floating on. He was a thin, reedy black man, with red-brown dreadlocks and wide brown eyes, who’d taken his name from an old Slickers song. He had a set of scales on the floor in front of him and was weighing out ounces of ganja. Hemp, weed, marijuana, ganja, call it what you will‌—as Jah made ganja for men to get high, he made Johnnie Too-bad to sell it.

  There was a big spliff stuck between the index and middle fingers of his right hand. In between weighing the ganja and bagging it in one-ounce plastic baggies, he took long tokes
on the spliff.

  Besides the sound system, two plastic milk crates filled with reggae albums and a few pillows strewn across the floor, the room was devoid of furnishings. There was a poster of Bob Marley on one wall, Gregory Isaacs and Bunny Wailer looked down from a second. The third had travel posters for “Sunny Jamaica,” one on either side of the door leading into the room. Behind him, the curtainless window was open a crack, held open by a stack of cigarette paper packages.

  When the knock came at the door, he hardly heard it over the sound of the music. It came again, between cuts, and he raised his head to stare at the door, the first whispers of paranoia knifing through his drug-fuzzed mind.

  “Who is that, mon?” he called out.

  He stared at the piles of ganja‌—half of it in neat little baggies, the other half a brown mound on a spread-out newspaper. He held up his spliff and wondered, mournfully, if this was going to be his last toke.

  “It’s Kieran. Kieran Foy.”

  Johnnie Too-bad’s tension drained away under a flood of relief. He took a long toke, then went to the door, opening it a crack. Ganja smoke drifted from his nostrils as he looked Kieran over.

  “What you want, mon?”

  “Can we talk?”

  Kieran smiled, eyeing the spliff and Johnnie’s dilated pupils.

  “Sure, mon. I and I have time to talk. How’s it you find I?”

  “I ran into Larry on Rideau Street.”

  Johnny shook his head. “That mon needs to learn a t’ing or two. He knew I busy.”

  “I won’t take long. I need a little help, that’s all.”

  Johnny stepped aside so that Kieran could enter, then closed the door. He offered Kieran the spliff.

  “No thanks.”

  “It’s good smoke, mon. Straight from Ja-mai-ca, you know? There’s a man there has a connection wid I. No problem. Only here. Babylon is the problem.”